Page 50 of The Sterling Acquisition
Perfect. The kind of place that didn’t ask questions as long as the payment cleared. Dante parked three blocks away and walked, the evening air carrying SVI’s distinctive chemical tang—sulfurous and metallic.
The suppressants were a practical necessity—Orion couldn’t think strategically while his biology was in chaos, and Dante needed him functional for what was coming. But even that rational justificationcouldn’t explain the way his hands still shook from their encounter hours earlier.
Focus, he told himself.
The clinic’s interior was dimly lit with flickering fluorescents, the space reeking of desperation. Mismatched chairs with cracked upholstery filled the waiting area, occupied by patients avoiding eye contact. A disabled security camera dangled broken wires—the message was clear: what happened here stayed here.
The receptionist—a middle-aged Beta with hard eyes and the unnaturally steady hands of someone who saw everything and been surprised by nothing—barely glanced up when Dante approached the scratched plexiglass partition.
“Need something?” she asked, her tone suggesting she already knew this wasn’t about legitimate medical care. Her fingers continued typing on a keyboard so worn the letters had been erased.
“Heat suppressants. Something effective for a difficult case.” Dante kept his voice low. “Price isn’t a concern.”
She studied him for a moment, cataloguing his expensive clothes and corporate bearing. Her eyes paused on his hands—too manicured for the neighborhood, too steady for someone buying gray market pharmaceuticals for recreational purposes.
“How difficult?”
“Adult virgin. Extended pre-heat, possibly complicated by other medications.”
Her eyebrows rose. “That’s not difficult, that’s a medical emergency. What kind of other medications?”
“Unknown.”
“Shit.” She leaned back in her chair. “Without knowing what the Omega is on now, it’ll be hard to determine what to give without side effects.”
Dante felt something cold settle in his stomach, a visceral response that his Gensyn conditioning should have filtered. “What are the alternatives?”
“Custom formulation. Takes time to synthesize, costs extra, and we’d need an in-person consult.” She pulled out a tablet, fingers flying over the screen. “Or emergency intervention, but they’re like killing a spider with an atom bomb. Stronger, faster acting, but higher risk of side effects.”
Time was the one thing they didn’t have. “Emergency intervention. What kind of side effects?”
“Nausea, disorientation, possible mood changes. Think chemical suppression hangover, but immediate.” She quoted a price that would have made most people balk, her eyes watching for any flinch at the number. “Cash only. No questions, no records.”
“Done.”
The receptionist buzzed him through to a back area that made the waiting room look luxurious by comparison. A harried-looking doctor—if he even had legitimate credentials—barely made eye contact as he prepared the medication, his movements efficient but jittery. A jar of cotton swabs on the counter had yellowed with age.
“Dosage instructions are on the bottle,” the doctor said, handing over a small amber vial. “But since you’re paying premium rates, here’s what the label doesn’t tell you: these will work, but the come-down is brutal. Make sure your Omega is somewhere safe when they wear off. And for fuck’s sake, don’t mix them with alcohol or street-grade pheromone enhancers.”
“Understood.”
“One more thing.” The doctor met Dante’s eyes, something like professional concern breaking through his practiced detachment. “If these don’t work, you’re shit out of luck. Don’t double dose.”
Twenty minutes later, Dante was walking back to his car with the small bag containing what might be Orion’s salvation or another layer of chemical chaos. The clinic assured him the suppressants would work within hours, providing relief for up to a week even in extreme cases.
Long enough to plan an extraction. Long enough to get them both out of SVI territory before Morrison could implement his timeline.
Long enough for Dante to figure out what the hell he was doing.
His encrypted phone buzzed as he reached the car—not a message this time, but an actual call. Dante stared at the device for a moment, genuine alarm cutting through his post-planning satisfaction. His pulse spiked in a way it hadn’t during an operation in years.
Amalie never called. Never. Their communication was strictly text-based for security reasons.
“Yes,” he answered, keeping his voice neutral despite the sudden dryness in his mouth.
“Dante, darling.” Amalie’s voice carried its usual cheerful warmth in her text communications, but Dante had always imagined her voice to be high pitched and maternal. Her voice had a husky sort of quality to it that made it sound like she was two second away from asking him what he was wearing. “I hope you don’t mind the call, but I simply had to discuss the fascinating files you sent over.”
Fascinating. In Amalie’s vocabulary, that meant either extremely valuable or extremely dangerous. Possibly both.
