Capturing the Alpha’s Heart

Chapter Two

POV: Shuntelle

The snow had ceased, but the cold lingered.

I stepped out of the black SUV, one bag slung over my shoulder and another in my hand, containing enough toxins, diagnostics, and mobile technology to make me a one-woman field unit. The house ahead was half-buried in the earth, constructed like an afterthought to civilization. There was no doorbell, no camera, and no sign of curiosity.

Just as the encrypted message promised: off-grid, no identification exchange, and cash wired to my burner account.

The driver remained silent, which was included in the fee. He waited in the car with the engine idling as I approached the door.

Before I could knock, the door opened.

“I’m Celestine Graves,” said the man on the other side. He was tall and efficient-looking, with a thin scar just beneath his collar. “You must be Dr. Shuntelle Steele.”

The way he expressed it was not a question; it was more of a confirmation.

“Correct,” I replied. “Your message indicated that this was time-sensitive.”

“Very.” He stepped aside, allowing me to enter.

The hallway was silent – too silent. My boots were the only sound as we passed cold steel reinforcements concealed beneath the plaster and doorways that felt too pristine to be ordinary.

“This isn’t a medical facility,” I observed.

“No,” he replied. “But it’s safe. That’s what matters.”

“For whom?”

He didn’t respond; instead, he gestured toward a door at the end of the hall.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted. The man in the bed was pale yet alert, his eyes tracking me as I entered, sharp as glass. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, connected to IVs, monitors, and something older – something primal.

“This is Richardson,” Celestine stated.

“I assumed.”

I placed the scanner case on the tray, put on my gloves, and approached the bedside. “How long has it been since the exposure?”

“About ten hours,” Celestine replied.

I checked the vitals, and they were incorrect. Stable when they shouldn’t have been, and strong where the toxin should have caused deterioration. “You look better than someone who was supposed to be dying.”

“I was,” Richardson said, his voice gravelly. “Now I’m just trying not to scratch my skin off.”

Despite my better judgment, I smirked. “Excellent. That means you’ll survive the tests.”

I turned to Celestine and said, “You may excuse us.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I do not work with observers. Patient confidentiality is paramount, even off the grid.”

Richardson tilted his head slightly, a hint of amusement in his expression. Celestine frowned.

“Fine. I’ll be outside.”

The moment the door shut, I exhaled. This was where I thrived: in isolation, surrounded by mystery and biohazard.

I reviewed the scans. Vitals: strong. Toxin levels were fluctuating. But then I noticed it – his metabolism was compensating at a rate that no human body should be capable of.

Unless...

No, I dismissed that thought before it could fully form.

Later that night,

I stayed longer than I should have, running tests, retesting them, and double-checking anomalies I couldn’t explain. My back ached, and my brain buzzed.

But it wasn't just the readings; it was him.

The way he observed me – not with suspicion, but with a sense of ease – was unfamiliar. It felt as though I were a familiar painting. I wasn’t accustomed to that, especially not from someone who resembled a near-corpse.

“I’ve worked on six black market detox cases,” I said as I prepared a fresh detox. “None of them cracked a joke before the third day.”

“Maybe I’m trying to make you laugh.”

I didn’t. I couldn’t. “That’s not part of your recovery plan,” I said, administering the next round.

He flinched slightly, then looked at me – really looked. “Still, I’m glad you’re here.”

I paused.

Too friendly. Too smooth. Too… aware. “You shouldn’t be.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven't yet figured out what’s wrong with you.”

He paused, then said, “Maybe it’s that I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Something in his tone caught my attention. It wasn’t flirtation; it was fatigue or perhaps exhaustion.

I cleared my throat. “Get some rest, Mr. Richardson.”

“Call me Richie.”

“No.” I turned and walked away.

The following morning

Sunlight streamed across the snowy fields outside. The kitchen was cold, but I didn’t mind. A cup of bitter tea in a cracked mug and the enveloping silence – that was my comfort zone. Most patients made noise: groans, restless shuffles, and murmured dreams. This one was silent, not dead – just waiting.

I stared down at my tablet once more.

Heart rate: Stabilised.

