Page 23 of Stream Heat (Omega Stream #1)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kara

I sat in the dingy waiting room, trying not to touch anything. The "clinic" was tucked behind a vape shop in a strip mall that had seen better decades. The plastic chair dug into my back, and the fluorescent light overhead flickered with a rhythm that made my head throb.

Well, almost anyone. Jace had been in the kitchen, silently sipping tea while editing something on his laptop. Our eyes had met briefly as I tried to slip past.

"Early stream prep?" he'd asked, his quiet voice giving nothing away.

"Doctor appointment," I'd replied, not entirely lying. "Nothing serious. Back in a few hours."

He'd nodded once, eyes lingering on my face a moment too long before returning to his screen. "Be careful."

Something in his tone had made me wonder if he knew more than he was saying, but I couldn't worry about that now.

The receptionist, a woman with unnaturally black hair and nicotine-stained fingers, called my name. Not my real name, of course. I'd given a fake one when I made the appointment through the encrypted messaging app I'd found on a designation black market forum.

"Doctor will see you now," she said, barely looking up from her phone.

I followed her down a narrow hallway to a room that tried and failed to look like a legitimate medical office. The equipment was outdated but clean, at least. Small mercies.

Dr. Levine, if that was even his real name, was a thin man in his fifties with nervous eyes and the practiced smile of someone who'd learned bedside manner from a YouTube tutorial. His white coat looked too new, like a costume he put on to play doctor.

"Ms. Smith," he greeted me, using my fake name. "What can I help you with today?"

I closed the door behind me, lowering my voice despite us being alone. "I need suppressants. Extra-strength. Military-grade."

His expression didn't change, but his scent, sterile and medicinal with undertones of something bitter, shifted slightly. "I see. And why do you believe you need that particular grade of medication?"

"Because I've been on them for eight years, and my supplier got arrested.

" I sat in the chair across from his desk, keeping my back straight, chin up.

Professional. Businesslike. Not desperate at all.

"I had a breakthrough heat on livestream three weeks ago.

It nearly destroyed my career. I can't let that happen again. "

He studied me for a moment, recognition dawning in his eyes. "You're that streamer. The one who–"

"Yes," I cut him off. "That one. Which is why I need your help. I've been taking withdrawal tapering doses from my regular doctor, but they're not enough. I need the real thing. I have a tournament coming up and I need to be able to function.”

"May I ask what you were taking before?" He pulled out a notepad, suddenly all clinical efficiency.

"Omegablock XR-9. Nine hundred milligrams, twice daily."

His pen stopped moving. He looked up at me, his professional mask slipping to reveal genuine alarm. "Nine hundred milligrams? Twice daily? For eight years?"

I nodded, something cold settling in my stomach at his reaction.

"Ms. Smith, or whatever your name is, do you have any idea what that dosage does to the human body?"

"Prevents heats. Masks Omega scent. Allows me to present as Beta." I recited the benefits like a pharmaceutical commercial, ignoring the growing discomfort under my skin.

Dr. Levine set down his pen and leaned forward. "That dosage is three times the maximum even the military allows, and they only permit it for active combat scenarios. Short-term. Weeks, not years."

"I know it's strong," I admitted. "But it worked. And I need it to work again."

He shook his head slowly. "I don't think you understand.

XR-9 at that dosage doesn't just suppress heats or mask scent.

It fundamentally alters your entire endocrine system.

It shuts down not just reproductive functions but aspects of your immune system, your metabolic regulation, even your neurological responses. "

My mouth went dry. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying whoever prescribed this to you for long-term use wasn't concerned with your health." His eyes narrowed. "Was it a management company? A sponsor?"

I looked away, unwilling to confirm what he already seemed to know.

"It's common in certain industries," he continued, his voice softening slightly. "Entertainment. Sports. Competitive gaming. They find promising young Omegas and put them on these regimens to make them more marketable. More 'neutral.' Less 'distracting.'"

"It was my choice," I said defensively. "No one forced me."

"Was it an informed choice? Did anyone explain what nine hundred milligrams twice daily for eight years would do to your liver? Your kidneys? Your brain chemistry?"

I remained silent, the answer obvious.

