“No? You seem like such a city girl.”
I take a steadying breath. “Actually, I started solo mountain climbing in college. Spent three winters tackling increasingly difficult peaks in the Adirondacks before moving on to the Rockies.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh, wow.”
“I’ve faced way worse than cold showers when the power goes out.” I hold my hand out a little further, resisting the urge to grab the bright orange coil keyring out of her hand. “And snow-covered mountain roads are basically my natural habitat at this point.”
Greta finally relinquishes the keys, looking at me with renewed interest. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Dr. Chang? And I suppose that’s definitive evidence you’re not an omega. My daughters don’t go anywhere they can’t plug in a curling iron.”
I pocket the keys, smiling more from the thought of what my own mother would have to say to that than anything else.
“Thanks again for your concern,” I say, backing toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I escape the room before she can think of another reason to stop me.
My drive to the cabins takes me to the far side of town and partway up the mountain. I can see how the place would be picturesque in the summer, but the snow crunching under my tires and bare trees scream winter isolation.
I make a tight corner in the road and stop short, tapping the brakes hard enough in surprise that the car jerks.
When Greta told me I’d be in a cabin, I pictured something like the rentals my climbing group used in Colorado—rustic on the outside but fitted with modern amenities. This is...significantly more authentic.
Log walls darkened with age. A small porch with a rocking chair that’s seen better decades. Windows with actual shutters that probably need to be closed manually during storms. A few other cabins are visible through the trees, but far enough away to discourage a casual walk.
I park the car and get out. The spiral keyring is loose enough around my wrist that I have to pinch the small metal tag on it between my fingers. The tag has a stylized pine tree withCabin 3engraved on it. Cute. Quaint, even. I follow the winding path up a slight incline, pulling my suitcase behind me while mentally cataloging the sounds of the forest—branches creaking, distant bird calls, the crunch of my boots on gravel.
The door requires some shoulder pressure to unstick it from the frame. When I shove my way inside, I’m immediately met with scent of lemon cleanser and and rotting wood. When I flip the light switch, a single bulb illuminates what can generously be called a living space.
A sagging couch faces a stone fireplace. The kitchen consists of a mini-fridge, two-burner stove, and a sink with a hand pump. An actual hand pump. For water.
“Rustic charm,” I mutter, setting my suitcase down with a thud.
I now understand Greta’s warnings. This isn’t just isolated; it’s primitive. The bathroom door creaks open to reveal a clawfoot tub with a shower attachment that looks like it predates the Nixon administration.
Hiking up the steep steps to the loft reveals a surprisingly comfortable-looking bed beneath a skylight. At least I’ll have stars while I freeze to death.
I haul my suitcase upstairs and begin unpacking, arranging scrubs and clinic-appropriate clothes in the small dresser. My fingers linger on the specialized hiking gear I’d packed—lightweight moisture-wicking pants, thermal layers, my favorite technical jacket with its fifteen different pockets.
“Like you’ll have time for hiking,” I scold myself. “You’re here to work, not play mountain explorer.”
But I carefully arrange the gear anyway. Just in case. The mountains visible through the skylight seem to mock my wishful thinking.
In the bathroom, I line up my toiletries on the narrow shelf beside the sink. Shampoo, conditioner, face wash—simple necessities. Then the more important items: my Chinese herbs in their distinctive red and gold packaging, and the white pharmacy bottle of suppressants.
The bottle of suppressants slips from my fingers, hits the edge of the sink, and the cap pops off entirely. Pills scatter—some landing on the counter, but most pouring straight into the drain with a terrible rattling sound.
I lunge forward, fingers scrabbling at the drain, but it’s too late. I manage to rescue only five pills from the counter and floor. Five pills. This formulation has to be taken twice a day, so I’m about two and half days from disaster.
My heart hammers against my ribs as panic rises. Without suppressants, I’ll be in heat within days, maybe hours, of going cold turkey.
I grip the sink edge, taking deep breaths. Think logically. There is a pharmacy in town. I can get an emergency refill. I just need to call my doctor back home and request that they fax a prescription for an early refill.
Except, I’ve already met the local pharmacist. As much as Jackson Reed seemed like the upstanding and professional type, can I really trust him to keep the juicy knowledge that the new beta doctor is actually an omega in disguise to himself?
I’m not back in New York. This won’t be as simple as finding a pharmacy in one of the other boroughs where no one knows me or have a 90-day supply sent to me in the mail.
Not only is my omega designation required to be listed on the prescription, but there really isn’t any other reason someone would be prescribed a heat suppressant. If Jackson is evenhalfway decent at his job, he’ll see right through any flimsy explanation I can offer.
The sound of the wind through the trees suddenly seems menacing rather than peaceful. Five pills stand between me and a humiliating exposure that might cost me my career.
