The Alpha's Forbidden Nurse

chapter 2

POV: Evelyn

I didn’t sleep. I didn’t even sit. Just leaned against the medicine cabinet in the on-call room like if I stayed upright, I’d still be able to pretend everything was fine.

But nothing was fine.

Arms crossed, elbows grinding into bone. My back’s doing that thing where it’s not pain, not yet, but one wrong move and I’ll seize up like a corpse left sitting too long. Eyes sting. I blink and everything’s still grainy. Not tired. More like too awake. Like blinking feels optional.

The trauma monitor’s stuck on static. I look at it again anyway. i***t. It’s been thirty minutes since the last vitals check. Maybe forty. Doesn’t matter.

Phone says 3:12 a.m.

Stomach flips. Not slow—just a drop. Like falling before you realize you're about to fall. The monitor flashes red.

Flatline.

Red bar. No beep. No motion. Just zero.

Zero.

I don’t breathe. Not really. Just hold it like maybe I can stop time if I lock everything down. Seven seconds. I count. Not aloud. Just behind my eyes. One. Two. Three.

By five I’m sweating. By seven I’m—

Beep.

It’s not a blip. It’s a spike. Like someone hit him with a defibrillator inside his own chest. Numbers jump. No build-up. Just back.

I’m moving. Hands hit the trauma bay glass before I know I left the wall. No gloves. Bare palms. The glass is colder than I expect—slick. Like condensation on a beer bottle.

He moves.

Slow. Not sleepy. Not groggy. Like he’s choosing to move slow. Like he’s aware.

He shouldn’t be awake. Not even close. Sedation protocol was weight-adjusted. Should’ve dropped him for six, maybe eight hours minimum unless he’s got a second liver or some kind of—

His shoulders jerk. Twitch.

Then it pops.

I flinch. Audible. Like knuckles but louder. Sharp. One shoulder. Then the other. Like something’s adjusting itself from the inside out.

The skin along his traps starts… bulging? That’s not the right word. It doesn’t look swollen. It looks pressurized. Like something underneath is pushing up and up and not stopping.

I don’t move. Just stand there, holding the glass like it’ll break before I do. I’m not sure which of us I believe less.

Then his fingers.

First, they curl. No, not curl—tighten. Dig into the gurney restraints. Then something pushes out.

Nails.

Too long. Not manicured. Not cracked.

Growing. From inside.

Too fast. Too thick. Too—

Wrong.

The restraints creak again—low, awful sound like metal joints cracking under something they weren’t built for—but he’s not fighting. Not like before. He’s still. Awake, yeah. But not wild. Like someone gave him instructions and he’s following them now. Or remembering how to hold back. Or just… choosing not to break anything.

I don’t move. Not an inch. My lips—dry, cracked from breathing wrong—I press my knuckles to them, hard, like that’ll stop the noise clawing up my throat. I don’t want to scream. It’s not that. It’s—god, I don’t even know. I want to say something, but my voice’s stuck somewhere behind my ribs, like I swallowed a hand that’s gripping my lungs.

Then—quiet footsteps.

Behind me.

Shit.

I glance, just my eyes. Man. Scrubs. Clean. Too clean. Doesn’t say anything. No greeting, no hey, is this patient trying to grow goddamn knives out of his hands—just walks up like he’s late for rounds and forgot his coffee. His badge said DR Marcus sterling.- which i realize he's a new transfer doctor in the hospital

Opens the panel. I didn’t even know that thing opened. Metal slides back, he taps something—like, literally just taps it—and a soft hiss starts. Not sharp. Not scary. Like an aerosol can.

Purple mist. Vents. It looks fake. Movie-fog. Doesn’t smell like anything at first, then it hits—kind of minty, maybe? Or plastic? I can’t tell.

Inside, the guy—thing—snaps. Like, full-body arch. Neck stiffens so hard I think it might break. His back lifts off the gurney like it’s trying to levitate him, and then—

CRACK.

His skull slams back into the bedframe. Hard. Bounces once. Like a damn basketball. I flinch so bad I almost fall forward into the glass.

Then—nothing.

Silence.

He drops. Limbs slack. Still.

His fingers twitch, just a little. Then stop. The claws—if that’s what they were—retract. Not like magic, not fast. Just... fade. Nail beds smooth over. Normal again. Almost.

I’m breathing weird. Forgot how, maybe. I turn to the guy, this... new guy, and I sound—my voice comes out thin and wrong and sharp at the edge—

“What the hell was that?”

He doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t look at me. Like I’m a chair, or a noise.

“Sedative blend,” he says, watching the gas thin out like he’s checking the weather. “For muscle seizures.”

Bullshit.

I blink. “Is that—” my voice cracks around the word “legal?” like I’m chewing it through gravel.

He finally turns. Just enough for me to see the side of his face—sharp jaw, medical badge still crooked on his chest like he doesn’t care it’s twisted. Shrugs. Not casual, not guilty. Just—empty. “Off the books,” he says. Like that’s enough. Like that’s the end of it.

And maybe it is.

I let out a sound—half-laugh, half I-don’t-know-what, trying not to feel like I’m going to throw up again. “Looked like he was about to Hulk out.” The words taste wrong, but they come out anyway. Nervous habit. I c***k jokes when things go sideways. Or I used to.

He doesn’t even blink. Nothing. Just: “You didn’t see anything.”

Flat. Dry. Not a threat. But somehow worse.

I stand there long enough that my legs go numb, my left ankle throbs from standing weird on it, maybe twisted it earlier when I ran, I don’t know. I don’t remember. By the time the sun starts bleeding over the Lake, I go back to check.

Nothing.

The trauma bay’s spotless. Literally. Floor smells like bleach and the corners gleam in that way that only happens when someone panic-cleans.

The bed’s made. Tight sheet corners. No chart. No patient ID.

Not even a smudge of blood left. No claw marks on the leather. No broken restraints. Like he was never here. Like I made it up during a sugar crash. Or I’m losing it.

I don’t say goodbye to anyone. Just clock out with my thumb and walk. I don’t even know what I’m feeling—heart’s moving too fast, but I’m tired. Like inside-my-marrow tired. My whole body’s ringing.

Get to the garage.

Unlock my door.

And then I stop.

There’s something under the wiper. Black envelope. Not a flyer. No barcode. Just matte paper, thick. Wet with dew but still crisp at the corners.

I reach for it without thinking, fingers brushing the edge—and hiss.

Stings. Like the paper’s hot. Or electric. Not a paper cut, though—it fights back.

But I’m already gripping it, hard, knuckles white, and the edge bites me.

Palm splits. Blood beads up in a neat little line like I’m being offered to something.

I blink.

My name. Written in tight, slanted cursive across the front.

Inside—

block print. No emotion. No handwriting quirks. Machine-clean.

“You belong to me now.”

Signed: D.K.