CHAPTER 3: After the Slip

Elias’s POV

For a breath, no one moved.

Ronan didn’t lunge, didn’t speak, didn’t call attention to what he’d sensed. He just looked at me, sharp, measuring, patient. And that was worse than anything he could have said out loud.

Instructor Vale blew the signal to end the match.

I stepped back first.

Not in retreat, just enough to break the tension before anyone started asking why two top-ranked Alphas had stopped fighting before blood was drawn. The room’s chatter slowly resumed, but it was shaky in places, uneven. They’d all noticed something, even if they didn’t understand what it was.

Ronan didn’t chase me. He didn’t have to.

I walked off the mat with practiced calm, even though my pulse was a drumline under my skin. The suppressant was slipping faster than usual. The fight spiked my adrenaline, and adrenaline always burned through the formula twice as fast.

I had maybe an hour before the next injection was mandatory.

Two, if I was willing to gamble with my life.

The combat wing’s air felt heavier than when I entered. I ignored the stares as I left the arena, making my way toward the hall that led to the secondary stairwells; less crowded, fewer witnesses.

I pushed through the door and exhaled once as it shut behind me.

Silence.

For the first time since stepping into the ring, I let my shoulders drop a fraction. Not enough to break the mask, just enough to let my lungs expand properly. The scent control collar at my throat vibrated once, faint and warning. It was reading a chemical imbalance in my bloodstream.

I needed the med wing.

Not the public one on the first floor, the restricted one in the east sector reserved for elite ranks and trainees with sponsor clearance. My forged status as “Eli Arden” gave me just enough access to walk in without setting off suspicion, but only if no one looked closely at dosage logs.

I started moving.

The east hallways were quieter, lined with reinforced doors, biometric scanners, and security cams that tracked heat signatures. I kept my gait even. Alpha confidence was its own kind of key in this place.

At the turn before the med wing, a voice echoed ahead; low, irritated.

“Scan’s glitching again. I told them the new patch was incompatible with the ID sync.”

I slowed only slightly.

Two med techs stood outside the biometric door, one tapping at a handheld terminal, the other holding a crate of diagnostic vials. Both wore white jackets with the Aurelion crest stitched on the sleeve.

The one with the terminal sighed. “If the scanner resets again in the middle of a test, we’ll get flagged for incomplete data reporting, and I’m not losing my clearance over some Alpha pup who can’t handle his own hormones.”

My stomach tightened.

They were running diagnostics today?

That meant the suppressant inventory would be logged. That meant biometric samples. That meant risk.

I couldn’t turn around, that would draw attention. I couldn’t hesitate, either.

I walked straight toward them.

Both techs looked up.

The older one, a wiry man with steel-grey hair and narrow eyes, blinked once before his posture shifted to polite neutrality. He glanced at the terminal, then me.

“Rank and purpose?”

“Rank 2. Resupply and clearance,” I said without pausing.

The man scanned my wristband. My forged ID data flickered across his terminal—Eli Arden, Level-Two Combat Division, Elite Track. Suppressor maintenance log entered at 0500, next voluntary diagnostic scheduled in six days.

Voluntary. Not mandatory.

He read just fast enough to be convinced.

“Proceed. Diagnostic wing’s on partial lockdown. Don’t interfere with ongoing scans.”

I gave a curt nod and stepped past, entering the corridor beyond before my pulse could betray me.

The restricted med wing smelled like antiseptic and recycled air. Bright lights, seamless walls, no windows. Every footstep echoed. I bypassed the main lab and slipped into a side room labeled Private Treatment Storage; Authorized Access Only.

Once I stepped inside, I shut the door and locked it.

Only then did I let my breath shake, just once.

The room was small; storage cabinets, sterile counters, refrigeration units, digital logs sealed behind code panels. I disabled the auto-report function on the console with a code I memorized months ago, an override meant for emergency dose corrections.

Then I crossed to the lower cabinet and retrieved a compact injector and one of my hidden vials…my mother’s formula, not the academy-issued blend. The official suppressant left markers in the bloodstream. Hers erased them.

I sat on the narrow examination bench and rolled up my sleeve.

For half a heartbeat, the room dissolved into memory.

A cramped underground flat. The buzz of old fluorescent lights. The smell of metal and steam from the worn-out kettle she always kept on.

“Never let them draw your blood,” my mother had said, needle in one hand, ink-stained fingers tucking my hair behind my ear with the other. “If they take your DNA, it’s over. If they scent you, it’s over. If the collar glitches, it’s over. You have one job; live quiet enough to disappear.”

I’d been twelve when she forged the Arden identity. Eleven when I learned the difference between being prey and pretending to be a predator. Ten when I understood that the world didn’t see male Omegas as people; just as property, currency, or experiments.

Some countries had “legalized protection.” Others had not.

Here, protection meant belonging to someone. And belonging meant ownership, contract, collar, breeding rights, and no voice.

No life.

I blinked the memory away and swapped the needle with practiced precision.

A hiss of cold burned up my arm as the suppressant hit my bloodstream. This one was stronger, purer, made for hiding and not regulating. Made for survival, not compliance.

My hands steadied almost instantly.

The collar's faint buzz quieted. My pulse evened. The scent bleed sealed itself off again.

I exhaled once and cleaned the surface. No trace left.

A soft beep chirped near the door.

Someone had opened the outer hall access.

I froze, listening.

Footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Not the clatter of med techs. Not the rushed stride of an instructor. One person. Alone.

They passed the first junction.

Then they stopped.

Right outside this wing.

A shadow crossed the light under the door.

My jaw clenched.

I didn’t move.

Seconds stretched thin.

Then the footsteps resumed, heading past, fading down the hall.

I waited ten more seconds before unlocking the door and stepping out.

The corridor was empty.

But as I reached the main hall, I paused.

A faint trace of scent lingered in the air. Barely there; controlled, restrained, almost wiped clean.

Almost.

Ronan.

I didn’t see him, but I didn’t need to.

He’d been here.

And if he’d come looking, he already suspected more than he’d shown.

I walked away without looking back.

If he was circling, I had to stay ahead.

If he was watching, I had to be perfect.

And if he’d caught even a thread of the truth, he’d already decided one thing:

He wasn’t letting it go.