Page 8 of Omega's Fever

“Jury selection is Tuesday. Nine AM. Don’t be late this time. Now, is there an interview room available?”

The court clerk, a mousy woman in her fifties, checks her computer screen. “Interview Room Three is free, Your Honor.”

“Good.” The judge turns his attention to Milo, who still stands frozen at the defendant’s table. “Mr. Warren, I’m being nice to you here. Take the interview room and perhaps take some time to actually speak with your client before attempting to defend him.”

Milo’s face burns even brighter, if that’s possible. He nods once.

The clerk looks up. “Your Honor, we have a Bureau representative arriving in an hour to discuss the Thorndike/Torres case. We can ask him to take Mr Hayes’ blood for the registration while he is here.”

“Yes, do it. Bailiff, take Mr. Hayes to Interview Room Three.” Judge Melkham’s tone could freeze hell twice over. “And Mr. Warren? Once again, next time I expect you to conduct yourself with at least a modicum of professionalism. This is a court of law, not a...” He waves his hand dismissively. “Whatever this is.”

A courthouse guard I don’t recognize steps forward. Young guy, maybe mid-twenties, with nervous eyes and a uniformthat’s still crisp. New on the job, probably. He cuffs me again before we get up, then escorts me out of the door.

The walk to Interview Room Three takes us through narrow hallways. My legs feel unsteady, like I’ve taken too many hits in the ring. My attorney’s — Milo’s — scent clings to my skin, the inside of my lungs. Every breath brings a fresh wave of want.

I catch a glimpse of him down another hallway as we walk. He’s pacing back and forth. Even from here, I can see the panic in his movements. I feel sorry for him. I shouldn’t.

Yes, this is weird and it’s certainly a little speed bump in the smooth highway of his life, but at the end of the day, he’ll still have a job and a life. His life isn’t as fucked up as mine. I’ve got nothing ahead of me except more prison.

He catches my eye before we turn the corner out of sight, but he doesn’t hold my gaze. Instead he blinks twice, and turns away.

Interview Room Three turns out to be a glorified closet with a metal table bolted to the floor and two plastic chairs that have seen better decades. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting everything in harsh white that makes the beige walls look sick.

“Sit,” the guard says, not unkindly.

I drop into the seat while he produces a longer chain from his belt. He threads it through the ring welded to the table, then attaches it to my shackles. The metal is cold and heavy, limiting my movement to maybe eighteen inches in any direction.

“Someone will be with you shortly,” he says, checking the locks twice out of protocol rather than malice.

He leaves without another word. The door clicks shut with finality, and I’m alone with the buzzing light and the ghost of vanilla in my nostrils.

4

Milo

The courtroom doors slam shut behind me with enough force to echo down the marble hallway. My legs barely hold me upright. I stumble to the wall, palm flat against cold stone, and try to remember how breathing works.

In. Out. In. Out.

Except every inhale brings more of his scent. Cedar clings to my clothes and the inside of my nostrils like I’ve been branded. My omega blood purrs at the thought while the rational part of me is horrified.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

A courthouse security guard hovers nearby, hand resting on his radio. He probably thinks I’m having a medical emergency. He’s not completely wrong.

“Fine.” The word comes out strangled. “Just need a moment.”

He raises an eyebrow, unconvinced and I manage a shaky smile. “Can I call someone for you?”

“No!” The word comes out more forceful than I intend. No one can know about this.

I push off the wall and force my feet to carry me down the hall to the bathroom. I shoulder through the door and barely make it to the sink before my knees threaten to give out.

The faucet squeaks as I wrench it on. I cup my hands under the stream and splash my face with cold water. It doesn’t help. My reflection in the spotted mirror shows a stranger. My cheeks are flushed and my pupils are dilated. I’m panting like I’ve run a marathon.

Or like I’ve been fucked.

The thought sends another wave of heat through my body. More slick dampens my underwear. My suit pants are dark gray, thank god. Nothing shows. Yet. But every single alpha or omega I come across is going to be able to scent it.