Villainess Marked For Her Alpha Chapter 117: A New Doctor

My face was still burning from what Ivory did to yesterday. I literally... ahhh... because of all her teasing—her hands everywhere, unravelling until I cumd in that tub. All three alphas are mad creatures who want to... argh, rut senseless!

They’re kissing , claiming my other parts, doing all kinds of explicit things with , taking blatant advantage of my weakened state. I am not that oblivious, okay? I know what’s happening with !

I was sitting in the doctor’s chamber, fidgeting in my wheelchair with my useless legs draped limp over the footrests, when a beautiful, dusky woman strode in. She towered over six feet, her curled cyan plait swaying like a vivid cascade down her back, light yellow eyes sharp and piercing under the fluorescent lights.

Her doctor’s coat hung crisp over fitted scrubs that hugged her athletic fra, feet shod in sensible white clogs, a stethoscope draped around her neck like a badge of authority.

"Who are you?" I blurted, erald eyes widening as I straightened my torso, raven waves tumbling loose over my shoulders.

"Your previous doctor just retired today," she replied smoothly, her voice a low, lodic timbre that carried effortless command. "So, I’ll be handling you from now on."

"What? He left?!" I gaped, disbelief sharpening my tone, hands twisting in my lap.

"Yes, he did." She flipped open my chart with practiced ease, scanning it briefly before eting my gaze. "I’ve read your prescriptions and the diagnostic reports. The Karimoike suppressants hit you hard—toxins mimicking oga shutdown. So, how’s the physio going?"

"No progress," I muttered, slumping a fraction, cheeks still faintly flushed from yesterday’s mories. My muscles ached dully, a constant reminder of my fragility.

"It will take ti. I’m surprised you’re still alive." Her yellow eyes narrowed thoughtfully, plait shifting as she tilted her head. "The previous doctor noted soone deliberately gave you those suppressants and drugs—forced overload to mimic a castrated alpha’s state."

"It’s true," I whispered, voice cracking raw, old humiliation twisting my gut.

She stepped closer, the faint scent of antiseptic and sothing wild—like desert sage—wafting subtle. "Let’s check your baselines. Unbutton your shirt for ."

I hesitated, fingers fumbling the top two buttons, exposing the pale curve of my collarbone and the swell of my breasts beneath a thin camisole. She draped the stethoscope’s cold diaphragm over my chest, right above my heart, her touch clinical yet warm through the tal.

"Take a deep breath," she instructed, light yellow eyes locking mine unblinking.

I inhaled slow and shaky, ribs expanding under her steady gaze.

"Release it."

I exhaled, the air whispering out as her free hand steadied the scope, listening intently.

"Again—deeper this ti."

We repeated it a few more rounds, her plait brushing her shoulder with each subtle lean, until she nodded satisfied and stepped back. She sat on her swivel chair, gesturing forward with a gloved finger. "Open your eyes wide."

I complied, staring as she clicked on a penlight torch, shining it first into one pupil, then the other—checking dilation with quick flicks that made blink reflexively.

"Good. Now, say ’ahh’—stick out your tongue."

I parted my full lips, tongue extending flat as the light swept my throat, her yellow gaze probing every inch for inflammation or asymtry. "No swelling, decent color. Now I’ll spread your legs and check your private parts’ condition."

"What?!" I flushed crimson, erald eyes widening in shock as my limp legs splayed uselessly apart from the wheelchair, heart hamring against my ribs—post-physio weakness leaving unable to clamp my thighs together even if I tried.

"I have to know if you’re feeling sothing there or not," she explained calmly, her cyan plait swaying as she adjusted her gloves with a snap, voice steady and professional. "Your case involves suppressed oga responses—fertility and nerve function need verifying."

"It’s our first eting!" I yelped, voice pitching high, cheeks burning hotter than a fever as I gripped the wheelchair’s arms, knuckles blanching, my milky white thighs trembling inertly.

"I’m not going to date you. I’m a doctor, and it’s my work." Her light-yellow eyes t mine unblinking, towering fra exuding quiet authority. "Your case is peculiar—you’ve signed the consent form. So, please oblige."

Before I could sputter more protests, she lifted effortlessly from the wheelchair onto the examining bed, her strong hands gentle but firm under my arms, positioning flat on my back with clinical efficiency.

The paper crinkled beneath , cool air kissing my exposed skin as she tugged the stirrups into place, my limp legs flopping heavy into them without resistance.

"I’m going to insert a finger in your vagina and ass stepwise, okay?" she murmured, pulling on fresh gloves, her tone matter-of-fact like discussing weather.

"I-I feel there, okay?" I stamred, plush thighs quivering helplessly as humiliation coiled tight in my belly, raven waves spilling wild across the pillow.

"So patients lie about things, and I can’t have it." She arched a brow, cyan curls catching the light. "Look, the previous doctor had gotten old. He didn’t check anything related to your fertility. You plan to have kids, right?"

I nodded hesitantly, cheeks still afla. "Yes." Of course, I want kids—just because I’m focused on my career doesn’t an I don’t crave a family soday, kids of my own.

"So, oblige." With no further warning, she hooked her fingers into my red cotton panties, sliding them down my limp, milky white thighs in one smooth motion, exposing my most intimate folds to the sterile air.

