Black Market Prep
Elowen
All I want right now is a thick, hard cock carving a path deep inside me.
I want to feel a strong man thrust and growl against the crook of my neck, his scent drowning out the sterile smell of this damn room, his weight pinning me down until I can't think about anything but the friction and the heat.
I want to be taken.
Possessed.
Completely overwhelmed by something that would make this constant, agonizing hiding feel worth it.
"If you stare at that vial any harder, it's going to expire out of spite." Milo's voice cuts through the haze.
I blink, and heat rushes to my cheeks as the fantasy evaporates. I look down at the tiny glass bottle of clear liquid in my hand, my heart beating a little too hard.
"Yeah," I let out a short laugh. "This one is just really faded."
Milo smiles and goes back to his own pile.
Stupid, I silently scold myself. Focus.
My thumb traces the embossed lot number. Omevra-X, 10ml. The expiration date is crooked along one side.
Still good.
But I'm not.
A cold, creeping panic crawls up my spine, tightening every muscle. Please, please, please. Don’t let my heat start here.
My cycles have been a mess ever since I started taking the black market suppressants. It could be weeks away, or it could be hours. The thought alone is enough to make my hands shake.
I can’t go into heat here.
Not in this cold, sterile room, surrounded by bulky alpha-guards who would fuck me raw, then sell me to the highest bidder.
I've worked too hard, for too long, to let everything end like that.
Trying to ease the ache twisting low in my back, I roll my shoulders, then reach for the next vial. I hold it up to the light, squinting at the label.
Why do they print them so small?
"You look like you're defusing a bomb," Milo says from across the table. "Relax, Elle. They're sedatives, not explosives."
"If we let an expired one through, a patient might wake up halfway through transport," I say, keeping my eyes on the label. "I don't want to explain to management why one of our clients is picking his own teeth out of his mangled face."
Milo snorts. "That's oddly specific."
"It's called attention to detail." I say, trying to sound light and friendly. "You should try it."
"You kill me." Milo leans his hip against the counter, arms folded, dark curls escaping the tie at the back of his neck.
He's twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine, and clearly spends a lot of time at the gym.
“Pérez. I say this with love.” He reaches for a can of Cherry Red soda sitting in the center of the table.
“But you need to relax. Nothing in here is worth that much stress.” He tilts it back and forth, making the last bit of liquid slosh against the aluminum, before downing the last bit.
I watch him for a second, mildly annoyed.
We're supposed to keep the lab clean, no food or drink, but this isn't exactly a “real” lab.
It's a random room in a warehouse with portable refrigeration units and stolen medications, so I let it go.
Milo sets the can back down and keeps talking. “The guys who bring this stuff in care too much about getting paid.” He gives me an easy smile. "They're not sabotaging their own product."
Guys. Plural.
I've been here six months, and I've never met a single one of them. Not once.
I've tried asking Milo casual questions here and there, and paying attention to when Anton disappears and how long he's gone. But I’ve got nothing. The boxes simply appear like they materialize out of thin air.
Whoever brings this stuff in is kept completely separate from the floor staff.
"This one’s good," I say, setting it with the other good bottles.
Milo cracks a joke, but I don’t hear him.
Sharp pain rolls through my belly, making my breath catch. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, then breathe deeply, trying to will my body to settle, to hold on until I can get my hands on a suppressant.
I'm currently all out, which is so fucking stupid of me, but they’re so hard to get ahold of.
My eyes drift toward the refrigerated unit against the wall. Through the glass, rows of amber bottles glow faintly under the interior light. The ache in my lower abdomen sharpens for a moment before I drag my attention back to the table.
Focus.
I pick up the next vial and tilt it slowly. The liquid should cling slightly to the glass. Not too thick, but there’s enough resistance to tell me it hasn't been cut.
This one slides a little too easily.
My brows raise, and I tilt it again, slower.
Yup. It’s definitely been diluted.
"Another bad one?" Milo asks.
"Maybe." I set it in the reject tray. "Chem can test it."
"You're going to make enemies down there, Pérez," he says lightly. "They'll get real pissy if you keep flagging batches."
"I'd rather piss off chem than Anton."
Milo lets out a soft laugh. "God, you're cute when you're intense."
My head snaps up.
