Beyond the partition, the Omega showers had gone silent.
Only the drip of water and Albert Rose’s low, pained cursing broke the stillness.
Kieran’s shadow moved against the frosted glass, watchful.
A huffed sigh and a tired exhale followed by the dash for towels.
Owen guided her out, his palm a brand on the small of her back.
“It is okay; I know you are very scared,” he said as he tried his best to cover her in her state of nudity.
They stood in line.
“Where is our representative?” Owen whispered.
“What took you so long, Owen?” Kieran said as he side-eyed him.
“You know damn well what he was doing.” Albert huffed.
Cait’s face and ears flushed crimson; had he heard her?
“Where is Dr.Jameson?” Owen asked as he stared at the beta director at the front of the line.
The man seemed arrogant.
“Decontaminating; I was exposed, and he helped me,” Albert said as he showed an ugly wound on his arm.
The Other omegas tried their best to avoid his eyes.
The guards were distracted by the death of their comrade.
Owen felt Albert’s eyes all over his body; he was only here in the omega line because of her.
Not that he would leave her to her father or brother in this state.
He cleared his throat.
He was tempted to say something.
Was Albert some sort of deviant or curious?
“No toxins found.” The scanner confirmed in a female AI voice.
“You heard the machine.” Director Paulson’s voice boomed over the hissing showers, “Decon complete! Report to the left to receive a clothing bundle.” Cait was next; she stood there swaying as the director stared.
“What are you doing in this line?” he barked.
Cait opened her mouth to speak.
Three voices sounded.
“She’s one of us.” Kieran and Owen looked at each other as the words sounded simultaneously.
“You don’t look like it.” Director Paulson said as he passed the scanner’s beam over her swaying form.
“Would it change the need to check me? We are equals after all.” Cait asked.
“Right.” He suppressed his urge to scoff in front of Lord Rose.
“Turn around.” Director Paulson ordered.
Cait obeyed, not really caring about the eyes on her.
“No toxins found.” The scanner confirmed again.
Cait moved to join her father and brother.
But the man with the scanner would not budge.
“Is there something wrong?” Cait asked with exhaustion on the edge of her voice.
She wanted to sit down.
Her legs were still weak from all the time she spent receiving infusions of antidotes and blood serums.
“Hello?” Owen asked the quiet man.
Was he really trying to intimidate a sick person?
The real contamination, his stance screamed, wasn’t poison; it was the politics waiting beyond the door.
Director Paulson waited, scanner humming ominously.
“Just making sure she is clear; what if she needed the soap you gave us, because she looks Beta?” Director Paulson retorted.
“That’s nonsense,” Owen said as he became a barrier between the Director and his mate.
“Stay behind me, sweetheart,” he breathed, already reaching for a towel.
“The machine says she is clear.” Owen stepped squarely between Cait and the device, his shoulders blocking her from the view of the sterile corridor beyond.
“As I said, I was double-checking.” Director Paulson retorted.
Owen looked at the man; his jaw was set.
He was trying to humiliate her, or catch a look at her body.
It was the look in the man’s eyes that was the hunger in his own veins.
Sector 17’s problems awaited.
And politics.
Always the politics.
“That is a TS2500x Scanner. Made by one of my family’s companies: Thorne Industries. My family’s company sells specialist scanning equipment like this for a reason. It scans on a molecular level to search for granules of toxins that would cause a rash like her Father, Lord Rose, received from the JL Gas attack.” Owen said, thoroughly name-dropping his own family name, as well as hers.
“Miss Rose is clear.”
“M-Miss Rose?” Director Paulson stuttered.
He was careful before having seen the man’s image on the news.
“She’s that woman?”
“Yes,” Owen said as he reached for a thick bath sheet, its plush fabric enveloping Cait in a warm embrace as he rapidly wound it around her still-damp form.
He lifted her effortlessly against his chest, the heat radiating from his bare chest seeping through the towel and creating a cocoon of warmth around her.
“Thorne Industries has started to acquire the company that owns this private hospital. Was Paulson your last name? I will remember that.” Owen declared firmly, his voice devoid of hesitation as he met Director Paulson’s shrinking form.
“She looked like a beta.” Director Paulson tried to excuse himself.
