Page 39 of Claimed By the Psychos

Felix stills, his arms still wrapped around me. "I know." His tone is blank, as usual, but I know better.

"Maybe if you just let them?—"

"No," he growls, his words turning as sharp as claws. When I flinch, he strokes my hair apologetically, his voice softening. "We'll figure something out. I just need to heal up a bit, then we're getting out of here."

He sounds as confident as always, and he's never given me any reason to doubt him. But deep down, there's a part of me that isn't sure leaving is the right thing to do.

For the first time, I don't tell Felix. Not when I know that would make him want to leave tonight.

Chapter

Sixteen

ELIAS

I'm cataloging inventory for the third time this week because idle hands make for restless minds, and my mind's been nothing but restless since we brought them here. Each vial gets checked, logged, arranged with precision that would make my old CO proud if he wasn't six feet under.

The door creaks behind me. I don't turn around immediately—years of combat training means I already know who it is by the way they breathe, the particular weight of their footsteps. What I don't understand is why Juniper's here. Alone.

That's when every alarm bell in my head starts screaming.

"Doctor?" Her voice is smaller than usual, stripped of that cutting edge she wields like a knife.

I turn slowly, keeping my movements deliberate and non-threatening. She's standing in the doorway wearing one of Bane's black shirts that drowns her small frame, bare feet silent on the concrete floor. Her hair's a mess, like she's been running her fingers through it repeatedly, and there are dark circles under her eyes that makeup can't hide.

"Juniper." I keep my voice neutral, professional. "Is everything alright? Is Felix?—"

"He's sleeping." She takes a step into the room, then stops like she's hit an invisible wall. Her fingers twist in the hem of the shirt, a nervous tell that doesn't match the woman who dropped a chandelier on Bane. "I need to ask you something."

The fact that she's here, voluntarily seeking me out without Felix as a buffer, is significant enough to make my pulse quicken. But I keep my expression calm, setting down the clipboard with measured movements.

"What can I help you with?"

She looks at the floor, the walls, anywhere but directly at me. "Felix isn't getting better."

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Recovery from gunshot wounds takes time. He's healing, but?—"

"That's not what I mean." Her eyes finally meet mine, hazel and haunted and too fucking perceptive for anyone's good. "The drugs you're giving him. They're not working right."

My mind races through possibilities. Has she noticed something I missed? Some allergic reaction or interaction I should have caught? "What symptoms is he experiencing?"

"It's not..." She makes a frustrated sound, like words are failing her. That's when I notice her hands are shaking. "Nothing. I'm just worried, that's all."

I nod in understanding. Of course she's worried. I still don't know the history between them, but it's fairly obvious in the way they look at each other. The way they revolve around each other.

"His fever is down and his vitals are good," I say carefully. "The second he's willing to let me examine him more thoroughly, though, I can make a more detailed analysis."

I can see the conflict on her face. The frustration, as quickly as she masks it.

So there's one topic they aren't a united front on. Interesting.

"I need suppressants," she says suddenly.

Suppressants. For an omega, they're standard—help manage heats, reduce scent markers, provide a layer of protection in a world where being an omega makes you a target. But the way she says it, the way she can't quite meet my eyes...

"You… need suppressants?" I echo, surprised by the sudden shift in topic.

Her laugh is bitter as burnt coffee. "Who else would they be for?"