Chapter 16 – ELIAS
Chapter
Sixteen
ELIAS
I 'm cataloging inventory for the third time this week because idle hands make for restless minds, and my mind's been nothing but restless since we brought them here. Each vial gets checked, logged, arranged with precision that would make my old CO proud if he wasn't six feet under.
The door creaks behind me. I don't turn around immediately—years of combat training means I already know who it is by the way they breathe, the particular weight of their footsteps. What I don't understand is why Juniper's here. Alone.
That's when every alarm bell in my head starts screaming.
"Doctor?" Her voice is smaller than usual, stripped of that cutting edge she wields like a knife.
I turn slowly, keeping my movements deliberate and non-threatening.
She's standing in the doorway wearing one of Bane's black shirts that drowns her small frame, bare feet silent on the concrete floor.
Her hair's a mess, like she's been running her fingers through it repeatedly, and there are dark circles under her eyes that makeup can't hide.
"Juniper." I keep my voice neutral, professional. "Is everything alright? Is Felix?—"
"He's sleeping." She takes a step into the room, then stops like she's hit an invisible wall. Her fingers twist in the hem of the shirt, a nervous tell that doesn't match the woman who dropped a chandelier on Bane. "I need to ask you something."
The fact that she's here, voluntarily seeking me out without Felix as a buffer, is significant enough to make my pulse quicken. But I keep my expression calm, setting down the clipboard with measured movements.
"What can I help you with?"
She looks at the floor, the walls, anywhere but directly at me. "Felix isn't getting better."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Recovery from gunshot wounds takes time. He's healing, but?—"
"That's not what I mean." Her eyes finally meet mine, hazel and haunted and too fucking perceptive for anyone's good. "The drugs you're giving him. They're not working right."
My mind races through possibilities. Has she noticed something I missed? Some allergic reaction or interaction I should have caught? "What symptoms is he experiencing?"
"It's not..." She makes a frustrated sound, like words are failing her. That's when I notice her hands are shaking. "Nothing. I'm just worried, that's all."
I nod in understanding. Of course she's worried. I still don't know the history between them, but it's fairly obvious in the way they look at each other. The way they revolve around each other.
"His fever is down and his vitals are good," I say carefully. "The second he's willing to let me examine him more thoroughly, though, I can make a more detailed analysis."
I can see the conflict on her face. The frustration, as quickly as she masks it.
So there's one topic they aren't a united front on. Interesting.
"I need suppressants," she says suddenly.
Suppressants. For an omega, they're standard—help manage heats, reduce scent markers, provide a layer of protection in a world where being an omega makes you a target. But the way she says it, the way she can't quite meet my eyes...
"You… need suppressants?" I echo, surprised by the sudden shift in topic.
Her laugh is bitter as burnt coffee. "Who else would they be for?"
Her sharp edges are a form of armor. That much is clear. And she's probably not thrilled about being in a situation where she has to ask a stranger, let alone someone she's decided is the enemy, for such a personal favor.
"Of course," I say, already moving toward the locked cabinet where we keep the controlled substances. "We have several options. Injectable forms are most effective?—"
"Pills."
I pause with my hand on the lock. "Injections work faster and last longer. If you're experiencing pre-heat symptoms?—"
"I want pills." Her voice is hard again, all the vulnerability from a moment ago vanished. "Ones I can take and dose myself."
I turn to face her fully, studying her defensive posture, the way she's positioned herself between me and the door like she's ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. This is about control. About not giving us any more power over her than absolutely necessary.
"Juniper," I say gently, "I understand you don't trust us. But injectable suppressants really would be?—"
"If you want me to trust you," she interrupts, her chin lifting in defiance, "this is how it starts. Pills I can control. Pills I can choose to take or not take. Not needles in my skin from people who shot my—" She cuts herself off, jaw clenching.
My mate .
That's what she was going to say. Felix isn't just her partner in crime. He's her mate in everything but the biological mark.
It's a reality that's existed long before she entered our world, and I tell myself I have no right to feel possessive. But feelings are rarely rational, no matter how much I'd like them to be.
"Alright," I concede, turning back to the cabinet. "Pills it is."
My fingers find the bottle I'm looking for, a month's supply of high-grade suppressants in tablet form.
They're not as effective as the injectables, and they come with nastier side effects, but they'll do the job if taken consistently.
I turn back to find her watching me with those too-smart eyes, cataloging every movement like she's memorizing it for later.
"These need to be taken daily," I explain, holding out the bottle. "Same time each day for maximum effectiveness, with food. Missing doses can cause breakthrough symptoms?—"
She snatches the bottle from my hand before I finish, our fingers brushing for just a moment. That familiar electric shock of scent recognition shoots up my arm, and I see her flinch from it too. She knows something's different about us, even if she doesn't understand what.
At least she doesn't attack me like she did Archer. A couple of those wounds needed stitches, but he refused. I think he wants them to scar, and I can't say I blame him.
"I know how suppressants work," she says, already backing toward the door.
"Juniper, wait." The words come out before I can stop them.
She freezes, every muscle tensing like a deer hearing a twig snap. "What?"
"Felix..." I choose my words carefully. "If he's experiencing any unusual symptoms, any reactions to the medications, you need to tell me. I can't help if I don't know what I'm treating."
Her eyes narrow to dangerous slits. "Felix is fine."
"Is he?"
The question is loaded with everything we're not saying. We're playing a game of psychological chess where one wrong move could destroy the fragile trust I'm desperate to build.
"He's surviving," she says finally, and there's something broken in her voice that makes my chest ache. "We're both surviving. We're good at that."
"I'm sure you are," I say quietly. I want nothing more than to tell her she doesn't have to anymore.
That she never has to worry about surviving again, because now that we know she exists, we'll do whatever it takes to protect her.
And Felix, even if it's torture knowing our omega belongs to another alpha. Because she loves him.
She turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway. "Thank you. For the pills."
The small thanks feels like a victory. A start. "Juniper?—"
"Don't." She doesn't turn around. "I came to you because out of all of them, you seem the least likely to use this against me. Don't make me regret it."
And then she's gone, bare feet silent on the concrete. Like a ghost.