“No, you were taking the opportunity, thinking she was in a triadic relationship with someone who can’t stand up for themselves as I can.” Owen retorted.
“You thought she was a Beta dominant you could order around, right?”
“I have to s-scan the others. You are holding up the line.” Director Paulson said, trying to avoid more of the confrontation.
He dug his grave.
This man had him pinned down.
He was going to chew her out for following her lovers into the wrong bathroom; who knew she was the missing daughter of the Traverse Lord?
“Oh?” Kieran shouted, “Now they can move, now that you know you are outgunned.”
“Please forgive me, Miss Rose.” Director Paulson begged.
“I’m taking her to rest. She has nothing to say to you or anyone else. Have some common sense and awareness, ‘Director’ Paulson.” Owen emphasized the director, a title he would soon no longer occupy.
Nearby, Albert let out a derisive snort, his own towel draped low on his hips, revealing the lean muscles endemic to someone always ready for a fight.
“So, you think you can bully omegas and their spouses, huh?” he said.
Having finished his shower, Dr.
Jameson was busy distributing sterile scrubs to the eager towel-clad crowd of men, the faint crinkle of fabric momentarily breaking the tension in the air.
He looked up at Cait, the patient who had landed him the departmental job here.
The hospital directors had given him a lot of respect.
However, he wished the Director was available so he did not have to deal with this.
He was only downstairs because of the Rose family.
“Well, Director.” Albert’s voice sliced through the thick atmosphere like a blade, frigid and commanding.
“We will discuss protocol later with the head of your hospital together. Look forward to it.”
Director Paulson’s lips pressed into a thin line, his frustration evident; he wished he had held his tongue.
He watched Owen tear open his clothing and tug the pants over his impressive frame.
Seeing him made him feel bitter.
‘Fucking Alpha mutt,’ he thought.
Owen picked her up in her bath towel.
She figured she would not wear the scrubs.
She swam in the fabric of the smallest sizes.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“People don’t usually stick up for me like that.”
Cait nestled her head against Owen’s shoulder, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
Exhaustion washed over her, a leaden weight pulling her deeper into the protective embrace.
The whirls of suppressant withdrawal hallucinations hit her as her eyes drooped.
‘Omie whore, slut.’ she heard, Henry’s voice in her head.
His corpse was encased in a hard foam outside.
She shook her head.
Owen patted her back, as if he could feel the heartbreak.
Cait’s mind drifted, carrying her back through a fog of memories to the sterile tiles of this facility.
Then to the damp, echoing tunnels of the Traverse.
Images of Maria Bonne’s cramped apartment floated in her mind, the air thick with the mingled scents of stale bread and harsh disinfectant.
She recalled the anxious faces of Betas lining up for ration cards, a stark reminder of the grim reality that enveloped her now.
This was her battlefield, fraught with challenges far graver than blushes or flirtations.
Owen’s grip on her tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent promise of protection amidst the chaos surrounding them.
He’d always recoiled from other Omegas, their practiced simpering, the cloying sweetness that felt like a cage.
Kieran’s faint lily-of-the-valley scent had been tolerable, a necessary transaction devoid of heat.
But Cait… Cait was wildfire.
Her scent alone had reshaped him.
Vigor hummed in his muscles now, sharper focus, less need for the restless sleep that had plagued him.
He’d never touch another Omega again.
Dr.
Jameson pressed a pair of scrubs into Owen’s free hand, the fabric imbued with a sharp cedarwood scent that mingled eerily with the antiseptic aroma of the hospital.
“Rest, Owen. She needs rest,” he urged, his eyes heavy with concern.
“Sure thing, I will make sure of it.” Owen retorted and nodded curtly, the tension in his jaw palpable as he pivoted toward the elevators, urgency propelling him forward.
“Her room,” he affirmed, his voice edged with determination.
Upstairs, Cait’s clothes lay waiting, a stark reminder of the life that still hung in the balance.
Tomorrow loomed large on the horizon, a pivotal day for them all, a day shrouded in uncertainty about whether the decon was effective.
If the Purifiers chose not to strike first.
Owen cast a glance downwards at the silver-blonde head resting against his shoulder, her breathing deep and steady, a small comfort amid the chaos.
