Taming The Alpha: A Wolf Shifter Mpreg Romance (Savage Love Book 3)

by Preston Walker

  Ulysses wasn’t quite sure he had heard that last part correctly. He blinked, tried to speak, and found that his lips had become sealed together with a gummed layer of saliva. He forced them open with his tongue, swallowed hard, and tried again. “What was that?”

  “You are minus one toe, Mr. Bender. And you are lucky it was not anything more important that you lost.”

  “How the fuck did I lose a toe?” he demanded, voice rising. It was really a small thing, a toe. He didn’t even notice them most of the time, until he stubbed one on the corner of something. Coincidentally, the toe he stubbed on things most often was his little toe.

  Yet, the thought of losing something, of being even less than he was to begin with, bothered him in a primal sort of way he could not ever have hoped to put into words.

  “From what we can gather, your foot snagged on part of your motorcycle. The force and pressure was at just the right angle to instantly tear through your shoe and then through your toe. It really was a clean sever.”

  Ulysses blanched. His jaw worked, the ability to form words now completely gone. He had been imagining some sort of injury to his toe that necessitated an amputation, some sort of mangled disfigurement that would be impossible to fix. He had imagined surgery, performed under controlled conditions by trained professionals who did shit like this all the time.

  He had not been imagining having his toe ripped off in the blink of an eye.

  “The toe was recovered and we currently have it on ice,” Dr. Ibori said.

  As if this entire situation couldn’t get any weirder.

  “We could attempt to reattach it if you wish, but there is no guarantee that it would take or that you would regain full use of the digit. Further surgery and eventual removal might be required. Or, everything could go swimmingly, and you would be left with only an interesting scar and a story to tell. It is your choice, though one you should make quickly. The longer your toe is on ice, the likelier your body would reject a reattachment.” Dr. Ibori gave a humorless smile, which did nothing to ease the hardness of the rest of his expression. “If you want my advice, I would suggest leaving things as they are. A toe is not an arm, a hand, or even a finger. It might make buying shoes interesting, but you will not be disabled in the long run.”

  Ulysses swallowed hard. His thoughts raced, and he struggled to keep up. This was all too much, happening much too damn fast. He had only just woken up after getting in a wreck, and now he had to decide the fate of his toe. It seemed like a decision too large for anyone to make.

  Stop being such a fucking baby, he snarled at himself. It’s a fucking toe. Like Hank said, it’s not an arm. It’s not my hand. It’s a toe. Pack the front of my shoes with toilet paper and get on with my life.

  “Toss the damn thing,” he said, hardly aware the words were coming until they were out of his mouth.

  “A wise choice,” Dr. Ibori said, sounding vaguely condescending. Ulysses bristled. His tensing muscles sent bolts of pain throughout his body and he quickly had to stop. “We are going to keep you here for a short time, and then we will move you to Recovery for observation. When we confirm that you are stable, you will probably be allowed to return home. A nurse will help you arrange for a taxi.”

  Great. More fucking taxis. It seemed like he was going to be taking a ride in one whether he liked it or not.

  “Or, you can go home with a friend or family member.” Dr. Ibori smiled again, and this time the expression seemed genuine. “Robert seems as if he would be more than willing enough to lend a helping hand.”

  Ulysses groaned inwardly. Here was another person who had been won over by Robbie’s inexplicable charm. The adult version of a teacher’s pet, he pleased left and right.

  Unlike a teacher’s pet, however, Robbie did this because he wanted to, not because he thought it would gain him favors or affection.

  Baffling.

  “You are probably going to be contacted by police very shortly,” the doctor continued, finally sounding as if he was winding down to an end. “They are going to want to speak to you about what happened. Expect a court date, fines, and potential involuntary substance abuse seminars. And you should see your primary care doctor, as he might see a need for physical therapy for some of your injuries. Any questions?”

  “Uh, no.”

  Now he was more overwhelmed than ever. Sure, he’d been driving his motorcycle drunk, but no one else had gotten hurt. Would they fine him? And for how much? Would he be able to afford it?

