My thumb traces the embossed lot number. Omevra-X, 10ml. The expiration date is crooked along one side.
Still good.
But I'm not.
A cold, creeping panic crawls up my spine, tightening every muscle.Please, please, please. Don’t let my heat start here.
My cycles have been a mess ever since I started taking the black market suppressants. It could be weeks away, or it could be hours. The thought alone is enough to make my hands shake.
I can’t go into heat here.
Not in this cold, sterile room, surrounded by bulky alpha-guards who would fuck me raw, then sell me to the highest bidder.
I've worked too hard, for too long, to let everything end like that.
Trying to ease the ache twisting low in my back, I roll my shoulders, then reach for the next vial. I hold it up to the light, squinting at the label.
Why do they print them so small?
"You look like you're defusing a bomb," Milo says from across the table. "Relax, Elle. They're sedatives, not explosives."
"If we let an expired one through, a patient might wake up halfway through transport," I say, keeping my eyes on the label. "I don't want to explain to management why one of our clients is picking his own teeth out of his mangled face."
Milo snorts. "That's oddly specific."
"It's called attention to detail." I say, trying to sound light and friendly. "You should try it."
"You kill me." Milo leans his hip against the counter,arms folded, dark curls escaping the tie at the back of his neck. He's twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine, and clearly spends a lot of time at the gym. “Pérez. I say this with love.” He reaches for a can of Cherry Red soda sitting in the center of the table. “But you need to relax. Nothing in here is worth that much stress.” He tilts it back and forth, making the last bit of liquid slosh against the aluminum, before downing the last bit.
I watch him for a second, mildly annoyed.
We're supposed to keep the lab clean, no food or drink, but this isn't exactly a “real” lab.
It's a random room in a warehouse with portable refrigeration units and stolen medications, so I let it go.
Milo sets the can back down and keeps talking. “The guys who bring this stuff in care too much about getting paid.” He gives me an easy smile. "They're not sabotaging their own product."
Guys.Plural.
I've been here six months, and I've never met a single one of them. Not once.
I've tried asking Milo casual questions here and there, and paying attention to when Anton disappears and how long he's gone. But I’ve got nothing. The boxes simply appear like they materialize out of thin air.
Whoever brings this stuff in is kept completely separate from the floor staff.
"This one’s good," I say, setting it with the other good bottles.
Milo cracks a joke, but I don’t hear him.
Sharp pain rolls through my belly, making my breath catch. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, then breathe deeply, trying to will my body to settle, to hold on until I can get my hands on a suppressant.
I'm currently all out, which is so fucking stupid of me, but they’re so hard to get ahold of.
My eyes drift toward the refrigerated unit against the wall. Through the glass, rows of amber bottles glow faintly under the interior light. The ache in my lower abdomen sharpens for a moment before I drag my attention back to the table.
Focus.
I pick up the next vial and tilt it slowly. The liquid should cling slightly to the glass. Not too thick, but there’s enough resistance to tell me it hasn't been cut.