Liver function: Near normal.

Toxic load: Declining faster than the detox protocol accounted for.

And the cells – his white blood cells – weren’t merely fighting the toxin; they were learning from it and adapting. This wasn’t healing; it was transformation.

I rubbed my temples and muttered to myself, “You said you would stop doing this. Stop chasing anomalies.”

But I hadn’t stopped. Not since that night. Not since Derek stood over our parents’ bodies, crying with blood on his hands and silver at his feet. I was now twenty-eight, but a part of me remained that fifteen-year-old girl, standing barefoot in the blood of her parents.

A floorboard creaked.

I turned to see Celestine standing in the doorway, already dressed and observing me. He walked in as if he belonged everywhere – too calm, too pristine.

“Good morning, Dr. Steele,” he said, preparing his tea.

“Good morning,” I replied, locking the screen of my tablet.

“Is there an update on Richardson? Is there any specific information on when he is expected to recover?

“He’s stabilising. Faster than expected, but I still need more time.”

“Good.” He took a sip. “We hired you because you’re the best and because you understand discretion, no matter what you discover.”

His eyes met mine; flat and cold. A warning disguised as small talk. I nodded, maintaining a professional demeanour. “Understood.” However, my stomach twisted in knots. What was this place?

I walked into Richardson's room and approached the counter to unpack my tools in silence. He stirred the moment I entered, as if he had been waiting.

“Do you always check on your patients without saying hello?” he rasped, his voice dry yet smooth.

I didn’t flinch. “You were up most of the night, so I figured I’d let you rest.”

“Sweet of you.”

I ignored the warmth that crept into my cheeks.

His gaze met mine – sharp and alert. He was not someone clinging to life; rather, he was someone studying me.

“You’re not normal,” I said before I could stop myself.

His lips curled into a slight smile. “You mentioned that yesterday. You still haven’t explained how.”

I despised the way my heart raced.

“You should be in a coma,” I muttered, moving closer to check his IV once more. “Yet, somehow, you’re healing – too quickly.”

He did not respond.

Good. The less I knew, the easier it would be to walk away.

“Yesterday,” he said quietly, “you mentioned your brother and something about superstitions.”

I froze. Why had I even brought up Derek?

“He’s fine,” I replied vaguely. “He’s just doing his own thing.”

He placed his hand over mine – steady and intent. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “I just like knowing who’s around me; it helps me trust.”

I pulled back. “I’m here to heal you, not to bond. You’re improving, but you should rest.”

He smiled and said, “Sure.”

As I turned, I whispered to myself, “You’re getting too close.” But even I no longer believed it. The plan was supposed to last seven days: monitor, stabilize, and then leave. However, by day three, I found myself staying for reasons beyond the data. He was joking more, asking about my gloves, and teasing my handwriting. It was… unsettling.

Because I was laughing in response.

The danger did not reside in his bloodstream; it was in the way he gazed at me.

Celestine took notice.

He walked in that morning just as I was adjusting Richardson’s monitor. Richardson said something absurd, and I laughed – genuinely.

The smile had not yet faded when Celestine snapped, “What’s going on here?”

I straightened. “Excuse me?”

“You’re supposed to be treating him, not flirting.”

“If helping a patient feel safe is considered flirting, perhaps you misunderstand my methods,” I replied, calm yet firm.

Richardson sat up. “Back off, Celestine.”

“She’s not here to entertain you. She’s here because you almost died!”

“And she’s saving my life. Let her work.”

“You’re compromised,” Celestine snapped. Richardson stood, and the room changed.

“I won’t say it again,” he growled. “Back off.”

I watch them, my skin crawling. That wasn’t just friendship; that was dominance.

Celestine glared at both of us. “Have you forgotten what’s waiting for you back home?”

Richardson’s jaw tensed – but he didn’t reply.

A buzz interrupted. Celestine checked his phone. His face changed.

“My wife,” he muttered. “There’s a situation. I have to take this.”

He turned and left. Steel door slamming behind him.

There was silence between us. Richardson leaned back slightly. “Well. That wasn’t dramatic at all.”

I didn’t answer. I just busied myself rearranging the vials on the counter.

