The Alpha and the Medic (Working Title)

CHAPTER 1 - Jessa

Marty jinxed us.

Said it’d be a quiet shift.

Which, in EMS, is basically blasphemy with a side of bad Voodoo. You say the Q-word, and the EMS gods laugh and open the sewage pipes.

So yeah—when we got pounded with back-to-back calls for nearly eleven straight hours—no bathroom breaks, no food, barely time to clear one scene before the next tones dropped—Kev and I knew exactly who to blame.

Fucking Marty.

“I don’t care if the next call is the President having a STEMI on the White House lawn,” I mutter, dragging myself up into the passenger seat of the rig. “If I don’t get caffeine and a snack, I am no longer responsible for what I say to patients.”

Kev opens his mouth, probably to commiserate, but the MDT chimes before he gets a word out.

Tones drop. New address flashes across the screen.

We compete to see who can say the most swear words as we buckle our seatbelts.

I slap us En-route and stab the address into the GPS as Kev hits the lights and sirens. We peel out of the Laurel Gap Medical Center parking lot like we’re chasing a four-alarm blaze.

We’re not.

It’s an MVA—possible werewolf involvement.

Of course.

Because I’m Triple-Cert—official title: Integrated Response Specialist. Which means I hold a Paramedic License plus the three special certs: Human, Vampire, and Werewolf.

It sounds impressive on paper. Looks great on a résumé. And yeah, the pay’s a lot better.

But it also means I get sent to all the extra fun stuff. The calls with claws and fangs and animal wrangling.

And on shifts like this—when I’ve already dodged a bite from a blood-poisoned vamp and talked down a hammered wolf who didn’t realize the raspberry port trifle had actual alcohol in it?

I start to question my life choices.

Wolves. Absolute fucking lightweights.

“Uh—two-cars. Four possible patients. Three ambulatory and…uh…one shifted into wolf form—Fire’s got her on catchpoles, trying to coax her back to human. Driver says she ‘just started going crazy.’ Age… eleven?”

I frown, the words scraping something uneasy in the back of my mind.

Eleven’s not a baby. She’d have had her first shift years ago—five or six, when wolf pups become wolf cubs. By now, she should have solid control. Not perfect, but enough that she shouldn’t shift without choosing to.

Unless she’s injured or scared out of her damn mind.

“Going crazy”? That comment worries me.

That’s not just a reaction.

That’s a trigger.

I mentally scroll through the list of things that could push a young wolf that far—none of them good.

Something tightens in my chest as I shift in my seat, already mentally sorting meds and protocols. Because if she’s still stuck in wolf form, panicked and surrounded by sirens and strangers with poles?

This isn’t a behavioral issue. This is a scared kid. Doesn’t matter if they’re human, vampire, or werewolf—at the end of the day, they’re still just kids.

All the emotions of an adult, none of the experience to manage them.

We pull up on scene just as the sun touches the horizon. I’m already moving before the truck’s at a full stop. Jump bag over my shoulders, snapping on gloves, I start toward the commotion.

Three firefighters stand in a semicircle, each one gripping the end of a catchpole like they’re wrangling a bobcat. At the center: a small wolf—maybe eighty, ninety pounds—teeth bared, snarling, foam flecked at the corners of her mouth. Her coat’s patchy, too thin. Still has one floppy ear, so she’s young. Real young.

Two teenage boys crouch nearby, trying to talk her down. One’s doing his best Alpha voice—firm, commanding. The other’s trying bribery, promising candy.

It’s adorable. And completely useless.

“Both of you, shut it,” I snap, dropping the jump bag. My tone is enough—they stop mid-sentence. Well-trained little pack wolves—someone taught them to obey their Aunties.

I lift both hands, palms out, as I crouch low with one leg out. The position puts me at eye level with her but gives me balance and mobility in any direction.

Then I start to hum.

Not a tune, not exactly—just a low, steady vibration in the back of my throat. Something close to a melodic growl, deep and slow. Calming. Familiar. Sort of the werewolf equivalent to a lullaby.

Meant to speak to the part of her that’s still a scared kid under the fur.

For a moment, no response. She growls and jerks at the poles.

Then, she freezes. Tilts her head. That floppy ear twitches. She pants hard, snarls once—then sits. Haunches down, foam sliding off her muzzle.