Asleep.
He quickened his pace, each step a reminder that time was brittle, fragile as glass, and slipping rapidly away.
The emergency lights pulsed red overhead as Owen carried Cait through the sterile corridors.
His bare torso gleamed under the crimson glow, muscles taut beneath damp skin as he cradled her towel-wrapped form.
The XXL scrubs Dr.
Jameson had thrust at him dangled forgotten from his fingers, too small, a futile gesture the doctor had abandoned after glimpsing the mate mark blooming dark and possessive on Owen’s hand.
Proof.
Ownership.
A claim deeper than any contract.
A low growl rumbled in Owen’s chest as two ABO nurses rounded the corner, their eyes widening at the sight of him.
Owen Thorne, prodigal son of Elias Thorne, here half-naked, radiating alpha dominance, his mate limp in his arms.
They froze, scenting the air: Gardenia tangled with honey and lemon.
He felt territorial.
One nurse fumbled for his comm, but Owen’s glacial stare silenced him.
They still leered.
He was used to being objectified by Omegas.
Kieran had been an excellent foil.
As an Omega male, he was famous, delicate, and considered handsome.
Now that he had a female, they must feel like they could leer at him.
Before Cait, he and Kieran found the whole physical thing repulsive.
“Clear the path,” Owen asked, voice cutting through the pulsing alarm like shrapnel.
They scrambled aside.
He took the emergency stairs three at a time, Cait’s slight weight nothing against the strength humming through him.
The scent trail he laid was thick, deliberate, a warning etched in pheromones for anyone foolish enough to follow or challenge him.
Director Paulson’s pinched face flashed in his mind: ‘That possessive glint when he’d scanned Cait, the bureaucratic sneer masking something darker.
Corruption?
Possible.
A Purifier sympathizer?
Likely.’ Owen’s knuckles whitened around the bundle of scrubs.
If Paulson so much as breathed near her again, he’d launch him by the neck like a ball down through the transportation hub.
He was as good as fired.
The door to Cait’s private recovery suite hissed open before he could knock.
A male omega attendant stood rigidly inside, clipboard clutched like a shield, his mossy scent wilting under Owen’s pheromonal onslaught.
He dragged out a bag of soiled linens and trash and hurried out.
Owen brushed past him without a word, striding down the short hall lined with monitors displaying vital signs, all stable, thank fuck.
He kicked open the bedroom door, its hydraulic mechanism protesting.
Gently, he laid Cait on the medical-grade bedding, the sterile white sheets swallowing her pale form.
Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.
Exhaustion, toxin residue still in her blood, the brutal comedown from adrenaline and release – she was spent.
Owen tucked the towel tighter around her, his thumb lingering on the pulse point at her throat.
Steady.
Strong.
His.
A nurse hovered nervously in the doorway, clutching the clipboard like a lifeline.
Owen didn’t turn.
“Out,” he commanded, the single syllable leaving no room for debate.
Meanwhile, the quiet was shattered moments later as Dr.
Jameson entered, his cedarwood scent sharp with fatigue and clinical concern.
He took in the scene: Owen standing guard beside the bed, bare-chested, damp hair plastered to his temples, eyes fixed on Cait’s sleeping face.
The doctor sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Owen,” Dr.
Jameson murmured, voice low to avoid disturbing her.
“You look like hell warmed over. Why don’t you go lie down in another room? Let me monitor her.”
“No.” Owen didn’t shift his gaze.
“I am fine. I just need to shave.” His voice was rough gravel.
“Since the mating,” he added, a flicker of primal pride tightening his jaw, “I haven’t needed much sleep. The constant physical pheromone exchanges… energize me. Even breathing her scent does.” He inhaled deeply, the floral notes cutting through the antiseptic air.
His muscles seemed to coil tighter, vibrating with suppressed vitality.
Dr.
Jameson’s gaze swept over Owen’s physique, the sculpted shoulders, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the powerful forearms corded with veins.
He was a large man.
He made Cait look small, but anyone who stood 6’7 would.
A faint flush crept up the doctor’s neck.
Warrior alphas.
They didn’t even have to try to stay fit; it just came naturally.
