Milo gives me a look. Half impressed, half amused. "See, this is why you're the pharmacist and I'm the lowly assistant." He laughs.
I ignore him and slide the bag across the counter. The pain in my abdomen sharpens for a second, and I grip the edge of the shelf until it passes.
The next nurse steps up immediately.
They've been coming in a steady stream all damn day. The omegas in the holding areas need antibiotics, anti-nausea meds, anxiolytics, hormone stabilizers, and hardcore sedatives.
“Dr. Plume would like five vials of Omevra for tent nine.” This nurse looks younger than me. Her hands are shaking as she holds out the order slip.
“Are you okay?” I ask as I get the vials.
“Yeah.” She forces a very tight smile. "It’s just…A few men brought in two omegas this morning," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "The poor omegas look roughed up. One of them… her face is all bruised."
A wave of hot, acidic guilt churns in my stomach, so intense it makes me feel sick.
I’m helping to hurt those girls…
I’m the one filling the order for the drugs that will keep those omegas docile and pliable, ready to be sold to the highest bidder.
And I fucking hate it.
I hate myself for being a cog in this ugly machine, but I don’t have a choice.
It’s okay,I tell myself.Take a breath. You’re doing what you have to.
But before I spiral into too much self-hatred, a sharppain slices through me. It cuts right below my navel, spreading outward towards my back. This one is internal, deep, like something waking up. A tightness that coils and releases and coils again.
No!
“She doesn’t look too good,” the nurse says.
I shake my head, trying to say I’m fine, but my mouth is dry and my pulse is climbing, and there is a faint, persistent hum in my blood that has nothing to do with the generators outside. My scrubs feel wrong against my skin—too rough and stiff. It’s like every nerve ending in my body has completely splintered.
"Elowen?" Milo is looking at me. "You good?"
"Fine." I force a wide smile. "Who's next?" I look at the next person in line, and my vision doubles for a second.
“You don't look fine, sweetheart.” An older nurse steps up to the counter.
I try to say I’m good, but my upper body sways. I press my palms into the countertop, trying to steady myself.
"She really doesn't," Milo says, and before I can argue, his hand is on my elbow, steering me away from the counter toward the small metal stool wedged between two refrigeration units.
"I'm fine, Milo. Seriously, I'm fine."
But I sit anyway. The cold glass hums against my shoulder blade when I lean back, and the cold feels so good it almost makes me cry.
“Here.” Milo presses a bottle of water into my hand and gives me a firm look. "Take a break. I can handle things for a second."
The older nurse leans over the counter, her eyes doing that quick clinical sweep that medical people can't seem toturn off. "Honey, let me take a look at you. It'll only take a minute."
"No!" I practically yell.
Milo flinches and the nurse's eyes go wide.
I soften immediately, rearranging my face into something apologetic and warm. "No, thank you. Really. I just need some water and a second to sit. I skipped breakfast like an idiot, that's all." I pretend to laugh at myself.
The nurse tilts her head. "You sure?"
