POV: Rian
The next morning didn't start with sunlight. It started with a shiver that rattled my bones.
I woke up curled in a tight ball on the edge of Varrick's massive bed. Varrick was already gone. The space beside me was cold, the sheets smoothed out as if he had never been there.
I tried to sit up, but the room spun violently.
A wave of nausea crashed into me. I gagged, clapping a hand over my mouth, and scrambled off the bed. I barely made it to the en-suite bathroom before my stomach emptied itself into the porcelain toilet.
There was nothing in me but bile and acid.
I slumped against the cold marble wall, my forehead resting on my knees. I was freezing, yet my skin was slick with sweat.
The suppressants.
I knew this feeling. It was the crash. The cheap, black-market pills I bought in Sector 4 were basically poison. They worked by chemically nuking your hormones, but once you stopped taking them—or once your body built up a tolerance—the withdrawal hit like a freight train.
And Varrick had burned my clothes. My stash was gone.
"Get up," I whispered to myself, my teeth chattering. "Don't be weak. Weak gets you killed."
I forced myself to stand. My legs felt like rubber. I splashed icy water on my face, trying to scrub away the gray pallor of my skin. I brushed my teeth twice to hide the scent of sickness.
I needed to get to the kitchen. Maybe food would help.
I stumbled out of the bedroom. The walk down the hall felt like a marathon. The penthouse was bright—too bright. The morning sun slicing through the windows felt like needles in my eyes.
I rounded the corner into the living area.
Varrick was sitting on the sofa, a tablet in his lap, a coffee on the table. He looked up as I entered.
He looked rested. For the first time since I'd met him, the tension lines around his eyes were gone. He looked powerful, commanding, and terrifyingly alert.
"You slept late," he commented, his voice a low rumble. "I let you lie in. You were..."
He stopped.
He stood up slowly, the tablet sliding unnoticed onto the cushion. His eyes narrowed, scanning me from head to toe.
"What is wrong with you?"
"Nothing," I lied, gripping the back of a chair to keep upright. "Just... tired."
"You're gray," Varrick said, taking a step toward me. "And you smell like sour milk and decay."
I flinched. "Thanks. You really know how to charm a guy."
I tried to step around the chair to get to the water pitcher, but my knees finally gave up. The room tilted sideways. The floor rushed up to meet me.
I braced for the impact, but it never came.
Strong arms caught me before I hit the hardwood.
Varrick scooped me up, holding me against his chest. His body heat was overwhelming against my shivering skin.
"You're freezing," he growled. He shifted his grip, pressing a hand to my forehead. "And you're burning up. Is this a virus? Did you bring something in from the Sectors?"
"It's not a virus," I mumbled, my head lolling against his shoulder. The energy to lie was gone. "It's the pills."
Varrick went still. "The suppressants?"
"Withdrawal," I whispered, closing my eyes. "It passes. Just... just put me down. I need to ride it out."
"Ride it out?" Varrick's voice rose, sharp with anger. "You look like you're dying, Rian."
He didn't put me down. He turned and marched back toward the bedroom.
"Call Dr. Aris," Varrick barked at the empty room.
"Calling Dr. Aris," the house AI responded smoothly from the ceiling speakers.
"No!" I struggled weakly in his arms. "No doctors. I don't need a doctor. They'll just report me."
"Report you to who?" Varrick snapped, kicking the bedroom door open. "I own the hospital. I own the police. I own the city."
He laid me down on the bed—not on the edge this time, but right in the center, on the pillows that smelled like him. He pulled the heavy duvet up to my chin.
"Stay," he ordered.
He paced the room, looking like a caged tiger.
"I knew those things were garbage," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "I smelled the chemicals on you the first night. What the hell were you taking? Phenol-blockers? Synthetic inhibitors?"
"Whatever was cheapest," I admitted, my teeth chattering again as a new wave of chills hit. "Five credits a bottle."
Varrick stopped pacing. He looked at me with an expression I couldn't place. It wasn't pity. It was fury.
"You were poisoning yourself," he said quietly. "To hide what you are."
"To survive," I corrected, hugging my knees under the blanket. "Omegas in Sector 4 don't last long, Varrick. We get claimed. Or we get sold."
Varrick's jaw tightened. He walked back to the bed and sat on the edge.
"You aren't in Sector 4 anymore," he said firmly.
The door chime rang.
"Enter," Varrick commanded.
A woman walked in. It wasn't Greta. It was a doctor—Dr. Aris, the same woman taking care of my sister. She carried a sleek medical bag.
She didn't look terrified of Varrick, just respectful. She approached the bed, snapping on gloves.
"Withdrawal?" she asked, looking at my dilated pupils and pale skin.
"Cheap street suppressants," Varrick answered for me. "High dosage. Long-term use."
Dr. Aris sighed, shaking her head. "I see this all the time with the sector kids. It destroys their endocrine system."
She pulled a syringe from her bag and a vial of clear liquid.
"This is a bio-regulator," she explained, swabbing my arm. "It will flush the toxins and stabilize his temperature. It won't stop the pain entirely, but it will stop the seizures."
"Seizures?" Varrick repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.
"It's a possibility," Dr. Aris said calmly, injecting the fluid. She looked at Varrick. "He needs fluids. Electrolytes. And he needs body heat. His ability to regulate his own temperature is shot."
She packed up her bag efficiently.
"He's going to get worse before he gets better, Varrick. The fever will break tonight. Until then, don't leave him alone."
"I won't," Varrick said.
Dr. Aris left.
The silence returned, but the dynamic had shifted. Varrick wasn't the captor anymore.
He stripped off his jacket. He kicked off his shoes. He climbed into the bed beside me.
"What are you doing?" I rasped, trying to scoot away.
"The doctor said you need body heat," Varrick said simply.
He reached out and pulled me against him. He didn't ask. He wrapped his large frame around my shivering one, spooning me from behind. His arm draped over my waist, his hand resting flat on my chest to monitor my breathing.
He was a furnace. The heat seeped into my icy bones, chasing away the ache.
"I threw up," I whispered, the shame burning my cheeks. "I'm gross."
"I don't care," Varrick murmured against the back of my neck.
"Why?" I asked, the drugs making me bold—or maybe just weepy. "Why do you care? I'm just a thief."
Varrick was silent for a long time. I thought he wasn't going to answer.
"Because last night," he said, his voice rumbling against my spine, "you were the only reason I didn't put a bullet in my own head to stop the noise."
He tightened his grip on me.
"You saved me, Rian. Now I'm returning the favor."
He buried his nose in my hair, inhaling the scent of sickness and vanilla.
"Sleep," he commanded softly. "I've got you."
And for the first time in my life, I believed it. I let the darkness take me, safe in the arms of the monster.