I keep humming as I creep closer, step by careful step. Her breath hits my nose before I’m even close enough to touch.

Fruity. Sweet.

Fuck.

Fruit punch-sweet breath means high sugar. Way too high. She’s in DKA. Probably new onset, Type I Diabetes. She’s at the right age for that.

I don’t stop moving. Just flick my fingers in Kev’s direction, a little signal we worked out for calls like this. He’ll know what it means. He always does.

She whines softly as I get within reach. I stop humming only when my hand presses to her flank—hot, trembling muscle under sweat-damp fur.

“Hey,” I murmur, voice gentle now. “My name’s Jessa. I know you’re scared and hurting. But we’re gonna help fix that, okay?”

I pet her side, slow and steady. “Think you can change back for me, little one?”

She shudders. Whimpers. Her ears flick again—and then the shift starts.

Fur ripples and recedes, paws stretching into fingers, spine curving forward. I don’t look away. Just reach up without turning, catch the blanket Kev tosses me, and have it around her shoulders before the last of the transformation is done.

She’s eleven. Clothes don’t shift. No one needs to see more than they should.

The catchpoles come off easy. No red marks. Engine 16’s crew knows what they’re doing—they have several smaller packs in their first due. They handled her with skill and practiced calm.

I scoop her up, holding her close to my body, her fever-hot skin almost scorching through my polo. She’s flushed. Breathing fast and deep, chest and belly both rising with her body’s effort to burn off the excess CO2 in her blood.

“Kev,” I call over my shoulder. “I want glucose, four-lead, vitals, and prep an IV.”

“Already on it.”

We load her into the back of the rig, lay her out gently on the stretcher. She’s still scared, her eyes darting, as Kev hooks her to the LIFEPACK and I take her blood sugar.

Glucose comes back: 514.

I mutter a soft curse under my breath and squeeze her hand.

“Tilly, right?”

She gives a jerky little nod, eyes still glassy, cheeks blotchy with dried tears and wolf-sweat.

“I know this is scary,” I say gently, keeping my voice low, steady. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“I want my Aunties and Mason and my pack,” she whispers, voice hitching.

“I think that’s a good idea.” I glance toward the rig doors. “Those two boys outside—part of your pack?”

She nods again. “Tarka River.”

Heard of them. Good reputation. Never interacted. Their territory is about 2-3 hours northwest of the city. Laurel Gap Fire/Rescue service doesn’t reach that far.

“Then I bet someone’s already called your Alpha. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re halfway here already—or waiting at the hospital.”

She sniffles hard, still pulling ragged breaths. Her chest’s working overtime.

“Can they come with me?” she asks, eyes flicking toward the doors.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say honestly. “But legally, I need an adult. Neither of them counts.”

Before she can answer, there’s a frantic knock on the side door—then it yanks open.

Two teenage heads try to cram through the opening at once.

“She okay? What’s goin’ on—we called Aunt Bev—calm down and he’s on— stay with—” Both voices ramble, making it impossible to understand either of them.

Tilly twists toward them and holds out her arms. The younger one practically launches himself into the rig, folding himself over her in a half-hug, half-drape.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “it’s okay.”

“I’m—s-sorry,” she chokes, trying to talk through shallow, panicked breaths.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, brushing her hair off her face with a familiar gesture. Protective. Gentle.

“We need to move,” I cut in, voice firmer now. Kev’s already hopping out, boots hitting asphalt as he rounds to the front. “We’re heading to Blue Ridge Children’s Hospital. Do you know if—”

I don’t finish.

A voice calls out—sharp, commanding, adult.

“Boone. Mason.”

Both boys freeze like they’ve been hit with a tranquilizer dart.

Boone disappears. Mason stumbles out of the rig so fast he nearly faceplants down the stairs.

I hear a low, murmured exchange. Then: “Get in the truck.”

They obey.

Of course they do.

Because when the Alpha says move, you fucking move.

The rig shifts slightly as someone steps up into the back.

Great.

Just love dealing with fucking Alphas.

I straighten in the seat and put on the professional version of my you-don’t-impress-me face as he comes into view.

Then I blink as the man enters, making the rig tilt a little.

Fuck, he’s hot.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Built like someone who actually uses his muscles for more than Instagram. Short brown hair, a bit of scruff along a sharp jaw that probably looks carved under better lighting. Faded green Henley under a worn brown Carhartt jacket. Jeans that look broken in, not bought that way. Steel-toed brown boots with scuff marks near the toe.

