Kneel Alpha: The Surgeon Omega's Revenge

Chapter 11

Nora's POV

The hospital always felt different before sunrise. The halls were quieter. The overhead lights hadn't yet been drowned out by daylight pouring through the windows. Nurses spoke in lower voices. The coffee hadn't been sitting long enough to taste burnt.

I liked this hour. People expected less from the world before seven. I finished checking a chart outside Room 514 and signed my name at the bottom. Vitals stable. Silver levels still falling. Incision clean. Patient stubborn.

Nothing new.

I closed the file and walked toward the supply room. The automatic door slid open with a soft hiss. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, stacked with boxes of gloves, bandages, syringes, gauze, and bottles of antiseptic. Everything had its place. Everything made sense. I reached for a fresh pack of gauze. The door opened again behind me.

I didn't have to turn around. "Wren."

She leaned against the doorway with a paper cup of coffee in one hand.

"You skipped breakfast."

"I was busy."

"You've been busy for ten straight days."

I peeled the plastic wrapping off the gauze pack. "I work in a hospital."

"You know that's not what I mean."

The room fell quiet again. Somewhere outside, a cart rolled past. Someone laughed down the hall. Life kept moving. I started counting the gauze pads as I stacked them into the cabinet.

One. Two. Three.

Behind me, Wren didn't move.

Four. Five. Six.

I knew exactly why she was here. She had been watching me since Damien woke up. Watching every extra stop outside his room. Every second I stayed longer than I had to. Every time I found another excuse to review his chart. She hadn't said anything. Not until now.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

"You're still in love with him."

The words landed softly. They still hit hard. I picked up another stack.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

My fingers folded each square of gauze into the same neat pile.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

The clock above the door ticked. Wren didn't speak again. She knew me too well. If she pushed, I'd shut down. So she waited.

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.

My wolf shifted beneath my skin. Restless. Not loud. Just awake.

Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one.

I remembered the hallway an hour earlier. Damien walking slow circles around the fifth floor before sunrise. One hand brushing the wall every few steps. Trying to follow the recovery plan. Arguing with me in a whisper because everyone else was still asleep. It had felt... Dangerous. Not because we were angry. Because for a few minutes it had sounded too much like before. Before pack politics. Before wedding vows. Before silence.

Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

I stacked another pile.

Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.

I had spent three years building walls. One shift at a time. One surgery at a time. One sleepless night at a time. Then he walked back into my life bleeding onto my operating table. Now every morning those walls had another crack.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

Outside, an overhead speaker called for respiratory therapy. The sound faded.

Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three.

I kept counting. Not because the gauze needed counting. Because numbers were easier than feelings.

Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six.

When I counted, there was only the next number. No memories. No silver eyes. No little girl who had inherited them. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two.

I wondered what Damien was doing. Probably walking another lap. Probably ignoring his own pain because sitting still had never been something he knew how to do. I hated that I still knew him well enough to guess. Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. The truth sat inside my chest. Heavy. Quiet. Impossible to remove.

Forty-six. Forty-seven. Forty-eight.

He still mattered. That was the part I couldn't operate on. Forty-nine. Fifty. Fifty-one. Sixty seconds could last a very long time. Fifty-two. Fifty-three. Fifty-four. The last stack fit perfectly into the cabinet.

Fifty-five. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven.

I closed the drawer. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty.

The room stayed silent for another breath. Then I finally looked at Wren. She hadn't moved. Her coffee had gone cold. Her eyes were gentle. I wished they weren't. "It doesn't change anything," I said. The words sounded steady.

I needed them to. Damien was still my patient. The threat against him was still growing. Selara was still out there. Someone had already walked into my hospital pretending to be a scout. People were watching. People were waiting.

Feelings didn't erase facts. "I know," Wren said.

I picked up the empty plastic wrapper from the counter and folded it into a small square before dropping it into the trash. "I have a daughter."

"I know."

"I have a hospital depending on me."

"I know."

"I can't afford mistakes."

"I know."

Every answer came quietly. No argument. No pity. Just the truth. I rested both hands on the edge of the counter. For a second, I closed my eyes. Then I opened them again. "I loved him once."

The words surprised even me. Past tense. Clean. Safe. "I know," Wren said again.

"I don't get to be that woman anymore."

Outside, footsteps hurried past the door. Someone called for fresh blood units. The day shift was beginning. The world was waking up. I reached for another box of supplies. Work waited. It always did. I lifted the box onto the shelf. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

"I believe you."

I nodded once.

That should have been enough. It wasn't. Wren set her coffee on the counter. "No," she said softly. I looked at her. She held my eyes for only a second. "But it changes what you're protecting."