I stared at him, trying to process what he was offering. A chance at life, but with strings attached that would bind me for the rest of that life. Trade one prison for another. Exchange my glass bubble for a marriage certificate.
"So, my options are either die in a few months or sign myself over to be some Alpha's property if I survive?" The bitterness in my voice could have stripped paint.
Doctor Emerson winced. "The legal framework is more complex than that. Omegas have more rights now than historically?—"
"But not the right to refuse a match once I'm in their system," I interrupted. "I've read the news. I know how it works."
He didn't deny it. Couldn't deny it. For all the progress in Omega rights legislation, the biological imperatives still drove the legal system. Once matched through The Eros Institute, an Omega was legally bound to at least attempt bonding with their compatible Alpha. The science behind scent-matching was too well-established, the biological benefits too significant for society to prioritize individual choice.
"What does the treatment involve?" I asked, changing tactics.
"Five treatment sessions over approximately five weeks, but that doesn’t include daily shots and monitoring. Aggressivegene therapy combined with synthetic hormone treatments. It would be... difficult." His tone suggested 'difficult' was a massive understatement. “The success rate is… low, Lucy. You need to understand that.”
My hand moved unconsciously to my chest, pressing against the familiar tightness there. "And if it works? What then?"
"Then you get to live, Lucy." His voice softened. "Outside these walls. In the world."
The world. The concept seemed almost mythological after seven years in isolation. Air that hadn't been filtered through hospital systems. Surfaces that weren't disinfected three times daily. People who weren't covered head-to-toe in protective gear.
Freedom from this sterile prison, but at what cost? The promise of future bondage to whatever Alpha the algorithm deemed compatible with my genetic profile.
"I need time to think about it," I said finally.
Doctor Emerson nodded, reaching into his suit pocket to withdraw a thick document bound in a blue folder. "This is the contract from The Eros Institute. All the details about the treatment protocol and the obligations that come with it." He placed it on my bedside table. "Review it. Ask me any questions. But, Lucy..."
"I know," I whispered. "I don't have much time to decide."
8
XANDER
{One month ago}
I slammed my fist into the countertop, the Eros rep’s words replaying in my head.
“Please understand, we are truly doing our best to find you a suitable match. You and your pack mates have…” her voice trailed off; she lapsed into silence.
“We have what?” I didn’t manage to control the growl in my voice. The threat. The ‘fuck around and find out’ tone that warned smart people to back off.
She cleared her throat. “Very unique markers. Your Alpha pheromones are unlike any we’ve encountered. They’re incredibly potent. And they each, amazingly, have double layered braiding.”
“You say that like I’m supposed to know what the fuck double layered braiding means. We’re not running around Vegas looking like a Catholic fucking schoolgirl.” It was a goodthing the bitch wasn’t in the same room as me. I’d have knocked her lights out.
“Well,” she paused, maybe thinking about the best way to explain.
“Tell me like I’m a goddamn pup. Get out the fucking crayons and construction paper.” Each word was a bullet, and when the woman spoke again, her voice trembled.
“It means that instead of, um, let’s say a straight, no-frills loaf of sandwich bread, each of you guys are a dough braid that’s then braided again into a five strand Challah. Layers upon layers.”
“Then bake us a fucking Omega,” I countered, not pointing out that she’d picked the most goddamn ridiculous analogy possible. She could have said Alphas have layers, like an onion, and you guys make one hell of a French onion soup. Fuck, maybe that was worse than the bread thing.
“It just doesn’t work like that, Sir. Mister Xander. Um… Mister DemonX.” Her timid rambling made the carnal, predatory part of me stretch.
“Then what you’re saying is we have to keep waiting? At what point does Eros return our money with interest?” Money always talked. You threaten someone who worships it, and they cry Uncle.
“The contract states that you cannot request a refund unless?—”
“Unless the full eighteen months have passed. I’m fucking aware.” I hung up, slamming the cell down on the tank of my bike. The rep had called while I was riding. And, stupid fucking me, I’d pulled over immediately hoping for good news.