He watched me more closely now. “Is everything alright?”

I exhaled. “No, Mr. Richardson. I came here to help you stay alive. But things are… slipping. You’re healing too fast. Your blood isn’t normal. And you and your friend talk in riddles like I’m invisible in the room.”

I turned to face him. “You’re not what I was called to treat. I don’t want confusion or this kind of drama. Let’s keep things clear.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m also not a pub that needs saving. I can defend myself.”

He said nothing else. Just let the silence stretch between us.

I turned back to the results. Spliced genes. Foreign proteins. Non-human markers.

You’re not what I expected.

His voice was quiet this time. “I apologize if I caused any discomfort, Dr. Steele.”

The way he said my name did something strange to me. I turned away, not wanting to see the honesty in his eyes. Honesty makes this harder. Clarity, I reminded myself. I needed answers, not chemistry.

———

I stepped outside to get some air. My chest was tight. Not because of what Celestine said – but because I knew he wasn’t wrong.

I was getting involved. And I didn’t know why.

Was it the mystery? The toxin that shouldn’t exist? The man who survived it?

Or was it the way his voice slowed when he said my name?

I reached for my burner phone and found myself staring at the screen.

Derek. It had been months since we last spoke.

It had been months since we last spoke. Months of avoiding his calls, of dodging his messages, of pretending like I wasn’t tangled in the same bloodstained history he was. But today had changed everything. I took a deep breath, pulled out my phone, and dialed his number.

It rang twice before I heard his familiar voice – raspy, low, and edged with something unreadable.

“Hey, Sis. It’s been a minute. How have you been?” The lack of enthusiasm in his tone wasn’t lost on me.

I sighed. “I’m good, D. Sorry I haven’t returned most of your calls. I’ve been under the weather.”

That was the easiest explanation and the one that would keep him from pushing further.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s alright. You’ve been good?” His voice was neutral now, almost indifferent.

“Everything’s okay, D.” I wasn’t here for small talk. “I think I found one.”

Silence.

“I’m not sure,” I say, voice low. “There’s something wrong. About him. About all of this.”

A pause. “You think you found a wolf?”

I close my eyes. “I don’t know.”

But I do know. The healing. The tension. The words left unsaid. The way the air bends around Richardson when he stands.

“The signs are there,” I say quietly. “His blood… It’s wrong. Not just rare. Impossible.”

Derek didn’t hesitate. “Okay, that’s great news!” There was excitement in his voice now. “But how sure are you? Did your bracelet glow?”

Oh, the bracelet. I had completely forgotten about it.

Our parents had given them to us – enchanted to detect wolves – but I rarely wore mine. I never thought I’d need to.

“I wasn’t wearing it,” I admitted, feeling a little stupid.

Derek let out a sharp breath. “Shuntelle…”

I could hear the disappointment.

“Look, this is still something,” he said. “But we need to be sure. Do you want me to come over?”

I stiffened. Come here. Back into my life? After everything?

After the years he spent obsessed with the Full Moon Festival – the one night every century when werewolves were at their peak? After all the times I begged him to let it go, to stop hunting for revenge?

I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “No. That’s not necessary.”

His tone shifts, darker. “Don’t forget who killed them. Don’t forget what they are.”

“I haven’t.”

“You want the truth? Let me help. You’re good – but I trained you. And I know toxins.” He’s not wrong.

“First off, I don’t even know where I am. Off-grid. Everything’s filtered through agents. I’m not in Springfield, Derek, and I’m protected.”

I pause.

“I’m sending some test data. Don’t trace it. Just… archive it.”

He sighs. “Okay. But call me if anything shifts. Anything.”

“I will.”

I hang up after logging the files into a secure vault. I told myself I left the hunt behind. That I buried the girl who used to carry silver in her boots. That I became someone else. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe the hunter’s daughter has found her beast.

Suddenly, a creak behind me snaps me alert and I turn to nothing that someone had been there because the shadow still lingered in the corner of the hallway.

There were only two people inside this building: Richardson and Celestine. I locked the tablet. My pulse spiked and for the first time since stepping into that house, I felt unsafe.