The Alpha's Forbidden Nurse

POV: Evelyn “Strip. Now.” I froze. Syringe halfway to his vein. The monitors behind him clicked up a beat—just enough to feel like something breathing in the dark. I don't see his face first. Not even his body. Just the restraints. Leather. Black. Buckled too tight across raw skin. Whoever rigged them either panicked or knew exactly what they were dealing with. My gloves are still damp. I scrubbed in like normal—same soap, same thirty-second routine. But my skin feels wrong inside the latex now. Sticky. Hot. I glance at the vitals—expecting them to flatline or something. But no. His blood pressure’s jacked. Shouldn’t be. Not with the blood loss showing on his chart. Systolic’s holding like he’s mid-sprint, not mid-crash. Which doesn’t make sense. Not unless adrenaline’s doing something ugly underneath. I pop the cap off the syringe. Midazolam. Low dose, just enough to keep him down without pushing respiration. I don’t even get the needle near his vein before— “Strip. Now.” That fast. That flat. No intonation, no lead-in. Just the words, dumped into the space between us like a loaded weapon. My throat doesn’t move. It tightens. I don’t drop the syringe, but it’s not steady. My hand pulls back half an inch—stupid, automatic, like he could lunge from the bed if he wanted to. I glance behind me. Not fast, not slow. Just enough to clock it—security’s still outside. Door sealed. No one watching. No cameras in this bay since the incident last fall. I say, “Excuse me?” but it comes out wrong. The “me” gets strangled. My voice folds in on itself like it doesn’t want to be part of this. His eyes—f**k. The pupils are pinpoints. Golden ring around the iris, bright like headlights caught in fog. I know it’s not a trick of the fluorescents. I’ve seen dilated, I've seen blown. This isn't that. It’s something else. And he’s moving. Even with the restraints. Even with the blood matting around the IV line taped to his arm, his body’s still trying to get up. Muscle groups twitch like misfired code. Neck. Chest. Thighs under the sheet. It’s like nothing inside him knows how to stay down. I clear my throat. It sounds louder than it should. Try again, clinical tone this time. “I’m administering a sedative—four milligrams intramuscular. Your vitals are unstable. I need you to stay still.” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even flinch. Just breathes. Long. Through his nose. Like he’s cataloguing the air. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, flat as bone hitting tile, “You smell wrong.” I freeze again. But not the way I did before. Not fear, not exactly. It's something colder. Tighter. Like the moment before an accident, when your brain registers it a breath too late. He doesn’t mean perfume or antiseptic. Not bleach. Not iodine. He means...me. Whatever the hell that means. The monitor chirps. Just one beat. Fast. My heart spiked. I didn’t feel it, but the machine did. He hears it too. I swear to God, he hears it. His head tilts. Just slightly. Right shoulder rolls a centimeter down. His eyes narrow like a lens tightening, nostrils flaring—he’s not looking at me anymore. He’s reading me. Sorting me into whatever wrongness he thinks he found. I move the syringe. Don’t lower it. Just shift my grip so it fits closer to my palm. Still ready. Thumb poised, plunger tight. Not drawing back but... if I had to? I could. “You’re hiding it,” he says. No question mark. No curiosity. Just... declaration. Like he’s reporting a symptom I forgot to chart. I take a step in. Just one. Not out of bravery, more out of stupid habit. Reassure the patient. Close distance means control, right? That’s what they drilled into us. Get eye level. Own the room. Keep the tone low and even. Don't let the fear show. “He’s just another trauma case,” I tell myself. Doesn’t matter if his wrists are cuffed and still flexing. Doesn’t matter if his voice hits like pressure under skin. “Dominic Kane,” I say, steady as I can. Say his name like it’ll do something. Like it’ll make him remember he’s human and not... whatever this is. His eyes flicker, but not softer. His reply lands hard. “That’s what makes it worse.” No pause. No hint of what “that” is. Just drops it like I should know. Like I do know. I reach for the line. Pull back the gauze. Find the IV port, arm twisted slightly from how they strapped him. He doesn’t fight me, but he doesn’t help either. And then— My hand brushes his forearm. Skin-to-skin. He's burning. Not metaphorically. Actually hot. Like he’s been under heat lamps or just woke up from something deeper than sleep. The kind of fever that isn’t from infection, but from something inside trying to get out. My pulse stutters. His eyes track my hand. Not the syringe. Not the IV. My fingers. He watches them shake. “You’re shaking,” he says. Not cruel. Just like he’s noting the weather. Just like it doesn’t matter if saying it hurts. I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Hard. Copper hits my tongue. Not poetic—just blood. Just something sharp enough to keep my hand from shaking worse than it already is. I push the syringe in. No hesitation left. No other option. The drug hits vein. His eyes flare. Not figuratively. Not oh wow, he looks intense. They go gold. Real. Liquid. Like metal poured wrong. Like something’s alive behind his face that shouldn’t be. It’s not beautiful. It’s not anything romantic. It’s wrong. The kind of wrong your bones recognize before your brain does. I take a step back. It’s not graceful. Heel stumbles against the floor mat, stupid thin slip-on surgical shoe almost folding under me. I recover before it looks like a full retreat. Hopefully. Pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend my stomach didn’t just cave in on itself. He breathes in. Not a sigh. Not a gasp. Inhales like he’s pulling me into him. Like air isn’t air unless I’m in it. “You smell like mine.” My spine goes ice cold. I can’t even— I don’t get to react. He moves. Not far. Not full-body. Just an inch. A twitch. A jolt of restraint and instinct—lunges that single inch forward, like a dog testing the leash— —and I flinch. Again. Then he drops. Muscles lose. Head slumps sideways. The leather straps creak and hold. His eyes flick back. Half-lidded. Slurred. But then—just before they shut all the way, he says it. “You’re not human, are you?” And then nothing. Gone. He’s out. But I’m not. I’m still here, needle in my fingers, sweat cooling under my scrubs, mouth full of blood I can’t swallow, standing over a body that shouldn't know what it just said. But it did. The words don’t echo. They hang. Louder than the monitor. Worse than the silence.