Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SKYLAR
It’s a miracle that I’m able to make it home, shower, and change on my lunch break without anyone asking what I’ve been up to. Either I’m way more subtle than I give myself credit for, or the staff would rather live in ignorance than know the truth.
Maybe both.
After grabbing Mr. Clifton’s chart from the lab and making my rounds to see a handful of patients, I’ve managed to stuff the memories from this morning into a mental filing cabinet to assess later.
I’m exceedingly grateful for the rut suppressants I took at home that have already kicked in.
If not for them, just the thought of Riann spread out on my desk or whimpering as I ate her out would have me marching straight out of the office to find her at the hotel next door.
I shake my head.
I need to work; I need to focus.
If I’m going to figure out what’s going on with Riann’s designation, I have to lock the thoughts of her up tight and get through the rest of my work day.
I actively avoid my office until I’ve seen all of the day’s patients because I know once I get there, I won’t want to leave. I didn’t bother to clean—I just locked the door and left—so her scent is bound to be dripping from every surface in the room.
The second I step through my office door, I’m assaulted by the mix of marshmallow and smoke, the stench of sex and pine still clinging to space. I shudder, closing the door behind me and resting my head back against it.
I take a slow breath, then another. Closing my eyes, I allow myself to finally relive what happened this morning. The delicious whimpers that fell from Riann’s lips, how beautifully she responded to my touch, the way her pussy clamped down on my fingers as she came…
What I wouldn’t give to do it all over again.
Forcing my eyes open, I take a step toward my desk, but something on the floor catches my eye. It’s lumpy and black and, as I kneel to pick it up, I realize with a twist of pleasure what it is.
Riann’s shirt.
She only grabbed her sweater after we were nearly caught earlier, and she must have been too frazzled to think about it. With a smirk, I snatch it up and bring it to my nose, inhaling deeply and letting the smell of marshmallows fill my lungs.
She’ll be lucky if she gets it back, unless it’s to soak in more of her delicious scent for me.
Still clutching the tank top, I march over to my desk and sit in the office chair Riann was in earlier.
The slick might have dried, but the chair still reeks of her.
I let her sticky-sweet perfume fill my sinuses as I pull out her chart, my eyes spilling over the levels and numbers that I’ve committed to memory.
I’ve stared at them for hours, trying to make sense of the seemingly perfect results to no avail.
I’m missing something; I have to be.
I ran every test I could think of, checked and rechecked, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Clearly the answer is buried deeper, and I haven’t dug far enough to find it.
How is it possible for someone to have perfectly normal test results but such confusing symptoms? It isn’t like they're constant either; they fluctuate, which doesn’t make things easier. Her heat, her rut, the way she doesn’t react to scents…
Besides mine.
My scent nearly choked her the first time we were in an exam room together, which lends to my theory that we could be some kind of incomplete scent match, but I’ve never heard of that happening either.
I bring her shirt to my nose again, breathing her scent in like a drag on a cigarette while my mind churns.
None of it makes sense, which only makes me more eager to figure out what’s going on. A diagnosis would not only change Riann’s life—her enrollment in the academy and her future as a prospective mate depend on it—but solving something so rare would change my career forever.
The possibilities make my fingers tingle.
My eyes fall to the slick stain coating my desk as my mind wanders, trying to figure out where to go from here.
Her blood lacks the chemical compounds found in alphas and omegas, that much I know, but maybe something else was missed.
Something to do with her genetics, like a marker or mutation that we haven’t seen before.
Something new…
My heart stutters at the thought of discovering something novel in a field that’s already inundated with research.
It’s a long shot, and a potentially exhaustive one—looking at individual chromosomes for mutations is a tedious task, even with cutting edge technology. But something in my gut tells me it’s the best place to start.
I could head to the lab upstairs and get to work extracting her DNA. Our machine can sequence a single chromosome in a few hours, so the sooner I get started the better. There’s always tomorrow, and the next day, but I know Riann is impatiently waiting for answers.
As much as I would love to prolong the diagnosis and keep her here forever, the responsible thing to do is work quickly.
I drum my fingers against my lips pensively. In order to extract her DNA, I need a viable sample, and I'm pretty sure we used every drop of her blood for the last panel of tests.
Damn it.
I run a hand through my hair. Obviously, I could wait until she comes in tomorrow to draw more blood. That would be the sensible, logical thing to do. But the curious adrenaline slamming through my system won't let me wait that long.
I need to do something; I need to be productive. I need to look for answers, even if it leads to nothing.
My heart flutters at the thought of calling Riann and asking her to come back to the office. Or asking if I can stop by her hotel room with a vial to draw her blood.
Would she care?
Would she let me?
With the suppressants suffocating my alpha senses, I know I'd be able to behave. It’ll just be a quick visit to get some blood, then I’ll be back to the clinic in no time.
Because that makes way more sense than waiting until tomorrow.
Shaking my head, I stare down at Riann’s information sheet, reading over her phone number at least a dozen times. I should probably at least check on her.
That’s the chivalrous thing to do, right?
Uncertainty twisting my insides, I drag out my cell and punch in her number. I type out the first thing that comes to mind.
Hello, it’s Dr. Morales. I wanted to check and see how you’re feeling after your appointment.
I scrunch my nose and immediately delete it, trying again.
This is Dr. Morales from the Buchanan Clinic. Just wanted to—
With a groan, I delete it, tempted to throw my phone across the room. Since when did texting become some form of mental gymnastics? I’ve never had an issue texting a woman before.
But Riann isn’t just a random woman.
I take a deep breath and blow it out, fighting the nerves threatening to take over.
Be casual. Cool.
And for the love, don’t embarrass yourself.
Hey, it’s Skylar.
My heart slams into my throat as I hit send, and I quickly type out another message.