Definitely an Alpha. The air shifts the moment he steps close—tightens around me, raises the hairs on my arms. I feel it then, that subtle instinct to yield, to drop my gaze. The way he moves, it’s like the world’s supposed to rearrange itself around him.

“Alpha,” Tilly breathes, voice thin and relieved.

He crouches without a word, settling beside the stretcher like he belongs there, and cradles her face gently in one big hand. His eyes shift—not subtle, either. That deep brown bleeds into glowing amber for a second, just enough to tingle the back of my neck.

Strong, then. To use his power with that kind of precision? Only a damn powerful Alpha can do that.

He doesn’t say anything to me at first—just looks. Waits.

I exhale through my nose, doing my best to swallow the irritation rising in my throat.

I hate dealing with Alphas.

Too used to getting their way. Stubborn. Overconfident. Half of them think they can out-argue basic biology or my years of medical experience.

“DKA,” I say flatly, cutting through the silence. “Her blood sugar’s about five times what it should be. We’re going to Blue Ridge Children’s.”

I jerk my chin toward the door. “You can follow us.”

Technically, we’re supposed to transport with a legal guardian onboard. And according to Federal law, an Alpha is a legal guardian—for the whole damn pack.

But I am not riding twenty minutes in the back of my rig with him breathing Alpha-vibes all over everything. My skin’s already crawling just being this close.

“You expect me to let one of my cubs ride to the hospital alone?” His voice is like good chocolate, warm and rumbling with just enough bite to say control.

“I expect you to recognize a medical emergency when it’s spelled out for you.” I give him my best don’t-fuck-with-me smile. “And she won’t be alone.” I tap my chest. “She’s with me.”

His eyes narrow just a fraction. I feel it like a weight, subtle but steady, pressing along my shoulders. Trying to gauge if he can push me into yielding.

He can’t.

I might’ve been born from a wolf and raised inside a pack, but I’m not one of his. Hell, I’m not really a wolf at all. Not in the way that counts.

So he can bite me.

The side door creaks open again. I barely resist the urge to groan.

“For fuck’s sake, what now?” I mutter under my breath.

His head cocks slightly.

Shit. He heard that.

Damn wolf ears.

A woman steps up. Older, mid-60s, I guess, but pretty in that no-nonsense, mountain-born way. Her expression is kind, but firm. Assessing. She takes one look at Tilly, then at the Alpha.

“I think she’ll be fine without you, Alpha,” she says calmly. “The boys are in the truck, and PD would like a word. If you’re amenable.”

His jaw works once. Then he turns back to Tilly and cups her cheek again.

“You’re safe,” he says. Not just words—there’s a subtle weight behind them. Power.

Her entire body relaxes, just a little. Still flushed. Still tachypneic. But the edge of fear vanishes like smoke in a breeze.

The woman—an Omega, I’m guessing—steps aside to let him down. Then glances back at me. Tilts her head as if assessing me. Nods in approval. Closes the door behind her.

Omegas. Every pack has them. Social workers with claws. Emotional translators. Psychiatric thermostats. Whatever you want to call them, they’re like empaths on steroids. Best therapists on the planet outside of Vampires.

I finally let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

“Kev,” I call, rolling my shoulders once. “We can go.”

“Copy that.”

The rig lurches away from the scene, then picks up speed as Kev kicks the lights and sirens back on.

I check Tilly’s IV line, reassess her vitals, radio in the report to Blue Ridge.

Then I pull out my tablet to start the narrative. The joys of field documentation.

Tilly’s calmer now. Still flushed and breathing too fast, but her eyes track mine, her voice steadier when I ask her questions.

We talk.

Turns out we both think raccoons would make great pets. She tells me all about the one her little brother tried to sneak into the cub dorm last spring, and I counter with a story about using the big ladder from a fire truck to get one out of the station’s attic.

By the time we pull into the ambulance bay, she’s smiling.

We roll her into the ER, get her handed off, give report—clean, smooth, no drama.

I’m just about to pat myself on the back for escaping without another Alpha encounter—

And then I see him.

Striding down the hallway like he owns the damn place, visitor sticker slapped crooked on his Carhartt.

Fuck me.