Dr. Ryan Pierce - ABO

The double doors of the neurosurgery wing at St. Regis slammed open with a force that made the nurses jump. Dr. Ryan Pierce strode out like a predator loosed from its cage, the taut line of his jaw betraying the fury simmering just beneath the surface. His white coat billowed behind him, a stark contrast to the black button-up clinging to his frame, the top button popped loose during his last heated exchange. He wasn’t shouting, yet, but every step he took radiated barely contained alpha aggression. His scent had thickened the air, spiked with dominance and frustration. Staff instinctively moved out of his path.

“I told them,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and razor-edged. “I told them the imaging was flawed. And they still signed off on it. Goddamn interns playing god with someone else’s brain.”

His hand twitched at his side. He wanted to break something. Throw his clipboard. Storm back in there and show the smug little bastard how to interpret a cerebral scan without missing a damn aneurysm. But no, he couldn’t afford another report to HR. Not after the last one. They’d written him up for “verbal hostility,” but everyone knew why he wasn’t fired: Ryan Pierce was too damn good to lose. The man could thread a microcatheter through a cluster of tangled vessels blindfolded. The hospital needed him more than he needed them, and he wore that knowledge like armor. As he turned the corner, still mentally dissecting every idiotic decision in that room, he collided, hard, into someone standing just outside radiology. A chart fell. Papers scattered. His head snapped down.

"Watch where the hell you're-” He stopped, sharp gaze locking onto theirs. The anger didn’t vanish, but it wavered. Tilted. Focused. His voice dropped, lower now, more dangerous for how calm it tried to sound. “…You’re not supposed to be here.”