Rejected by the Alpha, Claimed by his Brother

Pain still throbbed in my throat. It was a slow burning ache that refused to subside. Blood slicked my hands, my clothes, and the floor.

My body quivered from the aftershock, muscles still spasming from the near-decapitation. And through it all, Rosario, saintly, panicked, and absolutely infuriating... was hovering.

"Dios mío, niño, what did I do?" she fretted, her hands fluttering near my wound but not quite touching. "How do I start? For the love of the Moon, this shouldn’t have happened here! Ay, Virgen Santísima, your poor mother would faint if she saw you like this!"

Damn right, she would. That’s why she wouldn’t.

I groaned, barely suppressing an eye-roll. "Not helping, Rosario."

"Not helping? Not helping?!" Her voice went shrill. "I find you bleeding out like a slaughtered pig and you say I’m not helping?! Should I just leave you here to soak in your own blood, then?"

That sounded ideal, honestly.

But before I could say anything, she was already storming off, muttering under her breath. "I need towels—no, cloth, thick ones, Dios mío, you’re too big for just a towel... bandages, warm water, alcohol... wait, no alcohol! You’ll scream like a newborn." She huffed, glancing at me. "Or maybe you deserve it. Ay, Dios, Dios, Dios..."

I grunted and forced myself to sit up straighter, which was a terrible idea. The pain surged like a wildfire licking at my bones, and I had to grit my teeth to keep from groaning again.

Rosario returned in record time, armed with an obnoxiously large bundle of cloth, a basin of steaming water, and an expression that promised suffering. She knelt beside me and began to efficiently get to work.

"You," she declared, yanking a rag free and dipping it into the water, "are going to be the death of me."