Page 84 of The Sterling Acquisition
And Orion was valuable.
The pharmacy’s waiting room was a study in controlled chaos. Dante took note of the occupants with the automatic efficiency of someone who learned that survival often depended on knowing who could kill you before they decided to try.
Two strange Berserkers sat in the corner, both brooding and smelling of cordite—typical for Alphas who could not regulate theirpheromones. Neither was currently in rut, but that could change quickly if they caught too much of Orion’s scent.
A Beta woman with what looked like Gensyn neural implants was reading a tablet, her augmented eyes occasionally flicking up to scan the room.
Three people who were Chimeras—their pheromones shifting subtly every few minutes as they tested different scent profiles.
Wonderful. The waiting room from hell.
At the front desk, a young Omega typed into a terminal. Mid-twenties, lean build suggesting SVI origins, but something was off—claiming brands on his wrists and throat had been cut through with deep scars.
“We need to see Dr. Troiana,” Dante said, settling into his most professional corporate voice. “It’s urgent.”
The Omega looked up from his screen as his nostrils flared, he caught Dante’s scent. His pupils dilated slightly, and his breathing became more shallow—a telltale response, even from someone who’d gone to great lengths to reject the traditional Alpha-Omega dynamic.
“Dr. Troiana died three months ago,” the receptionist said. “She was old as shit, and her heart finally gave out. A lot of locals still refer to this place as Troiana’s Pharmacy out of habit. But we’ve got Dr. Langdon who can see you—” His words cut off as Orion let out a small whimper beside Dante, his skin beginning to flush more deeply again. Ozone and marshmallow scents lingered in the air.
God dammit, Orion.
The reaction was immediate. One of the Berserkers stood up, his head turning toward them like a predator scenting prey. The Beta woman’s augmented eyes locked onto Orion with mechanical precision. The Chimeras went very still.
“Now,” Dante said, pulling Orion closer to him in a gesture that was both protective and territorial. “We need to see the doctor now.”
The receptionist was already reaching for his phone. “Dr. Langdon? Yeah, we need you out here immediately. Emergency consultation.” He hung up and looked back at Dante. “She’ll be right out. You might want to... I don’t know, stand over there. Away from everyone else.”
Excellent. Nothing like being the center of attention in a room full of people who traffic in violence and controlled substances.
Dr. Langdon appeared within thirty seconds—a woman in her mid-forties with graying hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and the kind of steady hands that suggested extensive surgical training. She took one look at the waiting room’s heightened tension and jerked her head toward a door marked “Private Consultation.”
“This way. Quickly.”
Dante guided Orion into the consultation room, automatically noting the exit points and potential weapons before focusing on the doctor. Her movements were precise, economical—definitely medical training, and from somewhere with high standards. The way she handled the equipment resembled a Gensyn background, but her presence here meant she’d either been exiled or chosen to leave.
“Older Omega in heat,” she observed clinically, though she made no move toward any medical supplies yet. “How long has he been cycling? Are you his Alpha?”
“I can speak for myself,” Orion interjected, his voice sharp. “And I don’t keep track of cycles, but they’re irregular. And I don’t have an Alpha. I’m fine on my own.”
“The fastest fix is the most obvious one—” she began.
“No,” Orion said firmly. “Absolutelynot. Never.”
Dr. Langdon’s eyebrows rose slightly, and Dante caught the way her assessment shifted. “So you’re looking for suppressants for travel. Corporate extraction?”
The question was casual, but Dante caught the way her eyes sharpened.Testing to see how much I’ll reveal. Smart.
“Private transport,” he said instead. “Need something effective but not debilitating.”
“I’m not getting on any transport that makes me unconscious,” Orion said flatly, crossing his arms despite the way the movement made him sway. “I’ve had enough of people making decisions about my body without consulting me.”
Dr. Langdon’s lips quirked into what might have been approval. “Standard suppressants won’t be enough for this kind of heat, then. You’ll need military-grade intervention. The kind that requires specialized sourcing.”
Translation: expensive and probably not legal.
“What kind of specialized?” Dante asked.
“What are the side effects?” Orion demanded at the same time. “And don’t give me corporate euphemisms. I want to know what you’re putting in my system.”