  And if he couldn’t, he might have to revert back to living at the communal hub, which was a modified two-story parking garage owned and managed by Destiny.

  He had lived there up until recently, preferring the lower rate of rent over the struggle to live on his own. At a certain point, he just changed his mind and moved out again. The quiet of an apartment all to himself was refreshing when compared with life in the garage, where wolves were coming and going at all odd hours of the day and night.

  Adding to the peril of the situation was his injuries. He worked in a repair shop, which handled all sorts of general vehicle restorations while also specializing in motorcycle bodywork. A day might be as simple as driving around in a client’s minivan, discovering the odd clunking sound was a forgotten sippy cup rolling around in the trunk, or as complicated and labor intensive as stripping most of the inner workings out of a vandalized Mustang. He needed his wits about him, and he needed his body to work right, or else he couldn’t work.

  If he couldn’t work, he wouldn’t be paid.

  If he wasn’t paid, he couldn’t pay his fines, couldn’t afford physical therapy, and couldn’t pay to enroll in a substance abuse program if that was required.

  He was sunk, all because of a stupid decision.

  Suddenly, he wished he had done things differently. He should have let the bouncer call him a taxi. He should have actually stayed to talk to his friends, bothered them, made sure they knew what was going on. One of them could have driven him home, or delayed him long enough so he wouldn’t run that fateful red light.

  He should have gone over to investigate who the familiar person was, whether or not he was certain he had recognized them.

  More than anything else, he wished that Robbie had come after him, talked to him, stopped him from riding home in the condition he was.

  But, as his father used to say, if wishes were fishes, then everyone would eat well.

  He wasn’t quite sure what the sentiment meant, although he had an idea it was something like wishes were useless things. They couldn’t come true, or else everyone would be happy all the time. Someone always had to be a loser. That was just the way things were.

  “Lee, how are you feeling?”

  Ulysses looked up, startled to find that Dr. Ibori was gone and had been replaced by a concerned-looking Robbie, leaning over him. He must have managed to end the conversation and send the doctor on his way, though he had been so lost in his thoughts he hardly recalled anything that had been said.

  “Like shit,” he grunted. “They say they’re going to keep me here for several more hours. Robbie, what time is it?”

  Robbie lifted up one arm, clearly glancing at the watch he always wore because he believed it was impolite to look at his phone in the middle of a conversation. As he was more or less always engaged in talking to someone, he considered this to be an actual concern. Ulysses would never have noticed this on his own, but Robbie had made sure to tell him all about it because there was nothing he loved more than to selflessly share how thoughtful and kind he was in all situations.

  “It’s 4:14.”

  Startled, Ulysses slashed his eyes over to the wall on the right where the window was. He hadn’t really noticed anything before when he looked at the window, too caught up in just getting his bearings. Now, he realized the only light coming in through the windows was orange and dull, belonging to streetlamps. Dawn had yet to arrive, the sun still slumbering below the horizon.

  “What time did I leav
e the bar?”

  “It must have been 11:30 p.m. or so. Maybe midnight.”

  He was missing several hours, and now he would miss several more as he was kept under observation. Great. What else could possibly go wrong?

  Robbie sank mostly out of sight, having sat down once more in his chair. “I’m going to call off from work in a short while,” he said.

  Ulysses stared at him, perplexed, irritated that he should have to be figuring out puzzles while he was clearly in no condition to do so. What Robbie just said sounded like a statement that should have come in the middle of a conversation, not as an opener to one. There was no context.

  As kind and sweet as Robbie was, Ulysses knew the omega was far from stupid. He had done this deliberately, setting up a trap.

  Ulysses could have ignored the statement, but now he was curious. Defeated, knowing he had been neatly snared, he asked, “Why?”

  “I’m going to stay here with you, keep you company. Then, when you’re released, I’m going to take you home.”

