Page 62 of Knot My Band: Part One
April 27th
I’m getting dressed and ready to go to my doctor’s appointment. I need to get these suppressants because I cannot have my heat during the tour. It would devastate my fans if we canceled shows.
Dax comes on the tour bus to find me walking out of my nest.
“Oli,” Dax’s voice is a commanding rumble that pricks at my skin in a way that has nothing to do with orders or dominance. “I’m taking you to your appointment.”
I blink up at him. Dax, standing there, all brooding intensity and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, seems like the last person who’d volunteer for this.
I tilt my head, letting my rose gold waves fall in a curtain around my face. “You?” The word is laced with surprise.
“Me.” He confirms, leaning against the doorframe. His arms are crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath his tight black T-shirt. The sight sends a rippleof something warm through me. “The other three have an interview, but I’m shit at press, so you’re stuck with me.”
There’s a hint of something softer in his hazel eyes. It’s a flicker, gone as quickly as it comes.
“Lead the way, then,” I quip, tossing him a playful wink as I grab my bag. I follow him out of the bus, our steps syncing up easily.
As we walk side by side, I sneak glances at his profile.
“Thanks, Dax,” I murmur, sincerity weaving through my words. “For doing this.”
He doesn’t look at me, but his response is quick, almost automatic. “Yeah, well, don’t mention it.”
The engine hums a low, soothing melody as Dax navigates the streets with ease.
I bask in the comfortable silence, letting the soft leather of the passenger seat cradle me.
“You could have had the doctor come to you,” he points out.
I shrug. “I don’t like that privileged stuff.”
He stays silent.
“Nice place,” I comment as we pull into the parking lot of a modern building exuding an air of understated elegance. Its facade has clean lines and a welcoming glow from the windows.
Dax grunts in response, shutting off the ignition before turning to face me with those piercing hazel eyes. “Come on,” he says, and there’s a gentleness beneath the gruffness that I’m starting to recognize as him trying.
We stride through the front doors together, my boots clicking rhythmically against the polished floor. The receptionist greets us with a warm smile, her eyes flicking between us with a hint of knowing. “Welcome. You can go straight through to Dr. Harris’ office. He’s ready for you.”
“Thank you,” I beam back, the nerves in my stomach doing a little dance. Dax leads the way down the corridor, his broad shoulders set in a way that tells me he’s on high alert.
The door swings open without a knock, revealing a man who must be Dr. Harris. He has a kind face framed by glasses that slip slightly down his nose as he looks up from his papers. “Olive Hart? Nice to meet you.”
“Dr. Harris,” I greet, my voice steady despite the whirlwind inside me. I perch on the edge of the plush chair while Dax takes up residence beside me, his posture rigid.
“Is this your alpha? Would you like him here for this consultation?” Dr. Harris asks.
Dax stiffens at my side.
I try not to react. Dax never asked; he just followed me here. He’s not my alpha, so I don’t know how to respond, but this affects him too.
“He can stay,” I say simply.
“We’re here to talk about suppressants,” Dax cuts to the chase, his fingers drumming a silent beat on his thigh.
“Of course,” the doctor nods, folding his hands on the desk. “Why are you looking to go on suppressants?”
“I’ve been having heat spikes, but my heat isn’t due for another month,” I explain.
