After My Alpha Killed Our Baby, I Chose a Dying Man
Chapter 3
The wind in Berlin had a bite to it that Manhattan never did, but I welcomed the cold. It felt clean. It felt like it was stripping away the layers of the person I used to be. It had been three months since I left the Silver Pack, three months since I severed the bond that tethered me to Jaxon. The phantom pain in my chest had dulled to a manageable ache, replaced by the steady, rhythmic beep of monitors in the Berlin Heart Research Center.
“Dr. Young,” Dr. Weber called out, his German accent thick and warm. “I have a patient I want you to take lead on. He is… difficult, but not in the way you might think.”
I smoothed the front of my white coat—a symbol of my own achievements, not a costume Jaxon had picked out. “What’s the case?”
“Trace Jensen. Twenty-six. Dilated cardiomyopathy. He’s on the transplant list, but his antibodies are high. He is resigned to the inevitable.”
I walked into Room 402 expecting a frail, bitter man. Instead, I found someone sitting by the window, bathed in the gray winter light, sketching in a leather-bound notebook. Trace Jensen was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at—sharp cheekbones, messy blonde hair, and a pallor that spoke of his failing heart.
He looked up as I entered, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. There was no Alpha dominance in his gaze, no assessment of my breeding potential. Just curiosity.
“Another one?” he asked, his voice raspy but playful. “Dr. Weber sends in a new doctor every week to tell me to have hope. You’re too pretty to be the bearer of bad news.”
“I’m not here to sell you hope, Mr. Jensen,” I said, keeping my voice professional as I checked the monitors. “I’m here to monitor your output. I’m Dr. Young.”
“Dr. Young,” he tested the name. “You look like you’ve seen more ghosts than I have, and I’m the one with one foot in the grave.”
His observation startled me. For a second, my hand went to my chest, to Hadassah’s heart. “We focus on the living here, Trace.”
Over the next few weeks, Trace became the brightest part of my day. He didn’t treat me like a wolf, or an Omega, or a vessel. He treated me like a woman.
One afternoon, during a routine check of his blood pressure, I noticed his pen moving furiously across the page. He was staring at me, then back at the paper.
“What are you drawing?” I asked, wrapping the cuff around his arm.
He hesitated, then flipped the notebook around. The sketch was charcoal, stark and shadowed. It was me, but not the me I saw in the mirror. The woman in the drawing had a set jaw and eyes that burned with defiance. She looked like a survivor.
“Is that how you see me?” I whispered.
“That’s who you are,” Trace said softly. He closed the book. “You have a sadness, Talia. It’s deep. But underneath it, there’s this… ferocity. I envy it.”
I looked at him, really looked at him. “Why?”
“Because I’m terrified,” he admitted, the playful mask slipping. “I’ve spent my whole life waiting to die. I never learned how to fight for anything because I didn’t think I’d be around to keep it. But you… you look like you’ve fought a war and won.”
“I didn’t win,” I said, my voice trembling. “I just ran away. I was afraid of living as a ghost in someone else’s life.”
“Then don’t be a ghost,” he said, reaching out to cover my hand with his. His skin was cool, but his touch sent a jolt of warmth through me that had nothing to do with a mate bond. “Come out with me. Tonight.”
“Trace, you’re a patient. It’s against protocol.”
“I’m dying, Talia. Protocol is for people with time. Please. The Christmas market is open at Gendarmenmarkt. I want to see the lights one last time. I don’t want to see them alone.”
How could I say no to that?
The market was a sensory explosion. The scent of roasted almonds and Glühwein filled the crisp night air. Snow began to fall in large, lazy flakes, dusting the tops of the wooden stalls. Trace walked beside me, bundled in a thick wool coat, his breathing slightly labored but his smile genuine.
We stopped at a stall selling handmade scarves. I reached for a white one, out of habit. Jaxon always insisted on white.
“No,” Trace said, gently taking it from my hand. He reached for a deep, emerald green one. He wrapped it around my neck, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my throat. I didn't flinch. “This one. It brings out the gold in your eyes. It makes you look alive.”
He didn’t compare me to anyone. He didn’t mention a sister he never knew. He just saw me.
We bought two mugs of steaming spiced wine and stood near a massive Christmas tree, watching children ice skate nearby. The cold bit at my cheeks, but I felt warmer than I had in years.
“Thank you,” Trace said, turning to face me. The lights from the tree reflected in his eyes.
“For the wine?”
“For being real,” he said. “Everyone treats me like glass. You treat me like a man.”
He stepped closer. The space between us charged with an electricity that felt different from the Alpha command I was used to. It wasn’t demanding. It was asking.
“I know I don’t have much to offer,” he murmured, his breath forming a cloud between us. “My heart is failing, Talia. It’s a broken engine.”
“It beats,” I whispered, placing my hand over his chest, feeling the erratic but stubborn rhythm beneath his coat. “That’s enough.”
Trace leaned down, giving me every chance to pull away. I didn’t. When his lips brushed mine, it wasn’t a claim. It was a gift. It was soft, tasting of cinnamon and wine, and for the first time, the heart pounding in my chest didn’t feel like Hadassah’s. It felt entirely, wonderfully mine.
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