I sit on the edge of the couch, my fingers clutching the thin fabric of the hospital gown, twisting it between my knuckles until the material creases and wrinkles beneath my touch. The room is too small for the weight pressing down on my chest, too quiet for the noise inside my head.
The doctor sits across from , a polished wooden desk between us, her eyes fixed on the file in her hands. Her brow is furrowed, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Her face is serious, curious, and sothing else I can’t na—sothing that makes my stomach tighten with dread.
Moon sits beside like a guardian, like a parent waiting to hear news that will change everything. His leg is close enough to brush mine, his shoulder a solid presence in my peripheral vision. His face isn’t nervous, but it isn’t calm either. It’s sothing in between—sothing held carefully in check, like a breath waiting to be released.
After all my resistance, after all my argunts, he still ca with . He still sits here, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt, close enough that his presence is the only thing keeping grounded—to this mont, this room... this body I’m slowly losing.
He glances at from the corner of his eye. I feel the weight of his gaze before I see it, and when I turn, his eyes catch mine for just a mont. Then his gaze drops to my hands—my fingers twisting and fumbling with the fabric of my trousers, betraying every nerve I’m trying to hide, every tremor I’m trying to still.
His hand reaches for mine.
His fingers slide between my own, lacing together, warm and steady. The touch is unexpected, startling, and my breath catches in my throat. I look down at our joined hands, at the way his skin presses against mine, at the contrast of his tan fingers wrapped around my pale ones. I try to pull away—a small, instinctive movent, a reflex born of pride and confusion and the lingering mory of his lips on mine.
He doesn’t let go.
His grip tightens, firm but not painful, and I feel a flush creep up my neck, heat pooling beneath my collar. I try again to free myself, my fingers squirming against his hold, a silent struggle hidden beneath the desk.
He holds fast. Patient. Immovable. His thumb begins to move against my skin, a slow, unconscious rhythm that should be irritating but isn’t.
The doctor sets the file down. The soft thud of paper against wood pulls my attention, and I look up, forgetting for a mont the quiet war beneath the table.
"Mr. Kael."
Her voice is steady, professional, but there’s sothing beneath it—a carefulness, a gentleness that makes my heart beat faster. She folds her hands on the desk, her posture open, inviting.
"Can you tell about your rut cycle?"
I blink.
Rut cycle...?
The words feel foreign, distant, like sothing I read about in a book rather than sothing that belongs to my body. I’ve been in this body for months now—longer, perhaps, though the days blur together in ways I don’t always track. And in all that ti, I haven’t thought about it.
Not once. Not a single mont has passed where I considered the rhythms of this flesh, the cycles that should mark my days, the biological clock ticking beneath my skin like a heartbeat I never learned to hear.
She looks at the file again, her finger tracing a line of text I can’t read from here. "Normally, an Alpha’s rut lasts three to four days. So longer, so shorter, but the cycle is regular. Predictable."
She looks up at . "Please tell about yours. When did your last rut occur?"
I look down at my lap, at my hands hidden beneath the desk, at the way Moon’s fingers are still laced with mine. I search my mory, turn it over, shake it for answers.
Nothing. There’s nothing there. Not a single day of fever, not a single night of restless heat. Just... nothing.
"Mr. Kael?" Her voice pulls back, gentle but insistent.
I look up. Moon squeezes my hand—a small pressure, a quiet anchor. I feel it travel up my arm, settle in my chest.
"Zyren." His voice is soft, barely a whisper, ant only for . Just my na. Just enough.
I et the doctor’s eyes. "I don’t rember."
Her face changes. A flicker of sothing—concern, perhaps, or confirmation. Her lips press together for just a mont before she speaks again.
"You really don’t rember?"
I nod, and I must look like a child sitting here, innocent and lost, because her expression softens, the professional mask slipping just enough to reveal sothing human beneath.
"Have you taken any suppressants? dications to delay or stop your cycle?"
"No." The word cos quickly, sharper than I intended. "I haven’t taken anything. I don’t—" I stop. Swallow.
"I don’t use suppressants."
She leans back slightly, her chair creaking beneath her. Her fingers tap once, twice, against the edge of the file, a small, absent rhythm that fills the silence.
"Mr. Kael." She pauses, and I feel the weight of what she’s about to say settle in the air between us.
"Your test results are not normal."
The words hit my chest like stones dropped into still water. Ripples spread outward, reaching my fingers, my toes, the tips of my hair.
"What do you an, not normal?" My voice sounds distant, as if it’s coming from sowhere else.
She chooses her words carefully, each one deliberate, asured, placed with the precision of soone who has delivered this news before.
"Your rut cycle has stopped. Completely. The hormone levels that typically trigger and sustain it are... absent." She pauses, letting the word settle.
"This is affecting your Alpha traits."
My hands grow cold. I can feel the blood draining from them, leaving them pale and empty beneath Moon’s grip.
"When an Alpha loses their rut cycle," she continues, "slowly, gradually, their body begins to change. They feel weaker. Their stamina decreases. They fall ill more often, and recovery takes longer." She folds her hands on the desk again, her posture softening.
"Their body stops producing the pheromones that define them. The scent that marks them as Alpha fades. Their instincts quiet."
Weak. Sick. The words echo in my mind, and I think of all the monts I’ve felt fragile, all the tis I couldn’t push back, couldn’t stand firm, couldn’t be the Alpha I was supposed to be. Against Moon, against anyone—I was always giving in. Always lting. Always weaker than I should be.
She removes her glasses, cleaning them with a small cloth, her movents unhurried, almost ditative. "And in ti," she says quietly, "if the condition progresses without intervention, they lose their pheromones completely. Their Alpha traits fade entirely. They beco..."
She pauses. Replaces her glasses. "A Beta."
I stare at her.
Turn into a Beta.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t.
I’m an Alpha. I’ve always been an Alpha.
That’s not sothing that can just... change.
And now they’re telling that identity is slipping away, grain by grain, like sand through fingers I can’t close fast enough.
Moon’s face changes. The careful composure cracks, and I see worry there—real, unguarded worry that strips away every mask he wears. His hand tightens around mine, and I feel the tremor in his fingers, the fear he’s trying to hide.
"What do you an he’s losing his pheromones?" His voice is sharper now, urgent. "Can’t you treat this? dication, therapy, sothing—"
Her gaze shifts to Moon, and her voice gentles, the way voices do when they carry news that can’t be undone.
"Mr. Arden, I’m afraid Mr. Kael’s condition is more advanced than we typically see. He lost his rut cycle a long ti ago—months, perhaps years. The decline has been gradual, but it’s been happening."
She looks at , and her eyes hold sothing that might be sympathy, or sorrow, or the quiet acceptance of a truth neither of us can change.
"We will do everything we can. There are treatnts we can try, therapies that may help. But I can’t guarantee that anything we do will bring it back."
I look down at our joined hands. My heart is racing, a wild, trapped thing in my chest, throwing itself against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
I’m not an Alpha anymore. Not really.
And my peach blossom scent— the one Deniz used to fall asleep to... is disappearing.
User Comments
0 comments from readers