Page 56 of Run Wild Omega
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“And you require a medical update?” His tone is clipped. Professional. “HIPAA regulations restrict me from discussing patient care with anyone other than immediate family or listed proxies.”
“We’re family,” Miles says. The lie comes out smooth, easy.
Dr. Evans raises an eyebrow. He looks down at his clipboard, flipping a page. “According to the National Registry of Bonds database, Tess Hartwell is listed as an unbonded Omega. No pack affiliation on file. No mates registered.”
The air in the room freezes.
He’s checking the registry. Of course he is. It’s standard protocol for an Omega in trauma—they need to know if there’s an Alpha around to assist with biological healing or hormonal regulation.
“That’s… a formality,” I say, stepping closer. “We bonded recently. Right before the storm.”
Dr. Evans looks at me over the rim of his glasses. He doesn’t buy it. I can see it in his eyes. He sees the dirt on our faces, the way we smell like smoke and pine and fear. He sees three Alphas claiming an Omega who, by all legal definitions, belongs to no one.
“And you haven’t registered with the state?” he asks, his voice skeptical. “The National Registry is mandatory for inheritance rights and custody. A new bond is usually the first thing filed.”
“We’ve been busy,” Dylan says, his voice low, a hint of a growl underneath it. “Saving lives. You know how it is.”
Dr. Evans studies us. He looks at the blood on my sleeve—Tess’s blood. He looks at Dylan’s bruised knuckles. He looks at Miles, who is trembling slightly from adrenaline crash or shock.
He sighs. He’s a doctor in a trauma center during a blizzard. He doesn’t have time for bureaucracy or calling the cops on three grieving men. He sees the desperation in us. He sees the love.
“Fine,” he says, closing the folder. “If you say you’re the pack, I’ll treat you as the pack. But you should get that paperwork filed. If complications arise and you aren’t listed, the hospital could block access.”
“Understood,” I say.
He nods, satisfied. “She’s stable.”
The word hits me square in the chest. Stable.
“The fracture was… significant,” he continues, pulling up a scan on his tablet and turning it toward us. I see the white bone of the tibia, snapped in two jagged pieces. It makes my stomach turn. “Comminuted fracture of the tibia. It required open reduction and internal fixation. I placed a rod and several screws to stabilize the bone.”
My grip on the back of the chair tightens.
“Now, the good news,” Dr. Evans says, and I actually look at him. “The vascular bundle—the main artery supplying blood to the lower leg—was completely intact. The nerve roots were compressed but not severed.”
He taps the screen. “The surgery went perfectly. The bone is set. The swelling is the main concern right now, but with the rod in place, she’s already mechanically stable. As long as the infection stays away and the swelling goes down, she should make a full recovery.”
“How long?” Miles asks, his voice hoarse. “Until she walks?”
“She’ll be on crutches for six to eight weeks. No weight bearing on that leg at all. Physical therapy will start immediately to maintain muscle tone. But she’s young, she’s healthy, and she’s stubborn. I expect her to be back to full activity within the year.”
“A year,” Dylan breathes.
“She’ll hike again,” Dr. Evans says firmly. “She’ll run. She might have some stiffness in the cold, but she won’t be disabled.”
“Thank you,” I say, my throat tight. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“She’s in recovery now. The sedation will wear off in an hour or two. You can see her then, one at a time. She needs rest, not an interrogation.” He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “You three look like you need a pick-me-up. There’s a coffee machine down the hall. Use it.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
He leaves, and the door clicks shut.
The silence returns, but it’s different now. It’s not the suffocating silence of the unknown. It’s the silence of reprieve.
“She’s going to walk,” Dylan whispers. He sinks back into his chair, covering his face with his hands. “She’s going to be okay.”
