I barely get a chance to sit down beside Alex before Skyla’s name is called.
“Skyla Romner.”
Our omega stands, hesitant, and Knox is instantly at her side. Dakota follows close, while Alex and I trail behind as we’re led down a short hall to a private room.
It’s not a very big room. Sterile walls, the faint scent of bleach, and a narrow examination bed with a strip of crinkled paper on top of it. There are only three chairs. Dakota sits in one, his knee bouncing, Alex claims another, but I can’t bring myself to take the third. I lean against the wall, restless energy buzzing under my skin. Knox doesn’t even consider the chairs. He plants himself by the counter, broad shoulders braced, close enough to brush Skyla’s arm if she needs it.
A nurse guides Skyla through the routine: weight, height, blood pressure, temperature, and a finger stick to test her hormones. Skyla is quiet the whole time, obediently doing whatever’s asked of her, but her shoulders curl like she’s waiting for punishment.
Once Skyla settles on the exam table, the nurse leaves with a polite promise that the doctor will be right in.
My hands twitch at my sides as I finally get a glimpse of the wound on her neck. We should’ve asked the Morder what was under the bandage the second we saw her, but Skyla tucked herself so small, letting her long blonde hair cover her face, I simply didn’t see it.
And I’ve spent all day beating myself up for that.
I went through the motions at the office: a check-in with the CEO, hours buried in spreadsheets, a team meeting where I nodded and said all the right words. But none of it stuck. My head was entirely with Skyla.
We wait, all of us silent, no one moving or shifting.
Finally, the door opens, and the doctor walks in like she’s been doing this forever.
There’s no white coat, but pale-pink scrubs that hang on the beta’s frame. Her gray hair is pulled back into a braided bun, and dark glasses are perched on the end of her nose. There’s a softness to her—almost grandmotherly—but when she smiles, it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m Dr. Mara. How is everyone this afternoon?” She introduces herself, voice warm but no-nonsense.
Knox answers for us, crisp and clipped—“We’re good.”
I watch the doctor’s gaze move over him, taking in the faint scratch marks on his neck like she’s cataloging collateral details. She’s clearly experienced, and it makes some of the tension in my gut fall away.
“What brought you in today?” The doctor steps up to Skyla. “I hear you have an injury.”
Skyla doesn’t say a word. She lifts her head, exposing her old mating bite to the beta.
Dr. Mara frowns, then pulls the stethoscope offher neck. “Let's start with the basics first. Shall we?” Then she immediately gets to work.
The doctor checks Skyla’s eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Each touch from her is efficient and fast. Then she listens to our omega’s lungs before pressing on Skyla’s stomach through her borrowed clothes.
“Alright. Sit up for me.” Mara pats the top of Skyla's knee.
Knox immediately offers his hand, helping our omega up.
Skyla rises with a small, awkward shimmy, fingers knotting the hem of her shirt into a tight ball. She looks so nervous it makes my chest ache. Every instinct in me wants to shove Mara aside and pull Skyla into the kind of hug that would swallow her whole. But this is a necessary evil. That wound has to be fixed.
“Okay, let’s take a look at this nasty mark.” Mara pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, then lifts Skyla’s chin the way a jeweler lifts a fragile gem. The overhead light catches the rough crescent at the side of her neck. The beta’s face changes ever so slightly. There’s a sharp tightening of her features that says she recognizes a bad thing when she sees it.
“Tell me about your cycles.” The doctor squints at the wound.
Skyla’s answer is a thin mumble at best. “They’re…a little irregular.”
“That’s fine,” Mara says. “Plenty of healthy omegas run irregular. It’s not a mark against you.” The kindness in her words is plain and practiced, like she doesn’t really mean it. But I catch the way Skyla’s shoulders drop a millimeter like she almost believes the reassurance. “When was your last heat?”
All the color drains from Skyla’s face as she shakes her head. “Uh…a few…months back. Maybe.”
“Two months? Three?”
Skyla stares at her knees, refusing to look at anything else. “Longer.”
Mara’s brows pull together, but she doesn’t say anything that makes me think that’s bad.How often do omega’s have a heat?
