Page 103 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

The man two stations down is scrolling through his phone, one leg crossed over the other, looking bored, as if waiting for a dentist appointment.

A younger woman at the far end is chatting with the lab tech adjusting her monitoring pads. “How’s the cat?” the tech asks, and the woman laughs and says, “Still an asshole. I’ll show you the video after.”

This is nothing like Baton Rouge.

These omegas walked in here voluntarily.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Diana has already moved into the room, greeting the volunteers by name. “How was Barcelona?” she asks the red-haired woman, who launches into a story about a restaurant that served the best paella of her life. Diana listens, laughs, then checks her tablet and asks about last week’s side effects with the same warmth.

The volunteers trust her. I can see it in the way they relax when she approaches, the way they answer her questions openly, without performing.

Interesting. Diana Quinn, possible corporate mole, is also apparently the kind of clinician who makes omegas feel safe.

“Sophie, come meet the panel,” Diana calls, waving me over.

I put on Sophie Dysart and walk in.

I meet Blair later that morning.

She arrives late, breezing through the door with the energy of someone who considers schedules a suggestion rather than a commitment. She’s mid-forties, tall, broad-shouldered in a way that suggests she was an athlete at some point, with natural gray streaking through dark curly hair that she wears loose and wild. She’s carrying a tote bag printed with a cartoon cat giving the middle finger and wearing bright orange sneakers that squeak against the clinical floor.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she announces to the room at large, dumping her bag on the nearest surface and shrugging off her jacket. “Traffic was a nightmare. Also I stopped for chocolate croissants. Also I forgot my intake form and had to go back for it. Also—Diana, is that a new haircut? You look gorgeous.”

Diana, mid-conversation with the lab tech, raises an eyebrow. “Blair. Thank you. You’re forty minutes late.”

“I know, I know. But I brought chocolate croissants for everyone, so we’re even.” She produces a bakery box from the tote bag with the flourish of a magician, and two of the other volunteers actually cheer.

Blair drops into the chair next to me—the observation chair I’ve been using to take notes—and looks me up and down with the frank, assessing gaze of a woman who has exactly zero interest in pretending to be anything other than what she is.

“You’re new,” she says.

“Sophie.” I extend my hand. “I’m shadowing the department this week.”

“Blair.” She shakes it—firm, warm, calloused. “I’ve been doing these trials for three years. Best gig I’ve ever had. Free products, free coffee, and I get paid to have orgasms.” She grins. “Don’t tell me that’s not the dream.”

Certainly not mine. But I find myself watching her anyway.

Blair moves to her station, gets wired up with the casual ease of someone putting on a seatbelt, and begins the feedback portion of the trial. I’m close enough to hear her conversation with the lab tech, and I can’t help listening.

“The new model is better,” Blair is saying, leaning back in her chair, one ankle crossed over the other. “The inflation curve is smoother—less of that weird stutter the old one had at the peak. And the temperature regulation? Chef’s kiss.” She actually makes the chef’s kiss gesture while discussing the performance characteristics of a knotting device. “Tell Ethan I said he finally got it right.”

The lab tech—a young beta man who looks like he’s considering a career change—makes a note on his tablet without meeting Blair’s eyes.

“Although,” Blair continues, apparently unbothered by his discomfort, “the girth on the secondary shaft could go up a notch. I mentioned this last time. Some of us aren’t built for the starter model, you know what I’m saying?”

“I’ll... note that in the feedback,” the tech manages.

“You do that, sweetie.” Blair pats his arm. Then she turns to me, catching me watching, and her grin widens.

“You look scandalized,” she says.

“I’m not scandalized.”

“You’re a little scandalized.” She waves a hand. “Everyone is the first time. But look—I’d rather have a knot simulator than a dick in me, if I’m being honest.”

The lab tech is staring very hard at his tablet.