The Morder
Elowen
"It feels amazing in here!" A flushed nurse gasps as she steps into our makeshift pharmacy.
I force a smile as Milo chirps, "Welcome to the coldest spot in the market."
And it is cold.
Three portable air conditioners hum along the white canvas walls, rattling faintly every few seconds like mechanical heartbeats.
They keep the tent at a steady sixty-two degrees.
It’s critical for the refrigerated units lined up behind me, their glass doors fogged at the edges, rows of vials and ampules glowing softly under the interior lights.
The shelves flanking both sides of the tent are packed tight with blister packs, gauze, bandages, sealed syringes, and tons of PPE.
Everything is organized and accounted for.
Outside our tent, generators groan throughout the forest. You can hear them from every corner of the Morder. Deep, diesel-throated sounds that bleed through the trees and hang in the humid air.
The market sits in a clearing carved out of dense woodland, miles from the nearest paved road. It’s only accessible if you have four-wheel drive and know which logging trail to take.
I have no idea how clients know how to find it, but they somehow manage.
And I can already hear them.
Dozens, if not hundreds of alpha voices overlap in the distance.
I know we're safe in here. After all, there are at least a hundred concrete barriers, on top of armed guards that ring the entire perimeter in staggered rows.
They form a wall between the omega quarter, where the medical tents, holding areas, and preparation stations are clustered, and the alpha side, where the bidding happens.
I've been told the barriers are more than enough to keep the alphas at bay, but my nerves still don't trust it.
"I need forty milligrams of Omevra-X and a course of doxycycline. Seven days." The nurse at the front of the line doesn't look up from her clipboard. She's already moving to the next item on her list.
"Of course." I turn to one of the fridges, pulling out the meds. "Milo, can you grab the doxy? Second shelf, left side, next to the nasal swabs."
“On it, Pérez.” Milo is already moving. He's fast and quiet and doesn't ask unnecessary questions, which is exactly what I need right now because if one more person asks me if I'm okay, I’m going to shatter into a thousand pieces.
Despite taking twice the recommended dosage of suppressants last night, I still feel like shit.
My lower back has been throbbing since before dawn. It’s a deep, rolling ache that sits right above my hips and pulses in time with my heartbeat. Every pulse makes my heartbeat jack up, and my palms sweat.
I’m terrified the meds didn’t work.
Please don’t go into heat out here. Please, please, please.
I had a feeling they weren’t that effective when I woke up a little achy this morning. I should have stayed home. But instead, I doused myself in scent-blockers then walked into an alpha-packed black market like a fucking idiot.
"Here you go." Milo places the doxy on the table in front of the nurse.
"Do you need anything else?" I ask, pushing the Omevra toward her.
"Yes. I’ve got another omega that’s presenting with severe abdominal cramping, muscle spasms, and her temperature keeps spiking." The nurse glances at her clipboard. “Dr. Plume wants her on Calmavex.”
"I’m pretty sure we don’t have that," Milo says, already scanning the shelf behind him. "Haven't had Calmavex in weeks."
"Okay." I press my knuckles into the counter, steadying myself as a dull ache rolls through my lower back.
"We can give her eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen for the cramping and inflammation.
" My fingers find the right box without looking.
Thank god for routine. "And we’ll pair it with ten milligrams of Flexoril for the spasms, and if her temperature doesn't come down in the next hour, start her on a low dose of Therapen. Fifteen milligrams, no more."
The nurse looks up from her clipboard, slightly surprised.
"It's not a replacement for Calmavex," I add, already pulling the bottles. "But it'll manage the symptoms until she can see a doctor who can get her on the right regimen. She needs proper treatment as soon as possible. Tell Dr. Plume she can’t go into the auction. Not until she’s been tested."
Milo gives me a look. Half impressed, half amused. "See, this is why you're the pharmacist and I'm the lowly assistant." He laughs.
I ignore him and slide the bag across the counter. The pain in my abdomen sharpens for a second, and I grip the edge of the shelf until it passes.
The next nurse steps up immediately.
They've been coming in a steady stream all damn day. The omegas in the holding areas need antibiotics, anti-nausea meds, anxiolytics, hormone stabilizers, and hardcore sedatives.
“Dr. Plume would like five vials of Omevra for tent nine.” This nurse looks younger than me. Her hands are shaking as she holds out the order slip.
