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“C-c-c-cold.” I wrench my zipper up my throat.
“To be expected.” He makes a note. “Anything else?”
“Dizzy.” I grab my temple, not sure if the spin is vertigo or shiver shakes.
While the room rotates, I sniff myself, trying to figure out what Brandon shot me with. Sometimes he pumps me with familiar pheromones—the gammas, omegas, or even alphas I’ve scented around base—so I can practice emitting different flavors.
Sometimes they’re my mother’s pheromones.
Gag.
But whatever chemical has my teeth chattering doesn’t reek of Bridget’s chemical sugar.
I smell neutral. After a car wash in de-scenter, I’m all clean skin and industrial dryer sheets.
“Dizziness noted.” Brandon gestures to the bunker door of his private underground prison. “Let’s see how you do in cell three. I want the subjects incapacitated as quickly as possible. Understand?”
“I understand.”
After the door clangs, I brace against the wall, shaking. The freezing teeth fade, leaving behind a full-body prickle and a spinning hyper-awareness that something’s deeply wrong and getting wronger.
Past the chill, there’s a weird foreboding. Like my blood’s been switched for slushy rocket fuel.
My heartbeat taps faster and faster and faster.
The muscles I’ve spent years training go limp.
My scent flares before I can react.
Through grit and clenched muscles, I force the pheromones down, but the rope I’ve clutched so tightly for so long is slicked in grease.
My neck crawls.
Another blast of scent slips, and my muscles don’t respond to commands.
I stumble, horrified.
I don’t know if the formula is a muscle relaxer or some weird ability super-booster.
All I know is I’m screwed worse than whoever’s in that cell.
Stay in control.
Have to stay in control.
I’ll bite through my tongue before I drop my act.
I won’t surrender.
No matter how hard leadership sets me up to fail.
“Accelerant test proceed,” Brandon’s voice crackles.
I move robotically. Rigid, clenching like I’m holding in a devastating fart. But if I let my pheromones rip, I’ll get worse than dirty looks.
Shitbricks.
Last time I visited the prison cells, I was shot up with some omega’s french toast pheromones and delivered like a continental breakfast to twenty alphas who lunged for my throat.
