Mated To The Cursed Alpha

(Elena's POV)

The Crescent Bay Veterinary Clinic is a cocoon of sterile calm at this hour. The fluorescent lights hum softly, a sound that has become my lifeline after a very long day at work.

Hunched over a chart at the front desk, pen in hand, I scribble notes about a cat named Muffin who's finally eating again after a week of fighting an infection.

My fingers tremble slightly from exhaustion. Years of wielding scalpels and syringes have left my hands calloused, but tonight, the ache goes deeper. Still, I feel that quiet glow of satisfaction. Muffin's going to make it. That's what keeps me here, day after day, night after night, stitching together small miracles in a world that feels more broken than whole.

At twenty-nine, sleep rarely comes easily. Exhaustion has settled into my bones, but something else has settled there too. I've learned how to find meaning in the smallest victories, even if it means trading my sanity for them.

My scrubs are wrinkled. A smudge of cat fur clings to my sleeve. Dark hair falls from a messy bun.

I should care, but I don't. This place, with its antiseptic tang and steady rhythm of monitors, is the only space where I feel like I belong.

Out there, beyond these walls, life is messier. Full of questions I can't answer.

Questions like why my parents' car fell off a cliff seventeen years ago. Why the police report came back labeled "inconclusive." Why the hollow ache in my chest never really faded.

The thought gets shoved away as I focus on Muffin's chart. Her fever's down. Her appetite's back. One last note gets scrawled in my rough, fatigue-worn handwriting. The wall clock reads 10:47 p.m.

Too late to call Luna. My assistant clocked out about two hours ago.

She's probably curled up on her couch, scrolling dating apps, sipping something fruity, living the life she's always urging me to try.

Sometimes I envy her. Her easy laugh. Her ability to shake off the weight of the day.

Me? The weight gets carried. It's never easy for me to put it down. I don't even try anymore.

The loneliness doesn't disturb me anymore. It just sits there, quiet and constant. In the empty apartment waiting for me. In the shadows of the memories I can't shake.

Closing the chart, I head toward the recovery room. My sneakers squeak against the linoleum. Kennels line the wall, their tiny occupants sleeping under the soft glow of monitors.

Muffin is curled up in a ball, her tabby fur rising and falling with each breath.

A smile crosses my face as I adjust her blanket, careful not to disturb the IV drip. The steady beep of the monitor calms me. It's proof that I can control something, even if it's just a cat's vitals. Out in Crescent Bay's foggy streets, control feels like something that simply doesn't exist.

The air tonight feels heavier. Like the fog outside is pressing in through the