Give me a chance.

CHAPTER TWO  

ALEXIS'S POV  

I pressed my back against the supply closet door and kept my voice steady.  

“There’s no one else here,” I told the man standing in the middle of the emergency room. “Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it in this clinic.”  

Three of them had pushed inside. All armed and scanning every corner like they expected someone to jump out.  

The one in front looked at the blood still on the floor. “Someone was treated here. Recently.”  

“We treat people every day,” I said. “That’s what a clinic is for.”  

His eyes narrowed. “The man we’re looking for is dangerous. He's tall, with dark hair and bad injuries. You would have noticed him, would you?”  

Behind the closet door, I could feel Dyson’s presence, he was really staying still despite the wounds.  

“I treated a man earlier,” I admitted. “He was unconscious when they brought him in. He left before I could finish the paperwork. That’s all I know.”  

One of the others stepped closer to the treatment table and pointed at the blood trail leading toward the back. “That path leads straight to that door.”  

My heart beat skyrocketed, but I didn’t move.  

“That’s the supply closet,” I said. “We dragged the stretcher past it when we were cleaning up. Blood gets everywhere in emergencies.”  

The man didn’t look convinced. He took another step forward.  

Then Dyson’s voice came from inside the closet, just loud enough for me to hear. “Tell them the patient was transferred to the city hospital.”  

I kept my face blank. “If you’re that worried, check the city hospital transfer logs. We sent a critical case over an hour ago, maybe that’s your man.”  

The leader stared at me for a long second. Then he jerked his head at the others. “Search the front. We’ll check the transfer records ourselves.”  

They left as quickly as they came.  

Only when the outer doors closed did I open the closet.  

Dyson stepped out slowly, pressing his hand against his side. He looked at me with a little respect.  

“You didn’t give me up.”  

“I don’t hand patients over to armed men who won’t identify themselves,” I said. “Now sit down before you wreck everything I've done.”  

He didn’t sit. “You knew what I was and you still protected me.”  

“I knew you were injured and that was enough reasons for me.”  

He studied me for a moment. “Most humans would have pointed at the door the second they heard the word werewolf.”  

“I’m not most humans. And you brought a lot of trouble into my clinic tonight.”  

“I know.” His voice dropped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan on almost dying in human territory.”  

I crossed my arms. “Those men weren’t random. Who are they?”  

“People who want me dead. That’s all you need to know.” He straightened carefully. “Forget everything that happened here. Don’t mention me to anyone. Not the police. Not the other doctors. No one.”  

“And if they come back?”  

“They won’t. I’ll make sure of it.” He paused at the door. “I owe you my life, Alexis. I don’t forget my debts.”  

Then he was gone.  

Three days later he walked back into the clinic like nothing had happened.  

I was finishing charts when I looked up and found him standing at the nurses’ station. 

The injuries that should have kept him in bed for weeks were barely visible now. Only faint lines remained where the worst cuts had been.  

“You’re supposed to either be dead or in a hospital,” I said.  

“I heal up fast.” He held up a small bag. “I came to thank you properly.”  

“You already did.”  

“Not properly.” He set the bag on the counter. “There’s money in there. Enough to cover whatever trouble I caused and more.”  

I pushed it back toward him. “I don’t take payment for doing my job.”  

“Everyone takes payment.”  

“Well, I don’t.”  

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious.”  

“Completely.”  

For a second he looked almost amused. “Most people would have grabbed that bag with both hands.”  

“I’m not most people. You already said that.”  

He leaned against the counter. “Tell me something then. Why medicine? You could have chosen anything.”  

I kept writing. “Because people die when no one knows what to do. I got tired of watching that happen.”  

“Ambitious I see.”  

“No, I'm practical.” I glanced up. “What about you? What does an Alpha do when he’s not bleeding on my table?”  

“I run things, businesses, territories, people.”  

“That sounds vague.”  

“It’s meant to.” He watched me for a moment. “You’re not impressed.”  

“Should I be?”  

“Most are.”  

“I’m not most.”  

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re going to keep saying that, aren’t you?”  

“As long as you keep acting surprised.”  

He came back two days later with coffee. Then again with questions about a research paper I’d mentioned in passing. 

Each time the conversations lasted longer. He teased me about the long shifts and I told him his arrogance needed medical attention. 

We argued about whether werewolves or humans made worse patients and somehow the arguments always ended with both of us still standing there talking.  

I started looking forward to the moments the door opened and he walked in.  

One evening he waited until the last patient left.  

“Have dinner with me,” he said.  

I looked up from the chart. “Is that supposed to be an order?”  

“It’s a request. From a man who still owes you his life.”  

“You don’t owe me anything.”  

“I decide what I owe.” He stepped closer. “One dinner. I'm not expecting anything from you. Just food and a conversation.”  

I should have said no, because everything about him screamed complicated.  

Instead I heard myself answer, “Fine. One dinner.”  

The date was simple. It was a quiet restaurant far from the clinic. 

He asked about my family, my plans for specialization, the reasons I stayed in a small clinic instead of chasing bigger hospitals. 

I asked about his world without pushing too hard. He answered some things and avoided others. We disagreed about almost everything and somehow kept talking until the place started closing.  

When he drove me home I felt the shift. The attraction was no longer something I could pretend wasn’t there.  

“This is a bad idea,” I said when the car stopped.  

“Probably,” he agreed. “I’m still going to ask you out again.”  

And I didn’t tell him no.  

Later that night I climbed the stairs to my small apartment and found a box sitting neatly outside the door. 

Inside was a simple silver bracelet, it looked expensive without being flashy, and there was a note written in clean handwriting.  

“Give me a chance to show you I’m serious. — D.”