“Are you okay?” I ask as I get the vials.
“Yeah.” She forces a very tight smile. "It’s just…A few men brought in two omegas this morning," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "The poor omegas look roughed up. One of them… her face is all bruised."
A wave of hot, acidic guilt churns in my stomach, so intense it makes me feel sick.
I’m helping to hurt those girls…
I’m the one filling the order for the drugs that will keep those omegas docile and pliable, ready to be sold to the highest bidder.
And I fucking hate it.
I hate myself for being a cog in this ugly machine, but I don’t have a choice.
It’s okay, I tell myself. Take a breath. You’re doing what you have to.
But before I spiral into too much self-hatred, a sharp pain slices through me. It cuts right below my navel, spreading outward towards my back. This one is internal, deep, like something waking up. A tightness that coils and releases and coils again.
No!
“She doesn’t look too good,” the nurse says.
I shake my head, trying to say I’m fine, but my mouth is dry and my pulse is climbing, and there is a faint, persistent hum in my blood that has nothing to do with the generators outside.
My scrubs feel wrong against my skin—too rough and stiff.
It’s like every nerve ending in my body has completely splintered.
"Elowen?" Milo is looking at me. "You good?"
"Fine." I force a wide smile. "Who's next?" I look at the next person in line, and my vision doubles for a second.
“You don't look fine, sweetheart.” An older nurse steps up to the counter.
I try to say I’m good, but my upper body sways. I press my palms into the countertop, trying to steady myself.
"She really doesn't," Milo says, and before I can argue, his hand is on my elbow, steering me away from the counter toward the small metal stool wedged between two refrigeration units.
"I'm fine, Milo. Seriously, I'm fine."
But I sit anyway. The cold glass hums against my shoulder blade when I lean back, and the cold feels so good it almost makes me cry.
“Here.” Milo presses a bottle of water into my hand and gives me a firm look. "Take a break. I can handle things for a second."
The older nurse leans over the counter, her eyes doing that quick clinical sweep that medical people can't seem to turn off. "Honey, let me take a look at you. It'll only take a minute."
"No!" I practically yell.
Milo flinches and the nurse's eyes go wide.
I soften immediately, rearranging my face into something apologetic and warm. "No, thank you. Really. I just need some water and a second to sit. I skipped breakfast like an idiot, that's all." I pretend to laugh at myself.
The nurse tilts her head. "You sure?"
I pull every last ounce of energy I have into the most sincere smile I can manage. It must land, because her expression eases, and she nods once like she believes me.
Milo seems satisfied too. He turns back to the counter, already reaching for the next clipboard. "Alright, who's next? What do you need?"
I twist the cap off the water and drink slowly, letting the cold sit on my tongue before I swallow.
From my stool, I have a full view of the line.
It stretches from the counter all the way to the tent entrance, nurses and techs clustered in pairs, tablets and clipboards in hand, murmuring to each other about dosages and patient numbers.
Through the back tent flap, I can see the tree line, tall pines pressing in close, their shadows cutting across the paths that connect the tents.
Everything smells like diesel and pine resin and canvas baking in the sun.
And underneath all of that, is pure, masculine alpha.
They’re not too close, probably lingering on the far side of the barriers, but I can still smell them.
The market doesn't officially open for another hour or so, but the clients always arrive early. I learned that during my first shift at the market. Their harsh, overlapping scents build gradually until they overtake everything else.
“Drink up, Pérez,” Milo glances back at me. “I don’t need you passing out,” he says it like it’s a joke, but I can see the worry in his eyes.
“Sorry.” I quickly take another sip. The water slides down my throat right as a fresh wave of pain moves through me. This one is a deep, clenching cramp that makes my abdominal muscles tense so hard my back arches slightly.
I bite down on a gasp, my breath catching in my throat. Milo frowns and I plaster a smile on my face so fast it hurts. “I’m good.” I force a small laugh. “I got a little dizzy for a second there. That’s all.”
I have no idea if Milo believes me or not, but he finally turns around, getting back to work.
Thank god.
More pain builds, and I press my forearm across my midsection, breathing through my nose. Slow and measured.
It passes in waves, tightening and releasing, each peak sharper than the last, and I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper.
