Buyer’s Remorse

The car ride was a blur of shadows and nausea.

My body was revolting. I had skipped the evening dose of Miller's "medicine," and usually by now my hands would just be shaking. But this was different. My skin was burning; bones freezing.

I curled into a ball against the cool leather of the passenger door, my teeth chattering loud enough to be heard over the hum of the engine.

"Stop that," Dante said. He didn't look up from the tablet in his lap. The blue light illuminated his sharp cheekbones, making him look even more like a marble statue than a man.

I stammered back at him, wrapping my arms tightly around myself. "I ... c-c-can't. It's c-cold."

"The climate control is set to seventy-two degrees," he replied flatly. "You are being dramatic."

He tapped the glass partition separating us from the driver. "How long?"

"Ten minutes to the Estate, Sir," the driver replied.

Dante sighed, a sound of pure irritation. He finally looked at me, his golden eyes narrowing as he took in my appearance. I knew what he saw: hair matted from sweat, skin pale, shivers racking my thin frame.

"You look terrible," he said.

"I feel t-terrible," I shot back, though my voice was weak. "Maybe you should check the warranty before you bought me."

His eyes flashed dangerous gold. "Do not test me, Maya. I have had a long day, and babysitting a fragile Omega was not on my schedule."

The car slowed as it turned off the highway onto a private road. Through the window, I saw massive iron gates swing open. Beyond them lay a fortress.

It wasn't a fairy-tale castle. It was a monolith of black stone and glass built into the side of a cliff. It looked like Dante: cold, imposing, and impenetrable.

The SUV pulled up to the main entrance, where a team of staff already awaited - maids in uniform, guards in tactical gear.

The door opened. Dante stepped out with the grace of a predator. He adjusted his cufflinks, looking immaculate.

"Get out," he commanded.

I tried. I really did. I unbuckled my seatbelt and swung my legs out. But the moment my feet hit the gravel, the ground tilted sideways.

My knees gave out.

I didn't hit the ground. A strong arm caught me around the waist, hauling me up before I could scrape my knees.

"For Goddess' sake," Dante growled, his chest vibrating against my ear. "Can you do nothing by yourself?"

"I'm sick," I whispered, the world spinning. "Need… water."

"You need a new constitution," he muttered.

He did not help me walk. He scooped me up in his arms, bridal style. It wasn't romantic. It felt like he was carrying a bag of groceries he was afraid might leak on his expensive suit.

"Doctor. Now," Dante barked at the head of the staff, a stern-looking older woman.

"Right away, Alpha," she bowed, hurrying inside.

Dante carried me through the grand foyer. I caught glimpses of minimalist art, marble floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows, but I was too focused on not vomiting on his silk tie.

He kicked open a set of double doors and dumped me on a huge bed. Soft mattress-worried room cold.

"Stay," he ordered as if I were a dog.

He paced to the window, pulling out his phone. "Get Dr. Evans up here. The girl is defective. She’s burning up."

Defective. That word again.

I was lying there shivering, mind racing. What is this all about? I wasn't dying, was I? The physician said the medicine kept me well, but without it, I was nearing death?

The door opened, and a man in a white coat rushed in carrying a medical bag. He looked rather kind, with grayish hair and glasses, which was completely different from what the King would be looking like on the pacing-by-the-window.

"Your Majesty," the doctor nodded to Dante and then hurried to my side.

"She collapsed," Dante said, not turning around. "Check her. If she's contagious, put her in quarantine. If she's dying, fix her. I've got fifty million invested in that heartbeat."

The doctor-evans placed a cool hand on my forehead. "High fever," he muttered. He pulled a stethoscope from his bag. "Breathe for me, dear."

I took a shaky breath.

"Rapid pulse. Dilated pupils," Evans noted. He looked at my arms, seeing the track marks from years of daily injections. He frowned. "What have you been taking, child?"

"Medicine," I whispered, "for the... genetic frailty."

"What kind of medicine?" Evans asked, all sharpness to his voice.

"I don t know. It was made by Alpha Miller's doc. Said I needed it to live."

Evans looked at Dante. "Alpha, I need to run a toxicology screen. Immediately."

Dante turned. His interest seemed piqued at last. "Why?"

"Because," Evans said, drawing a vial of blood from my arm, "this doesn't look like a genetic illness. These withdrawal symptoms."

"Withdrawal?" Dante stepped closer, looming over the bed. "From what? Drugs?"

"I'm not a junkie," I rasped, trying to sit up but failing. "It's medicine."

"It's a toxin," Evans corrected him grimly. "Her body is purging something heavy. If I didn't know better, I'd say she's been dosed with a high-grade suppressant for years."

"Dante's face went hard. 'A suppressant? For what? She has no wolf.'"

"That," Evans said, capping the blood vial, "is what we need to find out. But first, we need to break the fever, or her brain will cook."

Dante looked at me. Really looked at me. He didn't look concerned. He looked calculating.

"Fix her," said Dante. "And then run every test in the book. If Miller sold me a damaged goods, I want to know exactly what he was trying to hide."

He walked to the door and paused, his hand on the handle.

"You rest, Maya," he said, voice devoid of warmth. "You aren't dying tonight. I don't allow my investments to depreciate that quickly."

The door clicked shut.

I closed my eyes, and darkness swallowed me. Suppressant? What did that mean? Are Miller things feeding me?

And why was the Alpha King looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't wait to take apart?