The sheer, effortless power radiating from Owen was… distracting.
Unsettlingly attractive.
Dr.
Jameson cleared his throat sharply, forcing professionalism back into his voice.
“I’d like to do some blood work on you,” he stated, pulling a compact kit from his lab coat pocket.
“If your abilities have surged this much, I just want to make sure there were no effects of the poison on your system. Also, we can send them off to your doctor back in Chicago to compare.” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at Owen’s imposing form.
“Data is crucial.”
“I feel fine, to be honest. As an heir, I did poison training, you know, with what is out there in the wild.” Owen responded.
He never needed to do poison training, because of his natural immunity.
That was part of why his genetics-obsessed grandfather introduced Elias to his birth mother.
“But I can provide you with a sample, if it will help with her. Who knows, I can’t even imagine being fed poison like that.” Owen grunted, finally tearing his eyes from Cait to grab the discarded XXL scrubs.
He pulled on the pants, the fabric straining dangerously across his muscular thighs and hips.
Dr.
Jameson cleared his throat.
“No need to get emotional. It’s just a lab test, some blood work.” Dr.
Jameson pulled a set of collection tubes from the wall cubby.
“You’ll need to put some strength into it,” Owen said.
Sitting heavily on the visitor’s chair, he looked like sin incarnate, bare torso gleaming under the soft room lights, damp hair falling over his forehead, the mate mark stark on his hand.
Jameson approached, tourniquet snapping tight.
The needle slid in smoothly.
A single bead of crimson welled at the puncture site.
Cait stirred.
Her nostrils flared.
Sleep-fogged mercury eyes snapped open, locking onto the tiny droplet of Owen’s blood.
A guttural sound vibrated in her chest.
Her pheromones exploded, floral turned sharp, Gardenia thickening into cloying, possessive syrup.
The air crackled.
“Don’t touch him!” she shouted, her eyes in a daze.
The room was full of swirling hallucinations.
“Cait?” Owen called out to her, confused; she looked half asleep.
Dr.
Jameson froze mid-motion, “Kaak!” a choked groan escaping him.
His limbs locked; his breath hitched.
Her amygdala had him, pure, instinctual dominance flooding his senses, paralyzing him.
“What’s going on?” Cait said as she roused.
She pushed herself upright, blinking away sleep, gaze darting wildly between Owen and the doctor.
Seeing Owen unharmed, the tension bled out of her.
“Just some blood work, sweetie. Lie back down and relax.” Owen rasped calmly; he forced himself to remain calm.
So this was something normal, and she was worried about him there.
“Oh, okay. Is everything alright?” Cait asked him, settling down sleepily.
‘Keep calm, breathe.
Let her fall asleep.’ Owen thought as he shot a warning look at Dr.
Jameson.
The doctor was shaking but luckily smart and calm enough to follow along.
He wanted Cait to fall back asleep, and then they could talk about it ‘calmly’.
“Yeah, just making sure I did not absorb anything out there,” Owen said.
He saw her nod, rubbing her head tiredly.
“Go back to sleep; I will wake you up when your food gets here.”
Cait’s heart rate slowed as quickly as it had sped up.
She nodded, her eyelashes rapidly drooping as if there were weights on them.
Her spiked heart rate dropped as quickly as it had sped up.
“Here.” Dr.
Jameson rasped, staggering back a step, hand trembling as he pressed gauze to Owen’s arm.
He tutted, shaken, and flicked a switch on the wall panel, activating enhanced air filtration.
“I wish I could do that,” his voice shook as he looked at the sleeping Cait.
He meant it, whether falling asleep like that or ‘that’.
His skin was just covered in goosebumps.
Cait, unaware of what she had just done, had dozed off quickly.
Her long eyelashes fluttered as she fell into REM sleep so fast that it was impressive.
The need to be silent about this was understood immediately by the Doctor; this ‘ability’ was terrifying.
Some people could elicit a temporary adoration from a subject; others, a harmless psychoactive hallucination or brief compliance.
These people were monitored by the ABO.
Cait Rose could completely control a person; he had been terrified to place the gauze on Owen.
His heart was pounding.
“The Princess,” he breathed, voice unsteady.
“She truly is a Queen. Wow.”