Page 11 of Down Knot Out (Pack Alphas of Misty Pines #3)

Chapter Eight

Dominic

T he lights of the doctor’s office needle into my skull, but I refuse to put my sunglasses back on while we’re still inside the building.

The nurse had led me here from the x-ray room, and I now wait for the doctor’s arrival, my back protesting yet another uncomfortable chair.

The high-end hospital we usually go to had a much nicer facility, but I’d taken what I could get to see my doctor faster.

The clinic where he meets patients on Tuesdays is much lower on the economic level.

When the door opens and Chloe’s sweet lilies-and-lilacs scent sweeps into the room, my muscles relax, soothed by her presence.

She slips into the chair beside me, tucking strands of pink hair behind her ear. “How was the x-ray?”

“Fine.” I keep my voice down, the sound of my own words reverberating inside my skull. “Kept my eyes shut the entire time.”

Her fingers twist in her lap, and her leg bounces with a nervous jitter. “That’s good.”

A thread of tension in her tone sets off alarm bells, but before I can probe further, the door swings open again.

Dr. Matthews strides in, white coat flapping around his knees. The bright lights reflect off his baldpate, with hair the color of wet sand clinging to the sides of his head, and wire-framed glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

“Mr. Sterling, good news.” He settles into his chair, the wheels squeaking on the linoleum as he pulls his wheeled computer closer. “Your x-rays show no fractures or abnormalities in the skull or cervical spine.”

The tension in my shoulders eases. “So there’s nothing wrong with my brain?”

“Nothing structural, no.” He pulls up images on his computer screen, turning it for us to see. “These light areas here would indicate bleeding or swelling if present, but everything appears normal. ”

The black-and-white image of my skull stares back at me. I’m not sure what I expected. Perhaps a visible crack or a glowing spot marking the source of the pain that’s been my constant companion. Instead, there’s just… me. Bones and shadows.

“Then why does it still feel like someone’s driving a railroad spike through my temple whenever the lights are too bright? It’s been four weeks.”

Chloe shifts in her seat beside me, her knee bumping mine, and the contact sends a spark up my leg that distracts me from the pain.

“What you’re experiencing is called Post-Concussion Syndrome, or PCS.” The doctor leans forward, elbows on his desk. “It’s not uncommon after a head injury like yours, even when there’s no visible damage on imaging tests.”

“How long will it last?” Chloe asks, her voice tight with concern.

Dr. Matthews presses his lips together. “It varies. Some patients recover in a few weeks, others experience symptoms for months.”

The word ‘months’ hits me like a physical blow. I think of the work piling up in my office and the investors I’ve already had to reschedule meetings with.

“PCS symptoms can include headaches, dizziness, fatigue, irritability, and sensitivity to light and noise, all of which match what you’ve been reporting.

” Dr. Matthews peers down at the notes on his computer, tipping his head back to read through his lenses rather than pushing his glasses up.

“You may also experience difficulty concentrating, memory problems, sleep disturbances, and in some cases, anxiety or depression.”

“Great,” I mutter, my fingers curling into frustrated fists on my thighs.

Chloe’s knee rubs mine as she shifts, and I catch a whiff of her distress, a singed note cutting through her floral scent.

“The good news,” Dr. Matthews continues, “is that with proper management, most people make a full recovery. The brain needs time to heal, just like any other injured part of the body.”

Chloe leans forward, intent on the doctor’s face. “What can he do to help it along?”

“There are a few things.” He smiles at her before turning back to me. “Rest is crucial. Cognitive rest as well as physical. That means limiting screen time, avoiding challenging mental tasks, and giving yourself permission to take breaks. ”

I nod, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through my temples.

“I’m prescribing medication for the headaches, which should help with the light sensitivity as well.” He taps away on his computer, the clatter of keys sharp to my sensitive ears. “You should also avoid alcohol, caffeine, and other stimulants.”

“No coffee?” I groan.

“Try decaf.” The whir of the printer sounds, and he spins in his chair to grab the papers. “I also recommend gentle exercise as tolerated. Walking is good, but nothing that raises your heart rate too much or risks another head injury.”

I take the paperwork, still warm from the printer, and fold it before slipping it into my pocket, next to the hard lump that’s been burning a hole there all morning.

“When can I return to work?”