  “Fuck that,” Ulysses said immediately, his voice rising. The very idea was alarming and upsetting. “I’m not some fucking invalid. I don’t need your help. No thanks.”

  Robbie pressed his lips together, which was the closest he could ever come to a scowl. “My mind is already made up. I’m going to help you, because there was clearly a reason I was drawn to that particular bar tonight. Last night, I suppose. There was a reason you were there. A reason I saw you and followed you. And it wasn’t just so I could call 911, because anyone could have done that. I feel like there’s more.”

  “That’s because you always want to do more.”

  Robbie nodded, cheerfully accepting this as the truth, welcoming it. “You got it. And it’s not like we’re strangers, right? Our packs are one now.”

  They certainly weren’t strangers. They were as close as two men could be without ever actually having progressed into having sex. That being said, Ulysses was pretty damn sure he didn’t know a thing about the latter part of what Robbie said.

  “Our packs?” he repeated.

  “You’re from Shadow Claws,” Robbie said. “And I’m from Lethal Freedom.”

  No.

  That made no sense.

  Sweet, innocent, beautiful Robbie had joined a motorcycle club. Did he even own a motorcycle? Had he ever ridden on one? This was ludicrous.

  “When the hell did that happen?”

  Robbie’s face colored again with that lively blush, causing Ulysses to feel yet another stirring of excitement deep in his groin. This situation just kept getting more and more confusing at every turn, pressures piling up on his shoulders. He couldn’t even stand on his own right now, so there was no way in hell he would be able to bear the weight of all this.

  “It wasn’t really a choice I made,” Robbie said. “Some new kids came into the daycare I help run, and one of them is a pup. One of us. I made friends with the mother. Very nice beta named Sharon, from Lethal Freedom. Makes the best brown sugar cupcakes. One thing led to another, and I’m an honorary member.”

  Of course. If anyone would be given an honorary position in any group at all, it was going to be Robbie.

  “So,” Robbie continued, smiling happily, “now that we’re one, we’re expected to help each other! And I’m going to help you, and that’s final.”

  Ulysses didn’t say thanks. He didn’t say anything, only closed his eyes and braced himself for a very, very long day.

  Respectful Robbie stayed quiet, entertaining himself with a book. Ulysses could hear the pages being turned ever so slowly and cautiously as the omega wolf tried to make as little noise as possible. He just kept his eyes closed, not wanting to bring any attention to himself.

  After perhaps 30 minutes, a pair of nurses came in to check on Ulysses. They detached him from the equipment no longer needed to monitor him. He was given a glass of water, along with a pain pill that ended up making him drowsy.

  He was moved to a room in Recovery, one half of which was already occupied by a middle-aged man, snoring as if he was enjoying the best sleep of his entire life.

  Robbie settled into a chair nearby, and the next round of waiting began. Not knowing what else to do, Ulysses gave in to the urge to sleep.

  He slept the uneasy sleep of a man who is unused to being drugged, carried adrift on a dark ocean current. Occasionally he caught glimpses of dangerous, shifting dreams closer to the surface, images which nearly brought him to waking. He stirred, reached up, tried to focus on the images and what they meant, and was never quite able. Like fish, the dreams sensed his movements and flickered away in a silvery manner. Then, he was only alone, drifting, cradled in the current.

  After a period of time that seemed like a century in length, he surfaced abruptly from his drugged sleep. Mentally coughing and sputtering, his eyelids flickered, struggling to break through the layer of crust that had formed. Light filtered in, blurry colors and shapes that eventually coalesced into comprehensible objects. Ceiling. Door. The glimpse of bright flowers over in the corner opposite the door, a present for the old man, though he was still unconscious and probably had not yet noticed.

  And Robbie’s face, hanging low over him like a harvest moon. “It’s time!” he said, managing to sound suitable enthusiastic while being quiet enough not to wake the other occupant of the room.

