Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
SKYLAR
My phone rings, and I consider ignoring it until I look down and realize it’s the Buchanan Center.
They don’t typically call when I’m off work, especially when Dr. Song—the other designation specialist—is working.
Sweat pours down my face as I hit pause on the treadmill and swipe a finger across my phone screen to answer it.
I expect to hear the receptionist or a nurse on the other end of the line, but it’s Dr. Song himself, sounding frazzled.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Morales, but is there any way you could come in and cover my shift?
Lucy just went into labor with the twins, and I’m trying to get there as fast as I can. ”
My annoyance evaporates. Lucy, his omega, has been on bedrest for a couple of weeks due to complications, and it was only a matter of time before Dr. Song would need to take his paternity leave. I’m not exactly surprised, but we were hoping she’d hold out a little longer.
“Is Dr. Martin still out of the country?” I ask, wondering if our part-time specialist would be able to go instead.
“Until next Wednesday.”
Fuck. That’s obviously out of the question.
“If you can't, I’ll have Gwin reschedule today’s appointments,” Dr. Song says, but I can hear the hesitation in his voice. “I know you probably have plans today.”
Plans? Yes. I want to enjoy my only day off this week and get in an extra workout. But it’s nothing that can’t be postponed or moved around, especially considering the circumstances.
I hate the thought of rescheduling appointments—especially on such short notice. Some of our patients wait weeks to be seen, and they come from all over the country. That’s why we partnered with the hotel next door, so they’d have somewhere convenient to stay.
No, postponing them is also out of the question.
“Don’t do that. I’ll come in,” I assure him, checking the time on my phone. “I can be there by nine.” That gives me an hour to get to the clinic. I’m sure our patients would rather their appointments start a little late than have to come back another day.
“You don’t know how much I appreciate it, Dr. Morales.” His tone is a mixture of excitement and relief. “Also… we have a peculiar case this morning. Do you have a minute?”
Peculiar cases aren’t uncommon at the research center—more like part of the job description—but if Dr. Song thinks it’s worth mentioning, it must be pretty wild. I head for the shelf in the corner and snatch up my water bottle, bracing myself for absurdity.
“Yeah, I’m free.” I squirt water into my mouth and swallow. “Whatcha got?”
“An undetermined female is flying in this morning from Georgia,” he says. “She was tested by a heat specialist, and they’re faxing her records.”
“What do you mean, undetermined?” I pause, my interest piqued. I rack my brain for possible explanations, but I’m drawing a blank. Clearly my head is still in gym-mode. “Like the tests came back inconclusive?”
“Still waiting on the records to be sent, but I spoke with the specialist on the phone this morning. He said they couldn’t identify any alpha or omega genetic markers, yet she displays characteristics of both.”
I cock my head, watching my reflection in the wall-length mirror as sweat pours down my temples. “Interesting.”
There could be a few different explanations for why a beta would display varying alpha or omega characteristics, but there’s no way to know for certain until I get my hands on the test results.
It could be something super simple, like a hormone imbalance, but I doubt someone would fly across the country looking for answers if it was that easy.
I definitely want to get on this case.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say. “And congrats.”
Once I hang up, I debate finishing my workout, but decide against it—those skull crushers earlier were no joke.
Instead, I snatch a towel off a neatly-folded stack and drag it over my face.
If I have time on my lunch break, maybe I’ll get in some lunges, but I’m pleased with the reps I got in already.
Before heading upstairs to bathe, I pause in front of the long mirror that reflects every inch of my home gym and check my physique, turning this way and that to admire my progress.
Since renovating the basement and installing all the workout equipment a year ago, I’ve come a long way.
My sports bra and spandex shorts display a clear view of all my hard work and dedication.
I flex, watching my muscles ripple. Everything is coming along nicely, but it’ll be a few more months before I get to where I want to be. Will I stop then? Probably not, but it’s nice to have a starting goal.
Satisfied, I head upstairs and jump in the shower, scrubbing the salty sweat from every inch of my body.
I dress in dark navy slacks and a pale blue button-up that pops against my tan skin but forgo my usual tie.
Even though it's only the middle of the week, I'm feeling casual. I’m ready for the weekend.
I smirk at the thought.
Years ago, I used to party hard on the weekends, hitting every nightclub in Boston, staying out until the wee hours of the morning. I was always cautiously optimistic that I would stumble upon a mate if I put myself out there enough.
But that never happened…
After years of searching, I had nothing to show for it, and I gradually lost hope.
Sure, I’d been interested in some omegas but, for whatever reason, none of them ever worked out. More often than not, it was because I’m a female alpha, one of the rarest designations in the world, and they preferred pack life or real knots to what I could give them.
It was a hard pill to swallow, but eventually I got over it.
