Rejecting the Alpha Who Ruined Me

The vocal cords of a Gamma wolf are delicate things, like spiderwebs made of gristle and magic. One slip of my hand, and this warrior would never howl at the moon again.

"Suction," I ordered, my voice flat and steady.

My hands moved with a precision that had taken me eight years to master. A faint, golden glow seeped from my fingertips—my aura, warm and stabilizing—knitting the shredded tissue back together. The Gamma on the table, a victim of a border skirmish, let out a soft, unconscious whine as the pain receded. I didn't look at his face. I never looked at their faces if I could help it. Faces were personal. Faces reminded me of what I had lost.

"BP is stabilizing, Healer Bell," the nurse whispered, awe evident in her tone. "The tissue... it's healing faster than I've ever seen."

I didn't smile. I just tied off the final suture and stepped back, peeling off my blood-slicked gloves. "He'll need three days of silence. No shifting. If he tries to force a growl, he'll tear it all open again."

Leaving the operating theater, I stripped off my surgical gown, the adrenaline of the procedure fading into a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. The hallway of the Neutral Territory Central Hospital was cool and sterile, a stark contrast to the humidity of the operating room. I leaned against the scrub sink, letting the cold water run over my hands, scrubbing until the skin was raw.

"You look like death, Anna."

I glanced up into the mirror. Director Vance, the Beta who ran this place, was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. He wasn't wrong. Dark circles bruised the skin under my eyes, and my collarbones were too sharp against the neckline of my scrubs.

"I'm fine," I lied, turning off the tap.

"You haven't slept in two shifts," Vance noted, his voice dropping. "Is it the nightmares again?"

I stiffened. He knew too much. He knew about the nights I woke up screaming, my hand clutching the empty space where a pack bond should be. He knew about the guilt that chewed on my insides—the image of my father, dying alone in the mud because I had been exiled and stripped of the power to protect him.

"There's a flu outbreak in the lower wards," I deflected, drying my hands. "I'm needed."

"You're needed alive. Go home, Anna. That's an order."

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat.

It hit me first. A scent.

It wasn't the antiseptic smell of the hospital or the metallic tang of blood. It was ozone. Heavy, electric ozone, like the air right before a lightning strike, mixed with the scent of deep forest rain.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt. My hand flew to my neck, covering the phantom scar that hadn't existed for eight years—the spot where a mate mark should have been. Where *his* mark should have been.

*No,* I thought, my breath hitching. *Not here. Not now.*

Then, the alarms screamed.

"Code Red! Trauma One! Incoming from Silver Lake!"

The double doors at the end of the corridor burst open with a violence that shook the walls.

A gurney came first, surrounded by frantic paramedics. But I didn't see them. I only saw the man running beside it.

Julian Cole.

He looked older. The boyish softness I remembered was gone, replaced by hard angles and a beard that couldn't hide the tension in his jaw. His Alpha aura was a chaotic storm, rolling off him in waves of terrified power that made the nurses whimper and step back.

And behind him, the shrill sound of heels clicking on linoleum.

"Do something!" a woman shrieked, her voice grating and high. "Don't just stand there, you incompetent idiots! Save him!"

Kori Hudson. The Luna. The woman who had framed me, stolen my life, and taken my place.

I stood frozen, trapped in the amber of my own trauma. I should run. My wolf, usually dormant and silent since the rejection, stirred deep in my chest, letting out a low, pained whimper. *Mate,* she whispered. *Pain.*

Julian turned. His eyes, the color of stormy seas, swept the room wildly until they landed on me.

Time stopped. The hospital sounds faded into a buzz. He froze, his hand gripping the rail of the gurney so hard the metal groaned. His mouth opened, his chest heaving.

"Anna?"

It was a whisper, but it roared in my ears. The shock on his face was absolute. He looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost.

"What is *she* doing here?" Kori's voice cut through the air like a whip. She pushed past Julian, her face twisted in a sneer that hadn't changed since we were teenagers. She looked immaculate in designer silk, but her scent was sour—rotten vanilla. "We demanded a specialist, not a reject! Get this... this *rogue* out of my sight!"

Her words were a bucket of ice water. The shock broke. I wasn't the weeping girl of eighteen anymore. I was Healer Bell.

I ignored Kori entirely. I ignored Julian's burning stare. I looked at the patient.

On the gurney lay a boy, no older than seven. He was convulsing, his small body arching off the mattress. His skin was burning hot, glowing with a faint, unstable violet light.

"Get a sedative," I barked, stepping forward. My voice was unrecognizable—cold, authoritative.

"Did you hear me?" Kori screeched, reaching for my arm. "I said—"

"Touch me, and I will have security remove you," I said, not even looking at her. I placed my hands over the boy's chest. The heat was blistering. Under my palms, I could feel his spirit tearing at his flesh. It wasn't a fever. It was a war.

"He's shifting," Julian choked out, stepping closer. "He's been trying to shift for two days. He can't stop."

"It's not a normal shift," I corrected, my golden aura flaring around my hands to contain the boy's volatile energy. "His wolf is too strong for his human form. The spirit is fracturing the bone structure before the body can morph. It's Genetic Shift Fracture."

The room went silent. It was a death sentence. Usually.

"Can you save him?" Julian asked. His voice broke. The arrogance of the Alpha was gone, replaced by the terror of a father.

I looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time in eight years. I saw the mate bond flare in his pupils, a sudden, desperate hope that had nothing to do with the child and everything to do with the woman he had thrown away.

"I am the only one who can," I said coldly.

Julian moved then. Instinctively, he reached out, his hand grasping for my elbow, perhaps to steady himself, perhaps to confirm I was real.

"Anna, please—"

The moment his skin brushed the fabric of my scrub top, a jolt of electricity violently snapped through me. It wasn't pleasurable. It was agony. It felt like the rejection all over again.

I flinched back so violently I nearly knocked over the instrument tray. I slammed my back against the wall, my breath coming in ragged gasps, holding my arm as if he had burned me with a branding iron.

"Don't," I hissed, my eyes wide with panic I couldn't suppress. "Do not touch me."