“Start with half days, if possible.” Dr. Matthews’s face is sympathetic but firm. “No heavy lifting, no operating machinery or power tools. No climbing ladders or scaffolding.”

The frustration builds. “So I can’t even help with painting?”

“Not for a few weeks.” He taps his fingers on the desk. “Listen to your body. If symptoms worsen with activity, that’s your brain telling you to back off.”

I feel Chloe gauging my reaction, so I force my expression to remain neutral.

“What about driving?” she asks.

“Short distances should be fine, as long as the headaches aren’t severe and you’re not experiencing any dizziness or visual disturbances.” His focus shifts between us. “Do you have someone who can drive you when needed?”

“Yes,” Chloe answers before I can speak. “He has… we have people who can help.”

At the slight stumble in her words, warmth unfurls inside me despite the pain. The acknowledgment of our courtship, tentative as it is, signifies progress.

Dr. Matthews prints out several more sheets and hands them to me. They display diagrams of brains and bullet-pointed lists of symptoms. “These explain PCS in more detail. There’s also information about vestibular therapy, which might help if the dizziness persists.”

The papers slide against each other as I add them to my pocket. “Anything else I should know?”

“Be patient with yourself.” His expression holds kindness. “The brain is complex. Healing isn’t always linear. You might have good days and bad days.”

“I’ll make sure he follows your instructions,” Chloe says, and though her tone is light, it holds a steely determination I haven’t heard from her in almost a decade. She almost sounds like the confident person she was in high school before everything went to shit.

The doctor stands, signaling the end of our appointment. “I want to reevaluate you in two weeks. Sooner if your symptoms worsen or if you develop any new ones. The nurse will schedule you on your way out.”

We shake hands, his grip firm but careful, as if he can sense the way my entire body has become a conductor for pain.

The hallway outside is too bright and too loud. Nurses pushing carts with squeaky wheels and phones ringing at the distant nurses’ station drill into my skull. Unable to bear it anymore, I slide my sunglasses back on, dimming the world to a tolerable level.

We stop at reception to schedule my next appointment before heading down to the pharmacy on the ground floor. There, we sit in another uncomfortable waiting room while my prescription is filled before we finally head for the elevator to the garage.

“This is going to be a long recovery,” I grumble. “I can’t believe I have to give up my coffee and limit my screen use.”

Chloe walks beside me, close enough that the heat from her body reaches me without touching. “The doctor didn’t say you couldn’t still hunch over your drawing table.”

“That’s true.” We stop in front of the lift, and I press the down arrow. “Not as bad as it could have been.”

Her fingers brush my arm. “I’m glad your skull isn’t cracked open.”

“Me, too.” The elevator dings, the sound like a tuning fork struck inside my head.

“PCS is manageable.”

Surprise fills me. “You’ve heard of it before?”

“I did some research after your symptoms started.” The doors slide open, and we step into the small space with an elderly couple. Chloe presses the button for the parking level. “I was worried.”

The knowledge that she cared enough to research my condition envelops me like a warm blanket .

The elevator descends, my stomach lurching up.

“Are you hungry?” I ask as we exit into the cavernous parking garage, our footsteps echoing on concrete. “We could grab lunch somewhere off the island before heading back.”

Her steps falter. “Off the island?”

“There’s a seafood place by the harbor that’s good.” I try to keep my tone casual, though my heart thumps a faster rhythm. “Or a new bistro downtown, if you prefer.”

A flicker of something—interest? temptation?—crosses her face before she shakes her head. “We should get back. The water taxi schedule?—”

“Kyle can wait.” I step closer, drawn by the uncertainty in her expression. It’s not outright rejection, which gives me hope. “It would just be lunch.”

Just lunch, but also not just lunch. A chance to be alone with her, away from my watchful bondmates. A chance to see if the cautious openness she’s been showing might blossom into more.

“I… I think I’d rather go home.” Her focus drops to the oil-stained concrete beneath her shoes. “I’m tired.”

The sting of rejection cuts through the dull throb of my headache. My hand drifts to my pocket, fingering the hard shape there, the weight of it heavier, more burdensome. Maybe now isn’t a good time.

“Of course.” I step back, creating distance between us. “Holden will have lunch ready when we return. His cooking beats any restaurant.”

Regret flashes across her face, and her lips part to give an excuse, so I pull out my phone to stop her. “I’ll update Kyle about our timeline.”