Page 39 of The Sterling Acquisition (Manufactured Mates #1)
Chapter twenty-seven
Tourist Attractions
Orion
“Here,” Dante said as he pulled a spare shirt from his pack before tossing it to Orion. “We’re in the Neutral Zone, you still need to wear clothes like a human being.”
He pulled the shirt on, grateful for the coverage even as the fabric felt strange against his still-sensitive skin. “Do we just ask around for a pharmacy?” he asked.
“We need to find an ATM first,” Dante said, scanning the immediate area. “Then shoes, then a pharmacy. Stay close.”
This is real, he thought, watching people move freely between vendors and buildings. No corporate housing assignments. No designated paths. No permission required.
They found an ATM built into the side of a converted shipping container, its interface a patchwork of different corporate systems somehow made to work together. Dante approached it with the casual confidence of someone who’d done this before, inserting a card retrieved from his back pocket.
“What’s that?” Orion asked, watching the screen light up.
“Emergency funds,” Dante said, navigating the menus. “Corporate discretionary account for operational expenses.”
The screen flashed a balance that made Orion’s breath catch: 35,847,293 iscs.
“Thirty-five million?” Orion whispered, staring at the number. “That’s more money than most people will ever even dream about.”
Dante glanced at him, something unreadable in his expression. “Gensyn pays well for certain types of work.
Dante withdrew a stack of cash—actual physical iscs, which Orion had only seen a few times in his life. In SVI territory, everything was digital credits tied to work performance.
“Come on,” Dante said, pocketing the money. “Let’s find you some shoes.”
They made their way deeper into the market area, and Orion couldn’t stop turning his head to take in new sights.
A group of children were playing with toys that moved on their own—not advanced AI, but simple mechanical creations that responded to touch and sound.
An elderly man was repairing what looked like a Gensyn communication device using SVI tools and generic components.
“How do they know how to fix equipment from other corporations?” Orion asked.
Dante’s lips quirked into what might have been a smile. “Necessity. When you can’t afford new equipment or can’t get parts through official channels, you learn to improvise.”
A vendor called out to them—a woman with short-cropped hair and scars along her tanned jawline. Her stall was filled with footwear of every type, from corporate-standard boots to handmade sandals that looked like they’d been crafted from recycled materials.
“Buenas tardes, pretty boys. Looking for shoes?” she asked, her voice carrying a slight rasp. As they got closer, Orion noticed something odd about her scent—or rather, the lack of it. She smelled like leather and metal polish, but nothing else. No designation markers at all.
“Combat boots, size twelve,” Dante said, then glanced at Orion. “What’s your size?”
“Ten,” Orion replied, still trying to figure out what was strange about the vendor.
The woman began pulling out options, and Orion saw her hands pause momentarily when she got close to him. Her nostrils flared, and her expression shifted from business-neutral to something almost sympathetic.
“Glitched Alpha,” Dante said, close to Orion’s ear. “She has very little scent production. She can tell designations, but most people can’t smell her.”
Orion watched the way her movements became more careful around him. His diminished heat signature was affecting her—not triggering attraction or aggression like it would with other Alphas, but something gentler. Compassion, maybe.
“These should work,” she said, holding out a pair of sturdy boots that looked like they’d been made by combining corporate designs. “Gensyn soles with SVI uppers. More comfortable than either company makes on their own.”
Orion tried them on, surprised by how well they fit. The vendor watched him with an expression that reminded him of the way some of the kinder SVI citizens looked at him during his worst public scenes with Leo—like they wanted to help but knew they couldn’t .
“How much?” Dante asked.
“Normally one-fifty for the pair,” she said, then looked at Orion. “But for you, seventy-five. And the pharmacy you’re looking for is three blocks down, a blue building with the red cross. Ask for Doctor Troiana—she’s legitimate, went to actual medical school before the Adjustment.”
Dante handed over the money without question, and Orion caught the way his eyes softened when he looked at the vendor. Not attraction—recognition. A courtesy between people who understood what it meant to be outside the normal social order.
“Thank you,” Orion said to the vendor, meaning it.
She nodded. “Take care of yourself, kid. And you,” she looked at Dante, “take care of him. He’s special.”
As they walked away, Orion found himself hyper-aware of Dante beside him.
The Alpha was scanning their surroundings constantly, but every time Orion asked a question or pointed something out, Dante’s expression would change.
The sharp tactical focus would soften into something almost fond, and he’d explain whatever caught Orion’s attention with genuine patience.
It’s just his rut, Orion told himself, trying to ignore the way Dante’s rare smiles made something warm build behind his sternum. He’s biologically programmed to be protective right now. It doesn’t mean anything.
But it was getting harder to convince himself of that with each gentle explanation, each careful touch when Dante guided him around obstacles, each moment when those gray eyes would meet his with something that looked dangerously close to affection.
A wave of heat washed through him suddenly, making his head swim.
His skin flushed, and he felt the slick gathering again, trickling down his inner thighs.
The respite was ending. He wasn’t used to being this active during his heat.
He usually just rode out the days in misery, curled in a ball, hoping for it to be a short heat instead of the longer ones.
They were about halfway to the pharmacy district when a young man approached them.
He couldn’t have been much younger than Orion, with a kind of ethereal beauty that seemed almost otherworldly.
His wavy blond hair was long and adorned with small braids threaded with beads, and his clothes were flowing fabrics in earth tones that seemed to move with their own life.
When he got closer, Orion caught his scent—sweet like cinnamon, definitely Omega, but with an underlying complexity that was unfamiliar.