I became more introverted, going out less and less until I stopped going out at all. Now, I spend the weekends alone, lounging around the house, kayaking on the lake in my backyard, or working out. It’s a simple life, but I enjoy every minute of it.
The drive to the office is short, and I’m still chugging my protein shake when I walk in. Right on time. The older secretary, with a perfect bun and narrow glasses, gives me a sly look and shoves a stack of folders to the corner of her desk.
“Good morning, Dr. Morales,” she says before her eyes slide back to her computer screen.
“Morning, Gwin.” I grab the folders, flipping through the top one without actually reading anything. “Any messages?”
“There’s a fax on your desk.” Her fingers vigorously slam across her keyboard. “No missed calls.”
The records.
A ripple of anticipation wiggles through me, and I nod my thanks before heading down the hall to my office.
It’s a large corner room with windows that overlook the parking lot; bright sunlight currently spills in through the open blinds, falling across my wooden desk. I cross to the tall cabinet in the corner and tug open the door, pulling out one of the crisp white lab coats hanging there.
Once it's on, I take a seat at my desk and look over the files of the morning’s patients.
Jacob Ladd, 40, alpha. Presents with a rut lasting more than fourteen days.
“Oof.” I grimace. Poor guy is probably miserable.
Stella Marks, 32, omega. Requests higher dose of pheromone injections.
I flip to the last one.
Riann Saunders, 19, undetermined. Preliminary testing.
My fingertips tingle as I read the word again.
Undetermined.
Seeing it in black and white hits harder than Dr. Song relaying the information over the phone. I’ve seen cases of undetermined designations before, but it’s usually nothing a blood test and hormone treatment can’t fix.
This is not that.
I browse over her blood tests, looking at the numbers and levels that all seem extraordinarily average. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing unusual to give me pause.
I’m stumped and eager to talk to her, to hear about the symptoms she’s been experiencing. Then, we can start trying to figure out what’s going on.
Unfortunately, she’s third on my roster this morning, so I’ll have to wait just a little longer.
I grab the top folder—the alpha with the unusually long rut—along with my clipboard and head for the door.
My first two appointments are a breeze. A couple of shots and a prescription later, I’m headed to my third patient—the undetermined female.
I pause outside her door and reach up to knock, but a scent stops me in my tracks.
A mouth-watering, sugary aroma is bleeding out of the exam room, wafting into the hall.
Curiosity pools low in my stomach as I inhale, letting the perfume invade my senses.
I’m caught off guard by how foreign yet familiar it smells.
It reminds me of campfires and late summer nights laid out under the stars. Of whittling sticks into skewers and roasting marshmallows over an open flame.
It smells delicious.
Flipping through the chart in my hands again, I glance over the details I read earlier.
Riann Saunders, 19, undetermined.
I breathe in again, letting the sticky-sweet scent of marshmallows consume me until my mouth waters.
In the five years I've worked at the specialty clinic, I've seen all kinds of curiosities, but it isn't normally hard to work out with a bit of testing.
Omegas who need a special dose of hormones to boost their pheromone production.
Alphas who require blockers to regulate mood swings.
This scent—the rich sweetness that has my senses in a chokehold—is different.
It lacks the powerful punch of an alpha scent, but there’s also too much edge for it to belong to an omega.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever smelled before, and with every second I linger outside the room, it drives me more insane.
Desperation claws at my insides, urging me to knock on the door, and my hand is on the handle before she even calls for me to come in.
The exam room is small and identical to all the others on this floor, with a desk and rolling stool tucked into the far right corner.
Slatted blinds block out most of the sunlight trying to creep through the window on the far wall, and a plastic chair—which is currently occupied by a fat pink duffle bag—sits in the other corner.
I open my mouth to greet the patient sitting on the exam table to my left, but my tongue refuses to work when my gaze settles on her.
She’s wearing dark leggings and an oversized pink hoodie that nearly swallows her whole.
Her vibrant red hair is twisted into a single braid that falls over her shoulder, and a light smattering of freckles decorates her nose and cheeks.
When my eyes lock with her ice-blue ones, I freeze.
She’s stunning, her presence more dominant than any omega I’ve ever met, but still too subtle to be an alpha. I inhale again, letting her scent roll through me, soaking into my bones.
My thoughts are scrambled as I struggle to recall any bit of my bedside manners, and my mouth still refuses to cooperate.
I probably seem as professional as a brand new nursing student right now, and my cheeks prickle with embarrassed heat.
This is not at all how I saw this appointment going, and I haven’t even introduced myself.
I open my mouth to do just that, but she cocks a slender brow at me, making my insides wiggle, and suddenly my mind goes blank aside from a single word.
Shit.