I knelt by the coffee table, napkins already soaking through crimson as blood dripped steady from Hellen's mangled palm, her ice-blue eyes dazed with shock and pain.
"Stay put—don't flex it," I ordered, voice sharp with panic. What should I do?! What should I fucking do?! Yeah, phone—my phone. No, her phone.
I fished her phone from her sweater pocket with my free hand. Fingers flew across the screen as I knew her password, dialling her on-call doctor—Hellen's personal doctor, a grizzled beta named Dr. Harlan who'd patched her scrapes before.
"Dr. Harlan, it's Emily—I am Hellen's friend. Yeah, please come to her place—Hellen's hurt bad, shards in her hand, bleeding heavy. Come now."
He arrived in under ten minutes, brisk knock at the manor's heavy oak front door, medical bag slung over his shoulder like a soldier's pack. Mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper beard trimmed neat, wire-rim glasses perched on a hawkish nose, white coat crisp over khakis and loafers—small-town reliability wrapped in quiet competence.
I waved him straight to the living room, fireplace still crackling low, shattered mug shards glinting on the table amid coffee rings and game remotes.
Hellen sat rigid on the sectional, injured hand elevated on a throw pillow, gray sweater sleeve rolled up to elbow, blonde waves dishevelled, jaw clenched.
"Let's see it." Harlan muttered efficient, snapping on nitrile gloves with a rubbery pop, kneeling to inspect. Blood welled fresh as he turned her palm up—three jagged porcelain teeth embedded deep in the meaty base, skin split ragged, smaller nicks spidering outward like cracks in ice. "Christ, that's no kitchen nick, is it? You have really hurt yourself pretty bad. Hold still."
He fished tweezers from his kit, sterilized tip gleaming, working precise: first shard tugged free with a wet suck, clinking into a metal tray; second deeper, her hiss sharp through gritted teeth; third stubborn, requiring flush with saline syringe—clear stream washing red rivulets, pooling pink on towels I'd layered quick.
Gauze packed firm, antibiotic ointment smeared thick, then butterfly closures and thick white bandage wrapped snug, immobilizing fingers splayed.
"Is she fine, doctor?" I asked him.
He replied, "Flex test—good, no tendon hit. Antibiotics oral, twice daily; watch for red streaks, fever. Change dressing tomorrow—that would be all for now."
Hellen exhaled heavily. She said, "Thanks, Doc."
"How did this happen?"
I replied, "It happened all of a sudden, doctor. One moment, I was watching elsewhere—then the second, I heard a crack. When I looked over, the pieces have lodged into her hand."
He peeled off gloves, tossing them in his biohazard bag, packing tools methodical—syringe, tweezers, extra gauze rolls vanishing neat.
"You should be more careful," he said stern, packing the last antiseptic wipe, eyes flicking between us. "Strength like that—alpha grip turns accidents lethal."
Hellen dipped her head, voice low sheepish. "Sorry. Pure reflex."
I frowned, hovering close, raven hair still messy from games. "Reflex? What do you mean?"
He looked at me. "What were you saying to her?"
A blushed appeared on my face as I looked away. "I was talking about omegas with her," I whispered.
Harlan shot Hellen a sidelong look, odd mix of knowing and wary—brow quirking under glasses. "Your girl... er, partner here tensed up hard. Pupils blown, adrenaline dump. Looked like stress response—talk of omegas set her off?"
What's with his look?
Heat flooded my cheeks crimson. "I was just chatting about omegas. Ideal types, nothing deep."
He paused packing, eyeing me curious. "You are an omega?"
"What?!" I yelped, arms crossing defensive over my sweater. "No! I am an alpha!" I would be nothing but an alpha—I am sure of it.
"Oh?" Harlan stood slow, slinging bag over shoulder, final glance at her bandaged hand. "Folks do impulsive under pressure—grip slips, tempers flare. She became stressed, you talked ideals; body reacted raw. Keep her calm, and don't talk about these things for now. Call if worse." The door clicked softly behind him, manor quiet again save fireplace pop.
I wheeled on her, eyes narrowing glare, hands on hips. "What was that, Hellen? Mug exploded. Reflex my ass."
She winced, cradling bandaged hand careful, ice-blue pleading up at me from the sofa. "I'm sorry, Emily. Truly."
"Sorry? That's it? Is this so simple?" Voice pitched hurt-sharp, pacing rug edge. "There were shards in your skin, Hellen. You scared me! How could a simple sorry suffice this?" Has she gone mad? A simple 'sorry' will not suffice this at all.
"It was wrong of me," she murmured, head low, blonde strands veiling regret. "I didn't gauge pressure right. Your words... hit my instincts. Too hard, too fast. Sometimes, we... alphas lose control over strength, don't we?"
We do? Maybe. Besides, I am a new alpha.
"You didn't know your own strength?" Scepticism edged softer as my worry for her began to win.
"Please, Emily." Her gaze lifted raw, showing all he vulnerability. "Forgive me. This won't happen again."
I sighed long, sinking beside her, our shoulders brushing accidentally. "Idiot. Don't do it next time, okay?" My hand hovered her good one—squeezing hers lightly. "Fine, what do you want to eat?"
"It's fine, Emily. I don't want to eat anything now. You are already so worried for me," said Hellen, eyes filled with regret. "You should go home now. I don't want to take your time—you have already done so much for me."
"What the hell are you saying?!" I glared at her. What did she think of me? Did she think that I will leave her just like this?
"Emily, it will be good—"
"Shut up! It's my choice, Hellen. If I want to stay, I will stay!" I yelled angrily. Hellen was my only friend in this world—the only one to show me some warmth. She even helped me when my ankle got twisted. So, no—I will not leave her alone.
"Emily, please—"
"How many times will I say the same thing?! Stay put, okay? Let me take care of you... like you took care of me."