“Brother,” the young man said softly, his voice carrying a melodic quality that made Orion think of wind chimes. His hazel eyes took in Orion’s disheveled state, scanning over the bruises still visible on his throat and arm. “You look like you could use some healing energy.”
Before Orion could respond, the stranger was reaching for his wrist, slipping a bracelet made of small clay beads over his hand. “An offering,” he said, his fingers lingering on Orion’s skin. “To help center your spirit.”
Dante’s hand was on Orion’s shoulder, firm but not rough. “We appreciate the gesture, but we need to keep moving.”
The Omega’s eyes flicked to Dante, and something knowing passed across his features. “Of course. May your path lead to enlightenment.”
He drifted away as gracefully as he approached, leaving Orion staring down at the bracelet on his wrist. The beads were warm to the touch and had an almost hypnotic quality to their arrangement.
“What was that about?” Orion asked as Dante guided him away, noting how the Alpha kept glancing back as if to make sure they weren’t being followed .
“Elysian Dynamics missionary,” Dante mumbled “Their approach to resource management would give Project Tether a run for its money in terms of fucked up practices. Just with more patchouli oil and henna.”
Orion had never heard anyone in SVI territory even mention what Elysian Dynamics practices were. “What does that mean?”
“Later.” Dante’s expression darkened. “Right now, we need to focus on getting you medicated.”
The pharmacy blinked in the distance as they walked, high up on a pole that towered over the other buildings like a beacon of hope. Orion felt another wave of heat roll through him, stronger than the last. Get it together, man. Just a few more blocks.
They continued through the market, and Orion was distracted from his discomfort by the sound of crying.
A little boy, maybe six years old, was standing next to a candy vendor’s cart with tears streaming down his face.
His small fist was clutched around something, and when he opened it, Orion could see the crushed remains of what had probably been a lollipop.
“I dropped it,” the boy sobbed to no one in particular. “I saved up for three days and I dropped it.”
Dante has more than enough, I’m sure he can spare some . Orion nudged Dante’s arm, preparing to ask for a few iscs to help the kid out, but when he looked at Dante, he saw the Alpha’s gaze already clocking the situation.
Without a word, Dante approached the candy vendor—a tired-looking woman with grease-stained aprons—and pointed to the display of colorful sweets. “One of those,” he said, indicating an elaborate candy shaped like a small dragon. “The big one.”
“That’s five iscs,” the vendor said .
Dante handed over the money without hesitation, then crouched down to the crying child’s level. “Hey there,” he said gently. “This one’s even better than the one you dropped. See? It’s got wings.”
The little boy’s tears stopped as he stared at the candy dragon in wonder. “Really? For me?”
“Really,” Dante confirmed, his voice carrying a warmth that made something tighten in Orion’s chest. “But maybe eat it somewhere safe so it doesn’t get dropped again, okay?”
“Okay!” The boy clutched the candy to his chest like it was treasure, then ran off toward what was probably his family.
Dante stood, and when he turned back to Orion, his expression was already shifting back toward professional awareness. But Orion had seen it—that moment of genuine care for a crying child who meant nothing to his mission.
“That was...” Orion started, then stopped, not sure how to finish the sentence.
“Five iscs,” Dante said, deflecting. “Not exactly breaking the bank.”
Who are you? Orion thought, staring at this man who could kill without hesitation but stopped to buy candy for a stranger’s child.
“We should keep moving,” Dante said. “The pharmacy district is just ahead.”
But as they walked away, Orion found himself stealing glances at Dante’s profile, questioning everything he assumed.
Stop, he warned himself. Stop looking for reasons to trust him. Stop looking for signs that he’s different.
The pharmacy district was busier than the market area. Orion noticed more Alphas here, and several of them turned their heads as they passed. His heat might have diminished, but it was still noticeable enough to attract attention .
A Beta woman with elaborate tattoos covering her arms stopped dead in her tracks when they walked by, her eyes going wide. An Alpha man near a food cart dropped what he was eating, his nostrils flaring as he tried to identify the source of the scent.
“Popular tonight,” Dante observed. His hand moved to rest on Orion’s lower back—protective, possessive, a clear signal to anyone watching.
“I don’t like the attention,” Orion muttered, uncomfortable with the way people were staring. In SVI territory, at least the staring had been familiar. This felt different. Hungrier.
“Almost there,” Dante said, and his voice was gentler than it had any right to be.
Stop being nice to me, Orion thought desperately as another warm smile crossed Dante’s face when he pointed out a building where someone had somehow made Elysian environmental controls work with SVI power systems. Stop treating me like I’m something precious instead of just a mission objective.
Because the alternative—that Dante was enjoying his company—was too dangerous to consider. Orion couldn’t afford to start believing that this was anything more than biology and convenience. He learned that lesson with Leo, and Leo had been pathetically obvious about his motivations.
Dante was far more dangerous precisely because he made it look so effortless, so natural. Like protecting Orion and indulging his curiosity was something he wanted to do rather than something his rut compelled him to do.
The blue building with the red cross came into view, but as they got closer, Orion noticed something that made Dante stiffen beside him. Above the medical symbol, carved into the building’s facade, were three distinct marks: claw scratches, stylized fangs, and curved horns .
“What is that?” Orion asked, noting the way Dante’s jaw tightened.
“Chimera Syndicate markings,” Dante explained. “This pharmacy serves all populations. Stay close in case we need to run.”
Just a mission, he reminded himself as they approached the pharmacy entrance, though Dante’s obvious discomfort about the markings was doing nothing to settle his nerves. You’re just a mission to him. Don’t forget that.
But as Dante’s hand settled more firmly against his back, guiding him toward the door with careful consideration for his comfort despite his own apparent unease, Orion was finding it harder and harder to believe his own warnings.