The knockon my suite door came precisely at nine in the morning, as scheduled in the detailed itinerary I'd been given the day before. My delivery to the clients had to be handled a little differently, apparently, with trained medical staff instead of transport agents.
Then everything began happening quickly.
Three people entered. A short, male technician with a tablet and a compact bag. A female nurse, whose smile seemed practiced rather than genuine, rolling a tall silver tank. And a young woman who stood slightly behind the other two—she had a bundle of thick, folded fabric tucked under one arm, and she held a helmet with both hands. The transitional suit. My stomach dropped at the sight of it, memories of isolation gear and biohazard protocols flashing through my mind like warning lights. I'd known this was coming, had agreed to it as part ofmy transfer to Las Vegas, but seeing it—this physical reminder of my still-fragile condition—made the reality hit harder than expected.
Someone said good morning.
I might have muttered it back.
They had me change into a tight black shirt and form-fitted leggings. Then they helped me into the suit. It was sleek, no thicker than the kind of one-piece suit professional race car drivers wear. The helmet was reasonably comfortable, not heavy enough to make my shoulders ache. As they hooked up hoses and pressed buttons, I felt something inflate on my back.
“What’s that?” I tried to reach up and behind, but the suit was just stiff enough to keep me from doing so.
The nurse adjusting buckles around my waist glanced up and smiled. “Don't worry. It’s the soft tanks. We’re just filling them up. This oxygen blend is designed to be recycled. As it’s recycled, it’ll move through a special medicinal filter, so every time you breathe, you’ll continually get your lung boosting drugs and the patented Eros meds to support your healing. The system will keep you treated until you can take the suit off.”
“I think the software needs updating,” the man suddenly said. “I’m not getting accurate vital readings from the biometrics.”
“Hold on,” the young woman who’d carried the suit into the room came over. “It’s definitely up to date. All the suits were reprogrammed to eliminate a few bugs last week. So, it might just need a quick reboot.” She dropped to the ground, touching the back of my right calf. A soft buzz sounded, the tanks on my back stopped delivering their cocktail for a split second, and then they restarted. “How is it now?”
The male tech nodded. “Good to go.”
"Now remember, Lucy,” the nurse still standing in front of me spoke again, “you'll need to wear the suit for at least seventy-two hours, though it might take a bit longer.” She adjusted something on the control panel at my wrist. "The red indicator light on your wrist will turn yellow after the first adaptation phase, which means you can remove the helmet for up to thirty minutes at a time in clean environments. The suit will ween you off the filtration too. The key is to take it slow, don’t rush the process. When it turns green, you can take off the suit and transition to your medication schedule. That bag—” she pointed at the small carry case the male tech had carried— “has, believe it or not, everything you need to finish your treatment outside Eros. If breathing gets a little hard, you can use the inhaler.”
“How much longer than three days could it take?” I frowned, everything else she said going in one ear and out the other.
"It depends on how quickly your lungs adapt to the Las Vegas environment," she replied with practiced patience and a sympathetic gaze. "The city has significantly higher levels of particulate pollution and ozone than Seattle. Combined with the desert air and high temperatures, your respiratory system will need time to adjust. There’s really no way to predict whether it will be days or weeks or longer."
"It could take months," the male technician added casually, not looking up from his readings.
"Months?" I repeated, my voice rising despite my effort to remain calm. "I'm supposed to meet five Alpha mates looking like a budget astronaut, and you're telling me it might be months before I can ditch this thing?"
The nurse shot the technician an irritated glance before turning back to me with her professional smile firmly in place. "We’ve had Omegas with health issues adapt very quickly. Your medical history is unique, so we're being cautious with the timeline. Now, let me run you through some of the features. We’ll start with how to seal the top half of the suit, so you can undo the lower half to use the restroom."
I fell silent. Why did everything have to be so difficult for me? What did I do to end up with this body? Maybe I pissed off a Geek God in a past life. The Greeks thrive on tragedy.
Watching, and listening, I tried to memorize what the nurse taught me. Cinch this. Button that. Unzip and zip.
Later, as all three fussed with final adjustments, I found my thoughts drifting to the five men waiting in Las Vegas. The Alphas who were supposedly my perfect mates. Just like these people right now couldn’t predict how long my body would take to adapt to Nevada, no one could predict how the five men would react to me. I’d seen the way they destroyed themselves on a daily basis. Would they destroy me just as casually?
Would I even care if they did?
They’d haunted my dreams ever since I’d first seen the videos and news articles.
They were everything I couldn’t be, and everything I wanted to become.
The suit hummed softly as it calibrated to my breathing. I closed my eyes at the sound, trying to picture riding a motorcycle while wearing this cumbersome outfit. Ridiculous. Impossible.
"All set," the nurse announced, stepping back to assess the final result. "How does it feel?"
I took an experimental deep breath, the oxygen cocktail easing my lungs’ efforts. "Pretty comfortable for a mobile prison," I replied honestly.
The nurse's smile tightened. "Wearing the suit isn’t forever, Lucy, but it is necessary. You won’t adapt without it."
"I know," I sighed, watching the red light on my wrist panel blink steadily. "I've been adapting my entire life.”
And I would continue to adapt—to Las Vegas, to five dangerous Alphas, to whatever came next. Because if there was one thing my life had taught me, it was that survival requiredadaptation. And I was going to survive, dammit, even if it killed me.
31
