Page 6 of Psycho Pack
A muffled voice reaches us. "Come in."
Dr. Slovo barely glances up as we enter, his attention fixed on the papers spread across his desk. Mostly photos of nude 'patients' staring vacantly into space.
I take in every detail of the room. Filing cabinets along the wall. Computer terminal. Window overlooking the snow-covered courtyard. A potential escape route if needed. And the only camera I can see has a square of black tape over it.
So he likes to have privacy while he jerks off in here.
Good. I can use that.
"Doctor," I say, keeping my voice smooth and professional. The Vrissian accent flows easily now. "I believe you have information about one of our recent acquisitions."
He looks up then, watery blue eyes narrowing behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Do I know you?"
"You should." I step closer to his desk, letting him see the authority in my stance. "Command sent me specifically to review the omega's case."
His fingers twitch toward the phone on his desk. I shift slightly, blocking his reach. Behind me, I hear Whiskey's knuckles pop.
"I don't recall being notified—" Slovo starts.
"Perhaps this will refresh your memory." I pull a folded paper from my coat pocket. An official-looking letterhead stolen from another office. I flash it at him and tuck it way before he has time to read it. "Now, about the omega..."
The doctor's eyes dart between the paper and my face. I can see the wheels turning in his head. Calculating his odds. Weighing his options.
I lean forward over his desk, placing my palms flat on the polished wood. The lanyard around my neck shifts with the movement.
"Did you do something to her, Dr. Slovo?"
His eyes pinch. "Designation 2749 received standard treatment protocols for?—"
"That isn't what I'm asking, Doctor." My voice stays quiet, controlled.
Behind me, Thane shifts his weight, a subtle warning.
"Designation 2749?—"
"Tell me where she is." Each word drops like ice.
The fucker's lips twist into a smirk. "You seem rather invested in this particular omega, Doctor...?"
"Romanov." The false name tastes bitter. "I'm reviewing her case file before transfer, and I've heard rumors of mistreatment. Command takes that very seriously. Omegas are precious, you know."
Precious seems like such an understatement for Ivy.
Almost insulting.
More like the center of my entire fucking universe.
"Even a feral omega who maimed a senior guard?" He shuffles through papers on his desk with deliberate slowness. "Imust say, your own guards seem unusually interested as well. Perhaps they would like to lose their own fingers?"
My fingers curl against the wood. In my peripheral vision, Whiskey's hand twitches toward where his weapons would normally be. The stolen security uniform fits him poorly, the stitching on his sleeves straining at his muscled shoulders and his assault vest snug around his padded midsection. It's already clear he isn't some lanky untrained kid like most of the guards here.
And he looks like he's about to open his damn mouth.
I can't afford to glare at him right now. Not with this shitbag doctor staring at me. All I can do is hope he can somehow read my fucking mind, or at least figure out the tension in my body is at least partially directed toward him.
"Standard procedure," I say. "Now, about her treatment?—"
"You know what I find fascinating?" the doctor interrupts, leaning back in his chair. "How much you three smell like gunpowder rather than antiseptic."