Page 6 of Rust the Rejected
I stop by the spot famous for its Cuban sandwich Paloma Sabela recommended. My mouth waters at the delicious aroma of ham, roasted pork, salami, and fresh-baked bread. At the checkout, the cashier suggests the Materva Cuban soda. I thank him and head to my car, more than ready to chow down.
It’s a quick ride to my furnished, one-bedroom rental apartment. I chose a spot near the hospital for quick access in case I need to deliver a baby, or the mom may need help with little warning. The less time lost, the better in the cases of my critical care patients.
As I open the front door, my heart sinks. Box after giant box stretches from the middle of the living room to the two windows on the opposite wall. A few sit open with medical books, lingerie, or shoes spilling out. The side of one wardrobe box labeled dresses gapes open—items on hangers visible. I unpacked the ones marked for the bathroom for my toiletries and cosmetics last week.
And of course, I opened the most precious box that contains my special serum. A quick check revealed the glass vials and syringes remained intact. I couldn’t fly with them. Too much of a risk should the TSA choose to confiscate the box or to question the serum’s purpose.
I shudder at the thought of humans learning about wolf shifters’ existence. Worse yet, they gain the knowledge I can’t even share with my own kind. My formula and its purpose would cause an uproar in the entire shifter community. Its impact goes beyond wolves.
With a shake of my head, I put the thoughts aside and head to the eat-in-kitchen. A tiny mosaic-topped café table with two chairs sits in a corner by the window with a view of the park across the street. I set the bags of food and sodas on the countertop, then wind my way past the boxes for the bedroom.
It’s not large. But the room fits a queen-size bed with nightstands on the wall opposite the door and a small, three-drawer dresser beneath the window. I can see the same view of the park as the living room and kitchen while I sit in bed.
I strip and let my hair down on my way to the bathroom on the other side of the bed. A quick shower helps wash away the day before I eat dinner. My stomach rumbles just thinking about the tantalizing Cuban sandwich. Yum!
Bundled up in a comfy robe and my hair up in a drying turban, I settle at the café table. My mouth waters at the delicious aroma of the meats blended with Swiss cheese, pickles, and spicy mustard. The sandwich is so large, I’ll save the other half for lunch tomorrow.
My leg swings as I eat. Laughter bubbles up at the memory of my mother teasing me about being so greedy I’d swing one leg and hum in delight as I ate. The flash of her smiling face brings me a moment of joy before the sadness tries to creep in. Once again, I shake my head to dispel the negativity.
It’s a fresh start, Nat. Don’t dwell on the past, I chastise myself.
As I wash the dishes, the alarm on my mobile chimes with the ringtone for Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising.” Hurriedly, I dry my hands as I grumble trouble will definitely be on the way if I don’t inject my serum as scheduled.
From the time I left my former pack, I knew I needed to avoid all shifters. I had no desire to encounter them. Distance from the paranormal world prompted me to research a method to suppress my wolf. Various combinations of regular human medicines and trials finally resulted in a serum that hid my wolf, even from me. No scent detectable. Not a chance of a shift. The only downside is the loss of my enhanced healing and senses, including my ability to detect a shifter. But I’m free of my wolf with no way for others to find me. Safe to be me and to live my life as I choose—not forced to mate and breed. Just as Amanda told me.
Unless I didn’t inject the serum on time each month. Then I would revert to a wolf shifter over a period of time. To test the amount of time I had before the reversion to my wolf, I skipped a scheduled dose. Each day, an element of my wolf appeared. By the seventh day, she returned fully. Without hesitation, I injected the serum. In two days, it banished that side of me again.
I do not know the side effects of the combined medications other than as they stand alone. However, the risk outweighs any negative result. It’s been three years, and I have no regrets.
As an OB-GYN, pregnant women may surround me all day, and I care for them. But that doesn’t mean I want any parts of being pregnant or having pups!
So, I turn off the alarm, slip my mobile in the robe pocket, and stride purposefully towards my bedroom. As I pass through the living room, I pick up the stepladder. Even at five feet, nine inches, I’ll need the extra height to reach the rear corner of the top shelf in the closet where I put the box.
Atop the ladder, I collect the box in one hand while the other keeps my balance. As my foot lowers to the next step, the robe’s belt snags on the corner of the ladder. I pull the belt loose, but the ladder teeters precariously. My heart clenches as in what seems like slow motion the ladder topples sideways, my fingers reach and miss the closet door, and I free fall to the tile floor. Eyes widen in horror as my precious box flies from my hand, arcs through the air, and crashes to the floor. The shattering of bone and glass followed by a wail echo in my ears.
Pain radiates along my arm. But it doesn’t compare to the agony in my heart. The shattered remnants of the vials represent the last of my serum supply. An entire six months destroyed in seconds. Tears fill my eyes.
And now, I regret the loss of my wolf. My arm hurts like hell. I can’t drive in this condition. Drawing on my strength and determination, I slip my mobile from the robe pocket and dial 911.
CHAPTER3
Rust
“Dr. Ingolf,I hate to do this to you since your shift ends in a few minutes. But the EMTs brought in a doctor from the hospital who fell off a stepladder at home. X-rays reveal multiple upper arm fractures. She’s in area five.”
I curtail the flash of annoyance and replace it with a smile as I accept the patient folder from the ER nurse. It’s not his fault, nor can I blame the patient. They have nothing to do with me on duty for almost twelve hours and mere minutes away from being off shift.
“Duty calls,” I respond, saluting him with the folder, then stride towards the curtained area. Scanning the images, I wince at the type of fractures the patient sustained. Damn.
“Hello, I—”
My mouth drops at the luscious swell of an exposed breast. The more-than-a-handful—even for my sizable ones—mound peeks from behind a drab gray hospital gown. The opening reveals a heart-shaped birthmark on the inner curve of her breast. My eyes slide to the imprint of a plump nipple outlined against the thin cotton. My mouth salivates. Unconsciously, I lick my lips.
“Oooooo…”
The pitiful moan—not the kind I prefer to hear from a female—snaps me out of the unprofessional lust fog.
Dammit, Rust! What the fuck?!