  The same pair of nurses as before was back, Ulysses noticed. It made sense to him that there should be two of them to have taken him here, to more efficiently clear him out of a room that someone else needed more. He couldn’t understand why they were back. His ride here in his wheeled bed allowed him to see that the Recovery section of the hospital was the furthest thing from hopping. There should be no rush.

  This puzzle was solved for him shortly, when he figured out he was actually going to have to get his battered body out of bed.

  The next ten minutes or so were more stressful to him than anything else that happened thus far. He was awake for all of it, drowsy still but more than aware enough to feel every twinge, every ache, every lightning bolt of agony as some injured part of him shifted in a way he wasn’t prepared for—which was, really, every way imaginable.

  First, he had to sit up. Then, he was relieved of the rest of the medical equipment still hooked up to him. The neck brace was removed, though he was warned repeatedly that it would be in his best interest not to make any sudden movements.

  After sitting up, he was transferred painstakingly to a wheelchair. Even with a nurse supporting him on either side, it took every ounce of strength he possessed to make the transition from one position to another. His shoulder, portions of his rib cage, and sprained wrist were all wrapped in various quantities of bandages, rendering those parts of him more or less useless. His foot was wrapped in gauze and bandages and an interesting stiff, white substance that looked like a cast. He supposed that was to help his wrenched muscles, and to keep his amputated toe from bleeding all over the place.

  I wonder what it looks like?

  No matter the appearance of it, his foot hurt so badly that even resting it on the wheelchair’s built-in foot support was almost more than he could take.

  Once he had been fully transplanted into his new position in the wheelchair, the nurses split up. One stayed behind in the room, probably meaning to tidy up or else tend to the other, snoozing occupant. The remaining nurse gripped the wheelchair from behind and announced, “Buckle up and enjoy the ride!”

  Ulysses very much did not enjoy the ride. He had learned from his trip in the hospital bed that the tile floor, despite its cleanly nature, was anything but smooth. There were just as many bumps, digits, and potholes as in the average street. Their impact had been lessened by the bedframe and the cushioning provided by the mattress and pillows. He had no such luxuries now, feeling in a very intimate manner the way the floor dipped or tilted. His joints complained at being jostled, his muscles throbbing in a bone-deep sort of way that the drug they’d given him could not touch.
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  At one point, they took an elevator to get to the ground floor of the hospital. That was probably the most enjoyable part of the trip for Ulysses. The elevator did not shake or bounce, instead vibrating in a gentle way the whole descent. Compared to the jarring movements of before, this was practically heaven. Ulysses felt like he could exist in that handful of moments for an eternity, enduring it as his limbo, and he would be fine with it. Anything to prolong the rest of the trip to the outside.

  The whole time, Robbie chattered cheerfully with the nurse. Ulysses had no idea what they were talking about, could not focus upon the light conversation when he was so deep in the realms of his own pain. It was like being immersed in a thunderhead, choking blackness all around, brightened only by sickening flashes of yellow lightning.

  At long last, their trio reached the great outdoors. Ulysses had been given a frame of reference for the time before, and his internal clock had been on a proper course ever since then. The Florida sky was as blue as anything, perfectly cloudless, bright beams of sunlight shimmering down upon the city. It could have been any time of day at all, though there was a lingering chill on the breeze and a taste to the air that told him this was still before noon. Before 10 a.m. even. Beyond that, he couldn’t be more specific. A wolf’s mind was concerned less with numbers and more with patterns. Instincts were broad, encompassing many small ideas which were never quite fully fleshed out.

  The nurse pushing his wheelchair took him over to a nondescript red van at Robbie’s instruction. On the way, they passed another man who was making his steady way over to the hospital. The man didn’t look much older than Ulysses, and he raised a hand in greeting as he passed before dropping his hands back down to the wheels of the wheelchair he sat in, propelling himself along.

  Ulysses didn’t wave back. He closed his eyes, fighting against an odd surge of vertigo that threatened to sweep him right out of his chair. Bikers on the road tended to greet one another in a similar fashion, united in the desire to ride. Was this what he had come to, bonding with other invalids in the same manner?