Read Lycan Alpha Claim 3 for Free Online Page B

street and race to it. My escape, my despair, is a thundering initiative I can't deny.
    I miss the hit as if it happens to someone else. Only the noise permeates my senses as light flashes in my peripheral vision, mirrors against sunlight. I tumble in a slow spin of limbs. My body heaves and rolls, hitting the asphalt with a breath-stealing slap.
    I lie against the rough black road. My lungs beg for air, burning for oxygen, and finally I take a sucking inhale that tears through my lungs.
    The wet road feels cool against my face as I watch someone come into my line of sight. My body burns and my head aches. My arm is a slim exclamation point from my body, my fingers twitching. I can't make them stop. I can't make anything stop.
    Powerless.
    The doctor is too late with his condemning words. I've already died. I know this because the man who approaches is an angel. A helmet comes off hair so deep auburn it's a low-burning lick of flame. He swims toward me like a mirage, walking in a surreal slow motion. I blink, and my vision blurs. I try to raise my arm to wipe my eyes and whimper when it disobeys my command.
    My angel crouches down, his eyes a deep brown, belying the dark bronze of his hair. “Shhh... I got you.” His voice is a deep melody.
    I sigh. Safe.
    I try to focus on him but the helmet he parks next to his boots becomes three as my vision triples.
    There's a scuffle and I try to move to see what all the commotion's about. The angel wraps his warm large hand around my smaller one and  smiles. “It's going to be okay.”
    That's when I know I'm not in heaven.
    That's what people say when nothing is okay.

~ 1 ~
    One month prior
     
    I flex my hand, grab my isometric handgrip, and do my hundred reps. So fun—a little like flossing my teeth. I put on the kettle with my good hand and turn the burner on high.
    Flex, squeeze, release, flex again.
    I get to a hundred and switch hands. As I go through my daily ritual, I flip open my Mac and browse my emails.
    Faren, can you cover my shift? Faren, can you come in a half hour early? Faren, can you bring the main dish for the office pot luck?
    Delete, delete, delete.
    I'll say yes because it's hard for me to say no. Tough lessons in life have taught me that.
    I put my handgrip on the corner of the end table, glancing at my left pinky and frowning. It's almost straight. Almost. No one can tell unless they're looking for it. No one ever looks that hard. Humanity glosses over shit.
    I leave my laptop open and walk back to the stove. Depression-era jadeite salt and pepper shakers stand dead in the middle of a 1950s pink stove. The combo reminds me of an Easter egg. The kettle insists it's ready, bleating like a sheep. I lift it carefully, deliberately, using all the muscles of my hands as I've been taught.
    As I teach others to do.
    I pour the hot water over the tea bag and sigh, forcing my bad hand to thread through the loop of the tea cup handle. My dexterity is returning. I've pushed myself so hard that my hand rebels, willfully abandoning its hold on the cup.
    The porcelain shatters, and shards fly on the wood floor of my tiny apartment above the main street where I live in deep anonymity. The pieces splinter in all directions, and I sigh. I want to chop off my hand.
    I want to cradle it against my chest because it still works. Just not perfectly.
    Like my life.
     
    *
     
    “Another headache?” Sue asks.
    I nod, my hands falling away from my temples as I reach for my patient folder. I grip it with both hands and scan who's up first.
    Bryce Collins. Pain. In. My. Ass.
    I grin. I love the tough nuts to crack. They make it all worth it. I stride to my torture chamber, pushing the door open with my hip and search through the sea of work out equipment and hand held physical therapy implements to meet the sullen gaze of a seventeen-year old athletic prodigy.
    A prodigy with a chip on his shoulder so wide I could drive a truck through it. Well I have my own dings and dents. We can