Slick heat blood unbidden, oga instincts betraying as she parted my unresponsive legs wider, knees bent in the stirrups.

One gloved finger pressed first against my entrance—cool latex teasing my slick folds before plunging slow and deliberate inside, curling to test my inner walls. I gasped sharp, back arching off the table, breasts heaving under my clothes despite my legs’ dead weight.

"Responsive," she noted clinically, withdrawing to flip gently onto my stomach—ass raised vulnerable as she spread my cheeks and inserted into my tight anus next, probing deep with unerring precision.

Heat stabbed through , a whimper escaping despite my bitten lip.

"No problems there either," she confird, pulling free and snapping off her gloves. "Okay, we’ll schedule ovarian reserve testing and a transvaginal ultrasound next. Responsive nerves and healthy tissues—good signs despite the Karimoike damage."

She helped to get back into my wheelchair, handing my panties with a nod as I scrambled to yank them back on, fingers fumbling over shaky arms while my legs dangled limp. Seeing that, she helped to put them back on.

"Thank you."

"It’s okay."

"Why didn’t the previous doctor make do any of this?" I gave her a suspicious look.

"He was a good doctor, but he’d gotten old—missed the fertility basics." She scribbled notes, yellow eyes flicking up. "We’ll do your CBC too. I want to check haemoglobin levels, or we may need to transfuse blood."

"When should I co here again?" I asked, smoothing my skirt with trembling hands, still dazed from the intrusion, my limp legs dangling uselessly over the wheelchair’s footrests as a nurse hovered nearby, ready to wheel out.

My heart raced, cheeks still flushed from the clinical violation, raven waves dishevelled and sticking to my damp nape.

"Every day for the next three months," she replied firmly, stowing her tools with precise clicks into a tal drawer—stethoscope coiled neatly, penlight tucked away—her curled cyan plait catching the harsh fluorescent light like a neon whip.

"Every day?" I echoed, gaping in disbelief as I fumbled the last button on my blouse, fingers clumsy and cold, the vulnerability of the exam lingering like a searing brand across my exposed skin, making my breasts feel heavy and self-conscious.

"Yes. Now go for your dialysis—hydration first to flush those toxins, then we’ll discuss pheromone therapy in detail." Her yellow eyes sharpened to piercing slits, voice brooking no argunt as she crossed her athletic arms over her scrubs. "Next ti, bring those alphas too... all of them. I need to assess their compatibility firsthand."

"Reyes has co with ," I mumbled, cheeks heating anew at the thought of my scarred, cedar-scented bodyguard lurking in the waiting room.

"What about the other two?" She arched a perfect brow, cyan curls shifting subtly, her towering fra leaning forward with clinical curiosity.

"They had work." I’d prohibited them from coming today—one alpha escort was enough chaos to handle without Ivory’s chili-sharp swagger and Hellen’s honey-citrus intensity turning the sterile clinic into a full-blown pheromone standoff.

"Bring them next ti, no excuses. We need to inject calibrated alpha pheromones directly into your system and stimulate a controlled heat cycle." Her tone turned utterly clinical, matter-of-fact, as if discussing routine flu shots or vitamin drips, gloved hands gesturing vaguely at my midsection.

"But why?" I yelped, heart stuttering wild in my chest, full lips parting in raw shock—unbidden visions flashing of forced heats where those mad alphas pinned down, rutting senseless, knots swelling deep as slick poured endless, my belly rounding with their kids.

"Your body will experience targeted changes, okay? Enhanced curves—wider hips, fuller breasts, that plush oga softness amplified. You’ll beco more oga than ever before, which sounds weird, but you haven’t experienced puberty."

"I see..."

"You will beco more fertile, more responsive. It might make you even more beautiful." She tilted her head thoughtfully, plait swaying hypnotic against her dusky shoulder, a faint desert sage scent blooming subtle from her warm skin, earthy and wild like an untad oasis.

"Are you saying that my oga side is still dormant?" I pressed, erald eyes widening frantic, raven waves sticking ssily to my flushed nape as I leaned forward in the chair, wheels creaking faintly.

"Half-alive at best. Your hormones are severely imbalanced—Karimoike suppressants carved deep scars, muting your natural cycles. This therapy will wake it fully, balance you out."

Her gaze softened fractionally just then, yellow irises glinting with a knowing empathy that almost felt personal, like she’d seen too many broken ogas in her career.

"Thank you," I whispered, voice small and shaky, a twisted mix of dread and forbidden curiosity knotting tight in my gut—dreading the vulnerability yet secretly thrilled at the promise of becoming more beautiful,

"You’re welco. Now go for the dialysis—don’t skip it, or we’re back to square one." She turned back to her overflowing chart with efficient dismissal, pen scratching notes in sharp script.

"What’s your na?" I blurted impulsively, just as the nurse gripped the wheelchair handles firmly, ready to roll out.

She sighed deep, shoulders tensing visibly under her crisp doctor’s coat, cyan plait twitching like it had a life of its own. "Why do you want to know? Nas make things personal, and this is strictly professional."

"Just like that," I shrugged weakly, fingers twisting anxiously in my lap, skirt riding up my limp thighs.

"Ana. And I’m an alpha." Her full lips quirked in a faint, almost challenging smirk—desert sage pheromones spiking just enough to tingle my heightened senses—before she waved off with a gloved hand, turning fully to her next patient file.