Chapter 41
The suppressant had done its work well enough that his brain, though still sluggish, was working again. His cheeks flushed as lurid images of his hormone-driven frenzy surfaced, but he dismissed his embarrassment as a pointless distraction. He had to get his shit together for later. No point trying to break out until the night shift came on—fewer people, thinner security. While he waited, he had time to consider his options.
He was happy to cross Tommy Morton off the list without a moment’s hesitation. Next to go was the idea they might release him. No way would the scum who ran this prison kick his ass to the curb as a bad investment—he knew too much.
Remembering the doctor’s astonishment on seeing Rafe’s heat had disappeared, he fought back a smile. They’d dragged him out of the tacky bordello room, overpowered his desperate struggles to reach Grant, and hauled him to the so-called medical clinic. The two jack-booted muscle men, supervised by a pimple-faced, panicky clerk, had stripped him of the skimpy robe and used restraints to strap him to the exam table and bind his feet into the stirrups.
A few moments later, a smirking doctor had entered. “So, had a close call with an alpha, did we? Let’s see if we can salvage this one.” After an invasive and humiliating exam with Rafe’s ass spread wide for easy access, the doctor had raised his head and sputtered, “I don’t understand. This can’t be.” The man went to the computer terminal and retrieved Rafe’s records. “Twenty-eight years old and never mated? No wonder.” The doctor shrugged and faced the clerk.
“Does it make a difference?” The fidgety clerk seemed worried.
“Don’t they teach you people anything? Of course it makes a difference. When I examined him yesterday, he was entering heat—I’d stake my life on it. And he’s had contact with three different alphas today. With that level of stimulation, he should be gushing lubrication. Instead, he’s dried up.”
“But can you tell if he’s been mated?”
“Mated? Of course not.”
“Great! So he can be processed for sale.”
The doctor huffed out his impatience. “Pay attention! He’s not fertile. It’s faulty heat syndrome. No alpha is going to accept him.”
The clerk paled. “Oh, no.”
“You’ll have to tell the boss he’s got a dud here. Happens every now and then. Nothing to be done about it.” The man pulled off his exam gloves with a snap and tossed them in the trash. “Let me know what you want done with him.” Without so much as a glance at Rafe, the doctor walked out the door. The clerk and the two goons soon followed.
Rafe lay naked in the stirrups, legs spread wide, exposed for anyone who came through the door. Damn those sons of bitches! Despite the chills surging through him from the chemical arrest of his heat cycle, his flaming outrage warmed him. Scared innocent young kids were being subjected to this same level of indifference and humiliation.
Despite his indignation, the reality of being a prisoner was cold, and soon he was shivering as uncertainty and fear overshadowed his anger.
What would happen to him now? Rafe was a risk to their whole business. The simplest solution might be to make him disappear. Sure, they’d provided long term care for the omega child Tommy Morton had traumatized. That kid was safe as long as there was a chance he could be rehabilitated and sold again. From a dudlike Rafe, however, no profit could be made.
Of course, the matter of the hacking and the missing omega children was still unsolved. As odd as it sounded, his involvement in the crime might turn out to be the only thing keeping him alive
His grim musing had been interrupted by the return of the two guards, accompanied by the same arrogant asshole who’d made the deal with Tommy Morton.
Looking at Rafe with tight-lipped distaste, the well-groomed man had issued orders to the guards and left in search of the doctor.
They’d dressed him in scratchy gray scrubs and jammed thin sandals on his feet. After being hustled down a flight of stairs and into their improvised jail cell, he’d sat unmoving in the chair, hoping to disguise the battle his body was fighting. It took all his concentration not to vomit. No matter what, he had to avoid another visit to the damned doctor.
When Grant had appeared in the doorway, it was staggering, like bright sunlight flooding the dank room. Hope, confusion, and need all swirled together and threatened to turn into tears. His throat had closed, leaving him unable to speak, which was a good thing. The slaver-in-chief had accompanied Grant, and the two of them seemed too cozy for comfort.