The tang of antiseptic stings my nose. I smell latex. Sweat. Paper.
“Her secondary hymen is no longer in place,” a man says in a clinical drone. His voice is quiet and calm. A beta. “Note that she’s taken a knot.”
“She’s really pretty,” a woman says. “All that curly blonde hair. Do you want her in the display room?”
“No,” the man answers quickly. “She’s been mated and is wounded. Alphas only pay top dollar forunmatedomegas. She’ll have to go through the auction.” A chair scrapes softly nearby. I hear the scratch of a pen on paper, each sound louder than it should be—like the world is too close, pressing in on me.
Then a face slides into view.
The man looks young—early thirties, maybe. Thin and clean-cut, with elegant features and a deliberately gentle expression. His brown hair is swept back, curling slightly at the ends, and his skin is a smooth, warm tan. Black scrubs cling neatly to his frame with a stethoscope looped around his neck like an accessory.
His eyes are dark. Soft. Kind, even—at first.
Then they widen slightly as he meets my gaze. He leans back. “She’s awake,” he says, turning his head to someone I can’t see. More shuffling. “Hand me the penlight.”
I try to speak, but my tongue lies limp in my mouth. My hands twitch against the surface beneath me, and Isuddenly realize I can’t move them. My heart lurches as I realize my whole body is useless.
I’m so exposed.
The man turns back and flashes a light into my eyes. I snap my eyes shut, and he slowly lowers it. His expression smooths again, voice quiet and practiced. “There’s no need to be scared. We had to strap you down to treat the wound on your neck. You were...thrashing.”
I barely hear him. My mind is stuck onrestraints. I shift enough to feel the resistance of the straps around my wrists, and a surge of cold panic trickles down my spine.
“Where…where am I?” My words are hoarse and slurred.
“You’re at the Morder,” he says, like that should mean something to me. “You’ve been sedated,” he continues. “The effects will wear off soon, but for now, I need you to stay calm. You’re safe.”
Safe.
The word echoes through my skull like a bell tolling for a funeral.
The man pushes the penlight into his front breast pocket. “I’m going to release you now,” he says, his hands resting lightly on my forearm. “Are you going to behave?” He says the words like I’ve been violent or dangerous.
But the last thing I remember is being in that warehouse—Angelica’s evil smile, a needle, and then the dark.
Not sure what else to do, I nod. My body tenses as the straps are undone with quiet, metallic clicks. First my wrists, then my ankles. I don’t sit up—not yet. I can’t tell if I’m able to. My arms feel like they belong to someone else.
“I’m Dr. Plume,” the man says as he writes something on a clipboard. “The bite on your neck is infected, but I’ve given you something strong to treat it. It already looks muchbetter, just don’t mess with your bandage.” He glances at me again with an overly polite smile. “Don’t worry—it shouldn’t prevent you from being mated by your next pack.”
His words cut through the fog like a blade.
Mated?
Next pack?
A jolt of clarity punches through my chest. My heart kicks, adrenaline pushing against the drug still clouding my head. I force myself upright, arms shaking as I press the thin sheet against my chest, covering what little I can.
The room tilts, and I blink hard to steady it.
“Careful!” Dr. Plume reaches for my shoulders, keeping me upright.
A little disoriented, I stare at the off-white partition behind the doctor. It blocks the rest of the room, but I canhearthings—shuffling, soft murmurs, muffled sobs. Whispers.
Other people.
Otheromegas.
Their scents hit me next—distorted but undeniable, even through the chemical haze. Fear clings to the air like sweat. Some carry sharp notes of panic and confusion. While others smell strangely sweet—nervous, but clearly excited to be here.
