The restricted recovery protocol began at 0400.
I had dialed it back deliberately — just enough regenerative serum to knit the last of his damaged tissue, but not enough to restore full Alpha strength. Justin’s body would heal slowly, painfully, every cell reminding him who controlled the pace.
He lay on the medical bed, wrists and ankles still loosely restrained, c**k heavy and flushed against his stomach. The denial had become a constant state now. Even in sleep he leaked slowly, the sheets beneath him damp. His breathing was shallow, feverish.
I stood beside him, adjusting the drip with clinical detachment.
“Restricted recovery,” I murmured. “You heal, but only when I allow it. You grow stronger, but never strong enough to challenge me. This is your new normal, Patient Halderman.”
