Her jilted Alpha

A man in her bed

*Gina*

“It would have been better if I could take him to a hospital”. The doctor mutters. “But I doubt he would make it there”.

I look at him. “Tell me what I can do to help”.

“I need to thoroughly clean out these wounds, which will be an extremely unpleasant process for him, and then close them up. I don't want him waking and fighting me, or transforming suddenly, so I'm going to use some heavy sedative. Once I have him in a good sleep, I'll need you to keep him that way until I'm finished with my work. I think you're sharp enough to follow my instructions, if willing”. He says, giving me a small smile.

I nod jerkily. “Whatever you need”.

He gives me a curious look. “You won't swoon on me ?”

“Don't be dumb”. I huff. “I am not the swooning type”.

Although my stomach does get a bit queasy while I watch him work, so I concentrate on studying the patient, searching for any signs he might be stirring from his slumber.

His face is marred with bruises, one on his jaw, one on his cheek. His eyelid is swelling. Three punches at least then. Not to mention the dark discolorations, claw and teeth marks on various areas of his arms and torso. He has fought. Hard. Like a true Alpha.

I don’t understand why people don't just hand over their valuables. Objects aren’t as dear as life.

But then, going by looks alone, this man seems the tenacious sort. He has a strong jaw, shadowed by dark stubble. He has not taken a razor to his face recently, so I don’t think he had been wandering the area in search of a woman. Most fellows tidy themselves up a bit, even if they are paying for the love they are going to receive.

Before Dr. Talon had begun his work, I had poured warm water into another bowl. Now I dip a cloth into it and gently begin wiping away the dried blood on the stranger's face, not much liking what I am revealing. Even with the cuts and bruises, he is without doubt the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

He does funny things to my insides, making them feel all tingly and fluttery, a new sensation for me. Men don't usually cause any reaction in me at all, except for a watchfulness. I had learned early on that when it comes to my person, I can’t trust men to behave, so I am always ready to put them in their place and ensure they know they will get nothing from me that I am not willing to give.

Until this moment, I haven’t even gifted any bloke with the press of my lips to his.

My mum had worried about my safety in the rookeries, and as a result of her apprehensions had dressed me in my brothers' discarded clothing, cropped my hair, and bound my breasts when they had begun to appear. I was nearly grown before I had put on a skirt. I am comfortable not garnering attention, preferring it actually.

Even at the tavern, I favor staying behind the bar, rarely going out among the customers, unless trouble is brewing. My presence intimidates. My height makes me impossible to overlook, my glare promis retribution. Not from my fists, necessarily, although I do have a rather decent punch. But I have four brothers with mightier fists who are always at the ready to defend me, and everyone knows it.

No doubt that was the reason the rouges had run off when I called out to them, which means they are from the area. That sickens me, the thought someone I might have served would do this to a man, a man as gorgeous as this one, a man it is a pleasure to touch, even if linen separates my skin from his. When all the dirt is removed from his face, I want to lean in and kiss away the scrapes and bruises, wanting to heal what I have no power to mend.

I have never been very motherly, the reality of my youth shoving aside those instincts. Whenever my brothers had been roughed up, I had seen to their injuries with a dispassionate air, always mindful of protecting my heart. It hurts too much to care. I know my limits, I know my path. It doesn’t involve marriage, children, or love.

The injured man makes me wish I was softer than I am, that I could wrap myself around him and give him all the comfort I have hoarded for years.

“There”. Talon says, breaking the ridiculous spell under which I have fallen, staring at a man as though he would awaken and be pleased to find himself within my arms. “That should keep him alive for now”.

I rather regret I won’t get to clean the rest of him, I am almost envious of the lucky person who will. Setting the cloth into the bowl, I carry both to the sink, knowing they need to be out of the way for what is to come next.

“If you'll give me a hand, we'll move him to the bed”. Talon says.

My heart is hammering, I swing around. The bed ? It wasn't supposed to come next. The doctor's car was. “You're not leaving him here”.

Talon closes up his medical bag and straightens. “I don't see that we have a choice”.

“We put his clothes back on ...”. I mumble.

“I am afraid I cut and tore them to get them off”. He points out.

I huff slightly at him. “Well, that was a silly thing to do”.

“However, it was the fastest way. Besides, they were ruined”. He tells me.

But that leaves the man with nothing to wear. I want to shout in frustration as an odd emotion that resembles fear … when I have never been afraid of anything in my life, except once … well up inside me.

He can’t stay here. What in God's name will I do with a man in my bed ?

“Then we wrap him in clean linen, a blanket, and cart him down to your car”. I am pleased my no-nonsense tone reveals none of my qualms, my fear or how I am teetering toward terror.

“Bumping along in a car on the roads you have around here is likely to reopen the wounds. He's lost a lot of blood. I don't think he'll survive losing much more. It's better if he remains here for the time being”. The doctor says.

I am near desperate. “It won't be a bad trip if you travel slowly”.

“Gina”. He gives me a pointed look that makes me feel like an unreasonable child asked to sit still in a church. “If you are willing to risk him dying after I've gone to the bother of stitching him up, why send for me at all ?”

“I didn't think he'd have to stay with me”. Iadmit.

He gives me a kind smile. “He's going to be too weak to take advantage of you or the situation”.

I scoff loudly and in a most unladylike manner. “As though that's my worry. I have cast-iron skillets that I can wield with determination, and I have a decent aim. One good whack and he would be done for”.

“Then what's your objection ?” The doctor asks.

A man in my bedchamber, in my bed. Nearly thirty years old, I have never had a male in either. No good ever comes from having a man in a woman's bed. My mum hadn't found herself taking care of six by-blows because men are such saints.

“I have a business to run”. I state succinctly, defensively.

“You have several hours before you open. Perhaps he'll be recovered enough to move later in the day”. The doctor points out.

Meanwhile, I will have to keep watch over him, finish cleaning him. Although earlier I had been regretting letting someone else finish that job, when faced with the reality of having a man between my sheets for hours, I am embarrassingly unsettled, which only serves to irritate me more. I take a deep breath to calm myself, to set my fears aside, determined to overcome this concern. "Can you send a nurse over ?”

“You want me to wake someone this time of night ?” He asks.

Yes, absolutely. What a daft question. “No. But perhaps first thing in the morning”.

He gives a brisk nod. “I'll see what I can do. Meanwhile ...” He moves to the man's shoulders and arches a blond brow. If he hadn't once saved one of my brothers, I would yank that brow right off his face.

I charge into my bedchamber and toss aside the covers before joining the doctor at the table.

With care, I move the sheet past the man's knees, determined to keep the most male part of him covered, although every part of him is distinctly masculine. He has long legs, strong legs, muscular hairy calves, and large feet. What I have heard about men's feet in relation to their endowments is apparently true.

The chaps who frequent my establishment often become open-mouthed after too much drink and will say things a girls ears shouldn't hear, but then I am no fancy pack she-wolf.

I slide my arms beneath his knees, lift and, like a crab I had once seen in a fish store scuttle back. He is a sturdy load, and it occurs to me that if the odds had been slightly more even, he would have triumphed. Thankfully the sheet stays in place as we lower our burden to the bed.

Sprawled over it as he is, he dwarfs it, makes it look like something a child would sleep in.