Page 35 of The Sterling Acquisition (Manufactured Mates #1)
Chapter twenty-four
Private Tranpsport
Dante
The maintenance tunnels beneath SVI territory were a testament to the corporation’s commitment to cutting corners—wide enough for two people, lined with pipes that leaked various fluids, and lit by flickering emergency lighting that had been “emergency” for the better part of a decade.
Dante had navigated worse, but never while supporting a semi-conscious Omega whose pheromones could probably be detected from orbit.
“I’m fine,” Orion muttered for the third time in as many minutes, his arm draped over Dante’s shoulders in a way that showed he was anything but fine.
His weight shifted unpredictably as they moved, one moment leaning heavily against Dante, the next trying to pull away with the stubborn independence of someone who spent a year refusing to break.
“Of course you are,” Dante replied, adjusting his grip on Orion’s waist as they navigated around a particularly aggressive leak. “Just taking a leisurely stroll through SVI’s finest infrastructure. Nothing says ‘perfectly functional’ like needing a human crutch.”
Orion’s response was cut off by a violent shiver that ran through his entire frame.
Cold flash—Dante recognized it from his corporate training about unmedicated Omegas, though the clinical descriptions hadn’t quite captured the way it made Orion’s scent spike into something that bypassed every rational thought Dante had left.
The air around them filled with the sharp sweetness of ozone and marshmallow and wind before a storm, underlaid with something warm and desperate that made Dante’s teeth ache.
Christ. He’d smelled plenty of Omegas in heat during his Gensyn training. This was different. This was Orion—defiant, brilliant, unbroken Orion—and it was taking every ounce of his rapidly failing conditioning not to pin him against the nearest wall.
“Stop l-looking at me like that,” Orion snapped.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re d-deciding whether to fuck me or eat me.”
Dante’s laugh was dark and too honest. “I’m deciding whether I can do both and still get us to the extraction point alive. Though if you keep making those little noises, I might not care about the alive part.”
That earned him a weak but genuine smile from Orion, the first real one since they left Leo’s apartment, painted in other people’s blood. It was worth the admission, even if it made Dante’s already precarious self-control that much more fragile.
Ahead of them, the tunnel branched, and Orion tugged them left with surprising certainty for someone who could barely stay upright. “Service exit,” he muttered, his voice weak but confident. “Leads to the m-maintenance alley behind the old st-student union.”
Dante followed his lead, impressed despite himself.
Three weeks of corporate reconnaissance gave him a decent map of SVI’s infrastructure, but Orion had lived in this territory his whole life—every back alley, every forgotten maintenance tunnel, every route that smelled like decay and despair was burned into his memory.
Dante shifted his grip as Orion stumbled. “Try not to collapse before we get there. I’d hate to have to carry you bridal-style through an armed checkpoint.”
“I’m not—”
“Collapsing. Yes, I know. You’re the picture of perfect health and stability.” Dante pushed open the service exit, squinting against the relative brightness of the alley beyond. “Just like you were fine when you tried to take on Morrison’s entire security team single-handedly.”
Outside, narrow walls created a cramped space between two pre-Adjustment buildings that SVI repurposed into worker housing. The kind of place where people minded their own business and asked no questions, which made it perfect for clandestine meetings and terrible for everything else.
Dante’s contact was waiting—a man in maintenance coveralls and a rebreather mask. He equipped himself with the specialized mask after Dante’s warning about “difficult scents.”
“Jesus Christ,” the man said, his voice muffled but strained. “You said there might be some scents. You didn’t say I’d need a fucking gas mask.”
“Labrador,” Dante acknowledged, recognizing the voice of the smuggler he recruited during his second week in SVI territory. The man had been expensive but reliable, and right now, reliability was worth more than Dante’s discretionary budget. “Please tell me you have good news. ”
“Van’s ready, route’s clear, and I just got word from your handler that everything’s set on the other end.
” Labrador gestured toward a bakery van parked at the mouth of the alley, its corporate logos and cheerful pastel colors a perfect cover for moving contraband.
“Fair warning though—I’ve got a delivery to make after this, so try not to hotbox my vehicle with whatever pheromonal warfare you’ve got going on. ”
Dante glanced at Orion, who was leaning more heavily against him now, his shivering intensifying. “We’ll do our best to keep the biological warfare to a minimum.”
“Appreciated.” Labrador opened the van’s rear doors, revealing a cramped compartment hidden behind stacks of legitimate bakery supplies. “It’s not luxury accommodation, but it’ll get you through the checkpoint without anyone asking awkward questions.”
The compartment was large enough for two people to stand, let alone sit, lined with what looked like soundproofing material and equipped with a small ventilation system that would hopefully keep them from suffocating.
Dante helped Orion climb in first, biting back a curse as the confined space filled with the Omega’s scent.
“This is going to be interesting,” Dante muttered, settling in beside Orion and pulling the false panel shut behind them.
With a rumble that vibrated through the floor, the van’s engine started.
Beside him, Dante felt Orion tense in the darkness.
The space was so small that they were pressed together from shoulder to hip, and every breath Dante took was saturated with the complex cocktail of Orion’s heat-affected pheromones.
“How long?” Orion asked, his voice barely audible over the engine noise.
“Twenty minutes to the checkpoint, maybe thirty if traffic’s bad.” Dante shifted closer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper near Orion’s ear. “Plenty of time for you to get comfortable. In fact, I’d encourage it. That cold flash is going to get worse before it gets better.”
Orion’s potential response was cut off by another violent shiver, this one strong enough that Dante could feel it through the contact between them.
