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But the elevator hits me with a retinal scan because I’m not heading to human resources.
I am human resources.
The ride takes me deep into bunker territory, where another waspy, off-putting buzz lets me through the blast door to the mad science lab.
Doctor Brandon Fissure meets me wearing a plexi-front gas mask that flashes blue eyes and lips twisted in disdain.
He’s in his late forties, with grey wings in his dark hair. I’d say he was distinguished professor handsome if he treated me as anything other than a specimen he’d like to slice, dice, and store in a labeled jar.
All five of Bridget’s mates are stupid hot silver foxes.
And her real kids are adorable.
“Go through decontamination.” Brandon jerks his chin, directing me into the clean room.
Shitsticks.
I hate this part.
I step into the narrow sanitation chamber, close my eyes, and hold my breath. After the door suctions, the human car wash whirs, spraying me in a cloud of industrial de-scenter that vents into the filtration system like I’m patient zero for the zombie plague.
My training clothes are soaked when the maelstrom cuts. Then the opposite door unsticks, and I wobble through, perching on my special stool so that Brandon’s assistant, Thad, can plug in my ankle monitors and draw my blood.
I keep my arm steady while the beta trembles. He’s stuck me hundreds of times, and I’ve never done shit to retaliate.
The lab techs are all skittish—they’ve seen me in action.
After Thad scurries away with a fresh-tapped vial, Brandon looms. His full-body biohazard gear blocks the worst of his scent, but a hit of piney alpha sneaks free.
Just enough to clench my throat.
I hate alphas’ scents as much as they always hate mine.
“Elyse’s mate may have permanently lost his sense of smell.” Brandon folds his arms over his plastic suit in disappointment faker than my smiles. “I assume the attack was out of jealousy.”
Jealousy?
Me?
Holy hand grenades do I deserve the best actress award if Brandon thinks I run on anything but egg and cheese and endgame revenge.
Besides. I didn’t know the guy was Elyse’s.
How could I?
The girl bonds new mates like she’s popping mints, and to me, every alpha on base looks like an identical, wide-shouldered, soldier-Chad.
“So you can’t explain yourself,” Brandon says flatly.
“No!” I almost jump, but somehow I grip the stool and keep my boots on the ground. “I didn’t attack. I ran into him. Neither of us was paying attention and—”
“Your control is flawless? If that were the case, how could your actions be anything but deliberate?”
“Check the CCTV,” I grit. “It was not deliberate.”
I grip the stool.
Deep breaths.