He sighed, rubbing his temples. "I need to run some tests before we discuss options."

"I don't need tests. I need suppressants."

"What you need," he said firmly, "is to understand what's happening to your body."

The next hour was a blur of blood draws, scent analysis, reflex tests, and increasingly alarming questions about symptoms I'd been dismissing as normal for years. Chronic fatigue. Temperature regulation issues. Memory lapses. Mood swings. Sensory processing difficulties.

Finally, we were back in his office, a tablet displaying my results between us.

"It's worse than I thought," he said without preamble. "Your liver enzymes are severely elevated. Your hormone levels are completely destabilized. Your neurochemical markers show patterns consistent with long-term suppressant toxicity."

"But I can still take suppressants," I pressed, focusing on the only thing that mattered. "Maybe a lower dose?"

Dr. Levine looked at me with something between pity and frustration. "Ms. Smith, let me be clear: continuing any form of military-grade suppressants could cause permanent organ damage. We're talking liver failure, kidney dysfunction, possibly even neurological impairment."

The room seemed to tilt slightly. "That can't be right. I've been fine for years."

"You haven't been fine. Your body has been compensating, but that compensation has limits." He scrolled through more results on his tablet. "The breakthrough heat you experienced wasn't just bad timing. It was system failure. Your body physically couldn't process the suppressants anymore."

"So what are my options?" My voice sounded distant, detached, like it belonged to someone else.

"Medically supervised withdrawal is the only safe path forward. The legal-grade suppressants you're currently taking are the right approach, but the timeline needs to be extended." He looked at me directly. "The withdrawal could take months, possibly up to a year for complete system recalibration."

"A year?" The word came out as a whisper. "I can't–my career–"

"Your career won't matter if you're dead," he said bluntly. "And that's a real possibility, no, probability, if you go back on military-grade suppressants after this breakthrough. Your system is already showing signs of organ stress."

I stared at the floor, trying to process what he was telling me. "And after the withdrawal? What then?"

His expression softened slightly. "Then you'll need to learn to live as an Omega."

The words hit me like a slap to the face. Live as an Omega. Accept the designation I'd spent my entire adult life denying. Become everything I'd fought not to be.

"There must be alternatives," I insisted. "Other medications. Experimental treatments. Something."

"There are legal suppressants that can moderate your heat cycles once your system stabilizes.

Make them more predictable, less intense.

But they won't hide what you are." He hesitated, then added, "And frankly, after what you've put your body through, I'm not sure you'll ever have completely normal cycles again. "

"What does that mean?"

"It means your body might never fully stabilize. You could experience irregular heats, unpredictable intensity, sensory processing issues that flare without warning." He scrolled through more data. "The damage to your endocrine system may be permanent."

The room was definitely spinning now. Permanent damage. Irregular heats. A lifetime of unpredictable biology. The complete destruction of the control I'd fought so hard to maintain.

"I can't accept that," I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt. "There has to be another option."

Dr. Levine studied me for a long moment. "There is one other possibility, though I hesitate to even mention it given your situation."

"Tell me."

"Pack bonding." He said it matter-of-factly, like he was suggesting aspirin for a headache.

"A strong Alpha presence, or better yet, multiple Alphas in a pack structure, can help stabilize an Omega's system during withdrawal.

The pheromone exchange creates a biochemical balance that medication alone can't achieve. "

I almost laughed. Of course that would be the solution, the one thing I'd been fighting against since moving into the Pack Wrecked house. The one thing my body seemed determined to pursue despite my best efforts to maintain distance.

"That's not an option," I said flatly.

"You're living with Alphas, aren't you?" He noted my surprise and shrugged. "Your scent carries traces of multiple Alpha signatures. Fresh ones. Not just passing contact."

I shifted uncomfortably. "It's a business arrangement. Content creation. Not a real pack."

"Your body doesn't know the difference." He tapped his tablet. "And based on these readings, you're already forming preliminary bond responses whether you acknowledge them or not."

The hoarding. The nesting. The inexplicable comfort I found in their scents. It wasn't just withdrawal making me hypersensitive, it was my body actively seeking the very solution Dr. Levine was suggesting.