The cold flash was intensifying, and with it, Dante’s unprofessional desire to wrap himself around Orion and provide the heat his body was crying out for.
“Come here,” Dante murmured, his arm sliding around Orion’s waist to pull him closer. “Stop being a brat and let me warm you up. Consider it a tactical advantage—you’ll be more functional when we reach the checkpoint.”
For a moment, Orion went pliant against him, his body seeking the heat Dante offered as Orion’s nose nuzzled into his neck.
Then, almost unconsciously, he began to move—small, desperate motions that pressed him closer, grinding against Dante’s hip with the kind of need that had nothing to do with warmth and everything to do with the heat building in his system.
Dante let himself enjoy it for a moment—the way Orion’s breathing hitched, the small sounds he was trying to suppress, the desperate quality of his movements. Then, as if realizing what he was doing, Orion went rigid and tried to pull away.
“No,” Dante scolded. His hand dropped to Orion’s ass, fingers digging in as he pulled him back into the grinding motion. “Keep going. We’ve got time to kill.”
“Stop,” Orion gasped, even as he continued to rub against Dante. “Dante, stop—go fuck yourself.”
“I’d much rather fuck you,” Dante replied, his mouth against Orion’s ear.
The sharp intake of breath that followed was worth every risk they were taking.
Orion’s attempts to hide his pleasure were failing, small whimpers escaping despite his best efforts.
Dante found himself wondering about the logistics of sex in a space not quite large enough for two people, cataloging angles and possibilities with the same tactical precision he used to plan their escape.
Slowing vehicle movement made both of them freeze in place. Through the thin partition, Dante heard Labrador’s voice, talking to someone outside. The checkpoint—they were going to make it through SVI’s security cordon without having to shoot their way out. It was almost anticlimactic.
“Routine delivery,” Labrador was saying. “Same route as always, same cargo as always. You want to check the manifest?”
Dante held his breath as footsteps approached the van, listening to the muffled conversation between Labrador and the checkpoint guards.
Beside him, Orion’s breathing was becoming more labored, and the scent of his distress was starting to overlay the heat-driven pheromones with something sharper and more desperate.
The footsteps moved away, and the van began moving again. They made it through.
“See?” Dante whispered, allowing himself a moment of satisfaction. “Textbook extraction. Nothing to worry about.”
That was, of course, the exact moment when Orion’s cold flash broke like a fever, replaced by a wave of heat so intense that Dante could feel it radiating from his skin.
The cramped compartment filled with the scent of a natural heat cycle hitting its stride—not the controlled, manageable version they’d been dealing with, but Orion’s body free to follow its own biological rhythm.
“Fuck,” Orion gasped, his body going rigid against Dante’s side. “This is—”
“Your body is doing what it’s supposed to do,” Dante finished, his voice rougher than he intended as he began to feel drunk on Orion’s pheromonal assault. “No more stress, no more Leo’s incompetent attempts at control. Just you, getting what you need.”
“And what’s that s-supposed to mean?” Orion’s snapped..
The van slowed again, and Dante heard Labrador curse from the driver’s seat. The engine cut out, and footsteps approached the rear doors.
“We’ve got a problem,” Labrador called out, his voice tight with strain. “I can’t—Jesus Christ, I can’t breathe up there. There was never any mention of this when I took the job, I don’t think I can—”
Dante closed his eyes, recognizing the inevitable moment when careful planning met uncontrollable reality. “How much do you need?”
“What?”
“How much more money do you need to finish the job?”
There was a pause, and when Labrador spoke again, his voice was calculating despite the obvious distress. “Double. No, triple. This wasn’t part of the deal, and I’ve got a reputation to maintain. I can’t deliver goods if I’m unconscious.”
Dante’s hand moved to the knife at his thigh, the motion automatic and without conscious thought. He was tired—tired of complications, tired of variables he couldn’t control, tired of people who saw crisis as an opportunity for profit.
“Dante,” Orion said, his voice cutting through the haze of frustration and biological imperative. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking,” Dante replied, his voice carrying the same conversational tone he used to discuss vaccine production efficiency with Leo, “that our friend Labrador has become a liability. And I’m thinking that I’m capable of driving a bakery van through a Neutral Zone checkpoint. ”
Dante slid back the panel they were hidden behind as the rear doors opened, and Labrador’s face appeared, pale and sweating behind his mask. “So, about that additional compensation—”
Dante moved with the fluid precision, his knife finding the space between Labrador’s ribs with surgical accuracy to slide between bone and cartilage to pierce the heart with minimal external bleeding.
Labrador’s eyes went wide with surprise, and he opened his mouth to speak. No sound came out. He toppled backward, and Dante caught him, lowering the body to the ground with the same care he’d use to set down a piece of valuable equipment.
“Well,” Dante said, wiping the blade clean on Labrador’s coveralls, “that’s one variable eliminated.”
He slid the van door shut, leaving Orion in the relative safety of the hidden space in the back, and dragged Labrador’s body to the side of the road. The Neutral Zone was only ten miles away, and Dante had driven far more challenging routes under far worse conditions.
“Are you going to be sick?” Dante asked as he settled into the driver’s seat and began adjusting the mirrors.
“No,” Orion replied from the back, his voice steady despite the obvious strain. “But n-next time you recruit a smuggler, maybe find one with b-better risk tolerance.”
Dante started the engine and pulled back onto the road Labrador had them on to the Neutral Zone and whatever passed for safety in their complicated world.
“I’ll make a note,” he said, and despite everything—the heat, the manhunt, the growing certainty that they were both in far deeper than either of them planned—he found himself smiling.
After all, at least they were making progress.