Chapter 2
TWO
HOLLY
I spend the rest of my orientation day doing exactly what Dr. Klinkhart asks.
Which mostly involves avoiding his direct line of sight.
Though I hate the way it feels like his voice slithers down my back like a physical touch every time he snaps at someone. There is something about the particular timbre that makes it impossible not to notice every time he speaks, even from behind the closed doors of patient rooms.
Luckily, the mountains of paperwork from human resources keep me at an ancient desktop computer and mostly out of his way.
By the time the day ends and he disappears, it feels like an electrical storm has finally dissipated but still leaves the air buzzing with static.
My hands tremble slightly—a physiological response to alpha pheromones, nothing more.
I press my palms against my scrub pants, focusing on the cool scratch of fabric against my skin as a distraction from my own thoughts.
I barely have enough energy to drag myself to the little administrator’s office at the back of the clinic, despite the fact that I spent most of the day in a chair at the nurse’s station completing training modules.
A plump woman with silver-streaked hair waves me into the office with enough enthusiasm that I immediately want to pretend I forgot something at the desk and do an about-face.
“You must be Dr. Chang! I’m Greta, clinic administrator and your official welcome wagon.” Her handshake is warm and lingering.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Let me look at you—such delicate features! We don’t get many girls with looks like yours up here.”
I offer my practiced professional smile, though it’s probably more than a little brittle around the edges. Microaggression aside, her observation is obviously meant to be a compliment. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Your scent is so...muted. I would have pegged you as an omega from a mile away, but maybe I’m getting old.” Her nostrils flare slightly. “Are you a beta, honey?
Where I’m from, asking about designation within a minute of meeting someone is on the same level as asking where someone is really from. But Greta’s smile is full of sincere innocence, so I don’t really have a choice but to let it slide if I don’t want to make her feel bad.
Is this really what it’s going to be like here? Eight weeks of small-town curiosity and proving myself to people who won’t even give me a chance before passing judgment.
My stomach feels like a lead weight, but the lie flows smoothly after years of practice. “Guilty as charged. People make that mistake a lot, but I’m just really short.”
“Huh…well, don’t be surprised if you encounter more of that mistake around here.” Greta shuffles papers on her desk, her gaze lingering a touch too long. “And no mate yet? Pretty thing like you?”
Jesus.
“I was a little busy with medical school and residency, you know how it is,” I offer, fighting to keep the smile on my face. “About my accommodation assignment…I was told to get my keys from you?”
“Yes, of course,” she says, finally breaking eye contact to rummage in a nearby drawer.
“We have you at the Whitesong Cabins just on the north side of town. There aren’t many other visitors here since it’s the low season, so it should be fairly quiet up there.
People usually describe it as peaceful. Though there might not be all the amenities you’re used to coming from a place like New York City. ”
She waits a beat, obviously intending for me to fill the conversational gap with…something.
Unfortunately, I have no idea what that should be.
Small talk isn’t exactly my forte. I have a tendency to swing wildly between two extremes: missing all social cues and freezing up like a deer in headlights or vomiting up a pile of nonsense that I only realize nobody wants to hear when I see their horrified expressions.
So instead of explaining to this woman that I didn’t come all the way to rural Alaska for peace and quiet—more blood, guts and bone—I give her the most sincere smile I can muster and hold my hand out for the keys. “I think I’ll be okay, thanks.”
Greta dangles the keys just out of reach. “I feel like I should warn you—that cabin gets pretty isolated when the snow really comes down. Cell service goes in and out. Power, too.”
I maintain my smile, though it’s getting harder by the second. “That’s not a problem.”
“No? You seem like such a city girl.”
I take a steadying breath. “Actually, I started solo mountain climbing in college. Spent three winters tackling increasingly difficult peaks in the Adirondacks before moving on to the Rockies.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh, wow.”
“I’ve faced way worse than cold showers when the power goes out.” I hold my hand out a little further, resisting the urge to grab the bright orange coil keyring out of her hand. “And snow-covered mountain roads are basically my natural habitat at this point.”
Greta finally relinquishes the keys, looking at me with renewed interest. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Dr. Chang? And I suppose that’s definitive evidence you’re not an omega. My daughters don’t go anywhere they can’t plug in a curling iron.”