The beta’s expression is bright and open, practically begging me to like him. His dark brows are lifted slightly, mouth curved in an eager, hopeful grin, like he’ll win something if I’ll just smile back at him.
There’s nothing predatory about him.
Milo isn’t rude or anything like that, and he's a nice enough guy. But I don't know how he'll react if I shut him down, and I can’t lose this job.
I need it to get access to the meds I need.
It’s not as if I can go to a doctor. They’d flag me as an unmated omega, then they’d shove me into an institution in the blink of an eye. I’d lose everything I've spent three years painstakingly collecting information, because, somewhere in this world, someone knows what happened to my parents.
"Hey." Milo's voice drops, softer now, and I realize I’m frowning.
"I didn't mean anything by that." He steps around the table toward me, and my shoulders pull tight before I can stop them.
He notices and slows, stopping a few feet away, giving me a bit of space.
“It was a bad joke, Pérez. I'm not trying to be a creep or anything like that.”
I force a smile. "I know. I just like to be thorough." I keep my tone easy. "Anton doesn't strike me as someone who tolerates sloppy work."
Milo’s expression shifts quickly, eager to agree.
“Yeah. Totally, I get that.” He laughs again.
"I mean, this isn't exactly what I pictured for my life.
" His smile grows as he looks around the make-shift lab.
"But here I am." He shakes his head. "Barely graduated high school and I’m processing stolen sedatives for a black market that sells freaking omegas. "
He says it lightly. Like it's simply a funny detail about the job, but shame still presses hard against the inside of my ribs.
These meds will be used to sell omegas like me.
Omegas that weren’t lucky enough to go to school and learn a skill that could help them hide.
I keep smiling.
Don't react. Don't give yourself away.
“Plus, I make more money here than I could anywhere else,” Milo continues, completely oblivious. "I was kind of a wild kid." He shrugs, something almost self-deprecating moving across his face. “I’d never make it in a nine-to-five.”
I nod, flexing my fingers against the side of the table.
God, my back is killing me.
"Anyway." Milo reaches past me for the last box of vials.
He’s close enough that I catch the faint scent of his deodorant.
“Once this market wraps,” he says, slicing through the tape with a box cutter, “I’m taking a vacation. I’ve already told Anton. I’m going somewhere warm that doesn’t hum twenty-four-seven and smell like freaking disinfectant.”
"Yeah?"
“I’ve heard amazing things about Bora Bora,” he says, already smiling like he can see it. “Clear water. Overwater bungalows. And not a single air conditioner unit, trying to freeze my dang fingers off.”
“No joke.” I instinctively flex my fingers again, trying to get my blood pumping through my joints. “I’d kill to feel the sun right now,” I say.
“You know,” His voice drops, more serious now. “They have a beta-only beach.” His brows lift as he reaches for his soda again. He shakes it once out of habit, then frowns when he realizes it’s empty. “You should come with me.” His smile quickly returns. “Have you ever been snorkeling?"
I freeze for half a second, staring at the beta, trying to figure out what to say. “I’m not big on snorkeling, but it does sound really nice.” My voice pitches a little too high. “I bet you’ll have so much fun.”
"I think you'd love it," Milo says, completely missing my deflection. "There will be no alpha scent drops or fluorescent lights. Just lots of sun and overpriced drinks."
I draw in a careful breath, trying to pick my next words carefully, but thankfully I’m saved from having to turn him down.
The heavy click of the outer lock cuts through the room, and we both turn back to our work. I grab the next vial as the door swings open and Anton steps inside. The alpha is carrying a stack of white cardboard boxes braced against his chest.
"Got a few more for you to check," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that makes my nipples perk.
"Damn." Milo eyes the new boxes, then the two left on our table. "We were almost done."
“Sorry,” Anton says, setting the boxes down on the stainless steel table in front of Milo. “They just came in.”
Anton gives me an apologetic smile right as his scent barrels into me. My body responds before my brain can catch up. A slow heat blooms across my sternum, and my abs clench tight.
Hold it together.
The urge to tilt my head and expose the fragile line of my throat to him is intense. I fight it with everything I have, digging my fingernails into my palm to distract myself. But it’s useless.
My body is on fire.
My mouth waters at the sight of the alpha as my gaze drops, tracing the bulge along the front of Anton’s pants. My eyes widen as I imagine what lies beneath.
How big is he?
Long? Curved? Veiny?