Call of the Alpha - Part 1(9)

“No,” he said with a laugh. “Nothing like that. I’m sure. You have my word.”

She left it at that, not sure where to take the conversation. The broth finished heating and she took it to him. He gave her a smile and started eating right away. Standing less than six inches from him as she delivered the meal, she could still feel that heat coming off of him. He looked well enough, but a touch to his forehead told her the fever was still raging.

“Thank you so much for your help,” he said.

“I thought you were a dog,” she said, the comment coming out of nowhere. “That is…I mean…when I hit you…I thought for sure I had hit a dog.”

“But you stopped to check,” the man pointed out.

“I did. I wasn’t sure. It must have been the poor lighting, but the shape of what I had hit was all weird. I had to make sure.”

“I’m glad you did.”

She waited, wondering if he might provide some clue as to how he had been able to heal himself so quickly. The gashes she had seen in his back last night hadn’t been as bad as the one she had bandaged up in the ditch, but they had been awful all the same. They should have taken at least two weeks to mend up, if treated properly. And here this man was, less than twelve hours later, and they were almost entirely gone.

“The bandage on your chest,” she said. “I’d like to check on that wound before you shower.”

He took another gulp from the chicken broth and then set the spoon down. He removed the shirt, pulling it over his head and sending another of those uncharacteristic spikes of heat through Jessica’s heart, and, if she was being honest with herself, through another entirely different place, as well.

She slowly removed the bandage and was oddly relieved to see that it had not healed as well as the wounds on his back. It wouldn’t need stitching after all, but it was still inflamed and red. It was much smaller than it had been last night, but it was still nasty and in need of a good cleaning.

“None of this makes sense,” she said, tossing the bandage in the garbage.

“What doesn’t?” he asked.

“You’re healing ridiculously fast,” she said, a part of her glad to finally air her growing questions. She was interested to see how he would react.

His response was disappointing. He simply smiled while gathering the shirt back up in his hands and said, “I’ve always been a fast healer, I think.” He tipped his head to the side and his brow furrowed, as if he was trying to recall something important.

He finished off the chicken broth and slowly got to his feet. “Forgive me,” he said, “but if you’re still offering that shower, I’d like to take you up on it.”

“Sure,” she said. “The bathroom is the second door down the hall on your right.”

“Thank you,” he said.

But for one paralyzing moment, he didn’t move. He simply stood there and looked into her eyes. She wanted to look away but found that she couldn’t. He could feel her studying her, maybe even trying to size her up. Somehow, she knew exactly what he was thinking.

He thinks I’m going to call the hospital when he’s in the shower, she thought. But I’m not. As a matter of fact, why the hell didn’t I do that while he was sleeping last night, anyway?

The answer was simple, really. She had a living mystery in her house and she wanted to figure it out before anyone else had a look. Sure, it was selfish. And if she was really going to be honest with herself, she was…well, she starting to feel something other than just curiosity for him, too.

She watched him walk down the hallway and enter the bathroom. He softly closed the door behind him, leaving Jessica left staring at an empty hallway. She tidied up from his small meal, placing the bowl and spoon into the sink. As she did, she heard the shower come on down the hall and she imagined him stepping into it, with his quickly healing scars soaking under the hot water.


She looked back to the couch and saw that there were some slight blood stains and grime and dirt scattered on the cushions. It would be hell to clean up, but she would worry about that later. If she could—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud commotion coming from the bathroom. It sounded like something falling, punctuated by shampoo and soap bottles falling to the porcelain. She ran from the kitchen, down the hall and to the bathroom. She threw the door open and saw that the man had collapsed in the shower. In his fall, he had torn the shower curtain down and knocked over every shampoo bottle in the shower.

She ran to the shower, turning the water off. She leaned in and sat the man up, propping his head against the back of the shower. She saw that his breathing had become labored again, his chest rising in huge spasms. His eyes were fluttering, as if trying to decide if they wanted to remain open or closed.

“Can you hear me?” she asked.

He nodded and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Listen to me,” she said, bringing her face close to his ear, making sure he could hear her. “I have no idea what is wrong with you. But I have to call the hospital. There’s obviously something going on that needs attention.”

She stood up to rush to the living room to make the call but he suddenly grabbed her wrist with his hand. There was nothing violent about the grip he applied to her, but it was forceful enough to show his urgency.

“No,” he gasped.