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I’ll never have real mates, another heat, or my dream pack, and I’ve mostly buried my basic omega fantasies.
But even now, a teeny bit of not-so-gamma instinct survives.
Changing in front of an audience is pure omega torture, making me feel all kinds of raw and vulnerable.
I’ve mastered the rapid-change, stripping off de-scenter-soaked clothes and swapping them without flashing more than an inch of skin, but even that leaves me shuddering.
I zip the track jacket to my chin.
I hate being uncovered more than I hate cardio.
When I swap socks, I hiss.
The ankle monitors are strappy metal and way too tight. Always scabbing, rubbing, and oozing blood. But the faster I get through this gauntlet, the faster I can take the weight off my feet, hide under a sheet, and turn off my hyper-vigilant control long enough to take a full breath.
When I’m changed, the guard squad herds me down the hall, keeping their distance even though they’re masked for an outbreak and outweigh me by a collective ton.
I walk like an innocent omega, all scrunched and submissive, pretending to be intimidated, but I’ve been through these bolted doors a hundred times before. I’m not usually the one who ends up on the floor.
Brandon’s dispassionate voice sounds through the speaker system. “Proceed to the first interrogation room.”
Breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, I force myself into calm control mode.
Scent assessment is cake when I’m not freshly electrocuted.
The first door buzzes unlocked.
The SAS doesn’t hold prisoners like the cop shows, where they sit a guy at a card table and offer him coffee in a paper cup.
The interrogation room is a cement square with a bolted-down chair and an alpha waiting for me in a jumpsuit and chains.
He shifts, clanking metal. Unwashed and unshaven, he pumps out stress pheromones in a gag-inducing mix of anger, despair, and steaming bat guano.
Blech.
Have to get this over with so I can shower.
“Begin,” Brandon commands through the speakers.
I take a step, carefully loosening the full-body tension that I’m always maintaining to keep my pheromones on lock. The one good thing about my ability is that I can control it—not like a factory-issue omega, helplessly pumping out scent with every emotion.
I can push and pull my perfume—if you can call it that—at will.
But it’s a muscle I have to train.
The trick is to never fully let go, unless I want to up my body count.
I release the pressure hand-over-hand, like I’m slowly lowering a heavy rope, never letting the momentum build to a crash.
My pheromones bleed into the air.
“The fu—” the prisoner gags.
I jump back with superhuman vomit-dodging reflexes.
He spits on the floor, shooting me a familiar red-eyed glare that’s so unwarranted when I’m working so hard to keep him breathing that I can time my pulse by the throb of the vein at my temple.
Brandon’s clinical voice joins the party. “Describe the scent you’re experiencing.”
