Page 59 of Pack Rivals, Part One

A lady at the front desk tells me to ride the elevator to the fifteenth floor and when the doors open I wonder if I've stepped out into a spa rather than a clinic waiting room.

Plush carpet runs across the floors and on the walls, the lights glow dimly, and the windows are shuttered. Instead of the hardback chairs downstairs, cozy armchairs are positioned around the room; blankets slung over their arms and cushions on their seats.

I want to run across the room, sink into a chair and draw one of the teddy-bear blankets around my shoulders. Maybe take a nap.

The only thing unattractive about the place is the aroma. Someone tried to mask it under the scent of the numerous candles burning around the room, but under the floral smell are the stale scents of other omegas. It tickles my nose in an unpleasant manner and I hope I'm not actually going to bump into any of those omegas while I'm here.

Before I can sink into a chair, a woman greets me with a clipboard and a kindly smile.

"Miss Carsen."

"That's me."

"Doctor Hannah is waiting for you." She leads me along a corridor and I glance back longingly at the waiting room. I'm going to need to invest in some of those blankets.

Several doors fan off the corridor but the lady takes me to the one right at the end with Doctor Hannah's name emblazoned across the woodwork.

The lady knocks and when the doctor says to enter, she pushes down on the handle, opening the door and ushering me inside.

Doctor Hannah's clinic room is like hell compared to the heaven of the waiting room. Not a soft surface in sight. The lights are bright and glaring and the stench of disinfectant scorching. I wonder how an omega like Doctor Hannah can work all day long in a place like this.

"Hello, Bea," she says, dressed in her signature dark turtle neck and skirt, "up on the bed for me today."

"Oh," I say, a little taken back. I was expecting some small talk first before all the pokey pokey started. But I suppose Doctor Hannah is a busy woman. A busy and beautiful woman. I hadn’t really noticed that the other day.

I climb up onto the hard bed and Doctor Hannah squirts two dollops of antibacterial gel into her hands, rubbing them over her skin. The smell is pungent and acidic and makes my head ache.

"I didn't get a chance to inspect you thoroughly the other day."

"Inspect?" I say, alarmed.

"Examine," she says with a smile. It's the same smile from her visit a few days ago, except now I notice it doesn't touch her eyes. A business smile designed for her patients.

She asks me to undo my pants and lift up my shirt. Then she prods at my belly, pressing her heel hard into the pit of my abdomen until I yelp.

"Hmmm," she murmurs, not apologizing. Her hands are cold on my skin.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Checking," she says with irritation. "Your hormone readings are a mess."

"Sorry," I say, because the way she says it makes me feel like I let her down.

She mutters something under her breath and takes my arms in her hands. She runs her eyes up and down the insides, tracing her thumbs over my veins.

"No needle marks," she comments.

"What? Of course, not," I say, snatching my arms away.

"Just trying to determine if someone injected you with something."

"Oh god," I squeak, "why would someone do that?"

She doesn't answer, turning and strolling across the room to a computer screen perched on top of a trolley. She wheels it over to the bed.

"I'm going to hitch you up to the machine and take some more readings, see if we can understand what's going on here."

I nod and stare up at the bright lights overhead as she fixes wires to my stomach, chest and forearms.

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