I pocket the keys, smiling more from the thought of what my own mother would have to say to that than anything else.
“Thanks again for your concern,” I say, backing toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I escape the room before she can think of another reason to stop me.
My drive to the cabins takes me to the far side of town and partway up the mountain. I can see how the place would be picturesque in the summer, but the snow crunching under my tires and bare trees scream winter isolation.
I make a tight corner in the road and stop short, tapping the brakes hard enough in surprise that the car jerks.
When Greta told me I’d be in a cabin, I pictured something like the rentals my climbing group used in Colorado—rustic on the outside but fitted with modern amenities. This is...significantly more authentic.
Log walls darkened with age. A small porch with a rocking chair that’s seen better decades. Windows with actual shutters that probably need to be closed manually during storms. A few other cabins are visible through the trees, but far enough away to discourage a casual walk.
I park the car and get out. The spiral keyring is loose enough around my wrist that I have to pinch the small metal tag on it between my fingers.
The tag has a stylized pine tree with Cabin 3 engraved on it.
Cute. Quaint, even. I follow the winding path up a slight incline, pulling my suitcase behind me while mentally cataloging the sounds of the forest—branches creaking, distant bird calls, the crunch of my boots on gravel.
The door requires some shoulder pressure to unstick it from the frame. When I shove my way inside, I’m immediately met with scent of lemon cleanser and and rotting wood. When I flip the light switch, a single bulb illuminates what can generously be called a living space.
A sagging couch faces a stone fireplace. The kitchen consists of a mini-fridge, two-burner stove, and a sink with a hand pump. An actual hand pump. For water.
“Rustic charm,” I mutter, setting my suitcase down with a thud.
I now understand Greta’s warnings. This isn’t just isolated; it’s primitive. The bathroom door creaks open to reveal a clawfoot tub with a shower attachment that looks like it predates the Nixon administration.
Hiking up the steep steps to the loft reveals a surprisingly comfortable-looking bed beneath a skylight. At least I’ll have stars while I freeze to death.
I haul my suitcase upstairs and begin unpacking, arranging scrubs and clinic-appropriate clothes in the small dresser. My fingers linger on the specialized hiking gear I’d packed—lightweight moisture-wicking pants, thermal layers, my favorite technical jacket with its fifteen different pockets.
“Like you’ll have time for hiking,” I scold myself. “You’re here to work, not play mountain explorer.”
But I carefully arrange the gear anyway. Just in case. The mountains visible through the skylight seem to mock my wishful thinking.
In the bathroom, I line up my toiletries on the narrow shelf beside the sink. Shampoo, conditioner, face wash—simple necessities. Then the more important items: my Chinese herbs in their distinctive red and gold packaging, and the white pharmacy bottle of suppressants.
The bottle of suppressants slips from my fingers, hits the edge of the sink, and the cap pops off entirely. Pills scatter—some landing on the counter, but most pouring straight into the drain with a terrible rattling sound.
I lunge forward, fingers scrabbling at the drain, but it’s too late. I manage to rescue only five pills from the counter and floor. Five pills. This formulation has to be taken twice a day, so I’m about two and half days from disaster.
My heart hammers against my ribs as panic rises. Without suppressants, I’ll be in heat within days, maybe hours, of going cold turkey.
I grip the sink edge, taking deep breaths. Think logically. There is a pharmacy in town. I can get an emergency refill. I just need to call my doctor back home and request that they fax a prescription for an early refill.
Except, I’ve already met the local pharmacist. As much as Jackson Reed seemed like the upstanding and professional type, can I really trust him to keep the juicy knowledge that the new beta doctor is actually an omega in disguise to himself?
I’m not back in New York. This won’t be as simple as finding a pharmacy in one of the other boroughs where no one knows me or have a 90-day supply sent to me in the mail.
Not only is my omega designation required to be listed on the prescription, but there really isn’t any other reason someone would be prescribed a heat suppressant. If Jackson is even halfway decent at his job, he’ll see right through any flimsy explanation I can offer.
The sound of the wind through the trees suddenly seems menacing rather than peaceful. Five pills stand between me and a humiliating exposure that might cost me my career.
I stare at my reflection in the spotted mirror, at the fear evident in my eyes.
I will figure this out because I really don’t have a fucking choice.