I can feel Milo’s eyes on me, but I refuse to look up.
And then it hits me.
It seeps through the canvas walls, warm and heavy, carrying something underneath the sweet scent of the forest that hits me like a wall. Rich. Thick.
Alpha pheromones.
The aroma is concentrated and layered, dozens of individual scents braided together into something my hindbrain registers before my conscious mind even has a name for it.
My thighs squeeze together instinctively, a desperate, useless attempt to stem the sudden flood of heat between my legs. I have to fight the urge to moan as my clit throbs.
It’s a deep, biological pull that overrides every shred of my self-control.
My mind races, a frantic, panicked spiral of images that aren't my own—of being pinned down, of a heavy weight on top of me, of being filled and claimed until the ache stops.
My eyes float closed as I fantasize about a long and wide cock.
A thick, unyielding shaft that will split me open and leave me gasping.
A fresh gush of slick soaks the thick fabric of my panties, and pure panic rips through me as sweat beads along my brow.
My pussy feels so swollen and hot, a desperate, hollow ache that throbs with every beat of my heart. The urge to fuck and rut grips me, a primal, overwhelming need that makes my hands shake.
I shift my hips and lean forward, trying to grind against the small stool beneath me, but it’s not enough.
It’s nowhere near enough. I need to be filled and stretched, fucked so hard I can’t remember my own name.
I’m so desperate to be stuffed, I have to fight the urge to shove my own hand down the front of my scrubs and push my fist inside my cunt.
“Is she okay?”
Someone asks, and I quickly stand, then stagger a little, falling into the nearest refrigerator.
“Pérez?” Milo turns toward me, his brown eyes wide with fear.
I stumble past him, mumbling the word “sick” as I pass the long line of worried nurses. Someone tries to reach for my upper arm, asking if I need a doctor, but I manage to slip free.
The tent flap hits my shoulder on the way out, and the heat slams into me, thirty degrees warmer than the refrigerated air I just left. The sweat that was beading at my temples turns into a full pour down my neck, my chest, soaking into the collar of my scrubs before I've taken three steps.
My vision swims.
I walk.
I don't know where to go, but my feet keep moving.
The camp moves around me wrong, tilted and too bright. The generators are loud, and the PA system cuts in and out in sharp bursts that lance through my skull. Nurses and techs move past me on the dirt path, all of them oblivious to the chaos brewing inside me.
I keep moving, my legs feeling like liquid.
Every step shifts the slick soaking through my padded underwear, and I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste copper, using the pain to keep myself moving in a straight line.
Then the scent of dozens of omegas hits me.
Sweet and dense and coming from everywhere at once, pouring out of the holding tents in layered, overlapping waves. My teeth set. It should soothe me. Every biological instinct I have says an omega scent means safety, means pack, means calm down.
But it does the opposite.
It makes me want to claw something, because underneath every honeyed wave of it is alpha, thick and muscular and possessive, and my hindbrain reads that combination the same way every time.
Someone else is going to take what's mine.
The rage is so sudden and so irrational it scares me. I press my back against the side of a generator and dig my nails into my own forearms, hard, and the pain cuts through for exactly two seconds before the next cramp rolls through my core and takes everything with it.
I have to get out.
My feet move. The hot wind shifts.
And then I catch it.
Rich dark chocolate and something sweet like sunflowers, all laced with a thick, intoxicating alpha musk.
My pussy clenches, then opens, a sudden, desperate surrender.
A fresh, overwhelming rush of slick soaks through my padded underwear, a wet, undeniable proof of my body's betrayal. And just like that, my mind seems to slip away, the last threads of my control snapping like an old thread.
But instead of moving toward the dense crowd of alphas near the main barriers, my feet carry me away from the chaos, toward the edge of the meadow, following the delicious scent on the far side of the clearing.
The generators fade. The PA system cuts to nothing. The diesel and pine and canvas baking in the sun are gone. There’re only chocolate, sunflowers, and musk, pulling me forward like a hand pressed to the small of my back.
My breathing slows.
My fists unclench.
The cramps don't stop, but I don’t care about them any more. Even the rage drains out of me, replaced by something quieter and infinitely more dangerous. A calm, absolute certainty settling in my bones like warm water.
My stride evens out. My chin lifts.
Whoever that scent belongs to is about to be mine.