The hallway felt blessedly empty. A long, sterile tube of beige walls and flickering fluorescent lights that smelled of nothing more offensive than industrial cleaner. I leaned against the wall, my back pressing into the cool paint, and took a deep, shuddering breath. It was air. Just air. My pulse was still a frantic drum against my ribs, an echo of the cloying, invasive perfume that had colonized Lisbon’s office. I closed my eyes, trying to force the image of Jane’s knowing smile from my mind.
The click of the office door opening again made me flinch. It was Lisbon. She didn’t look at me at first, just walked towards the elevators with a strange, measured gait. Her focus was inward, her shoulders not quite as straight as they were moments ago. She fumbled in her pocket for her keys, her fingers clumsy. A small, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her hand as she finally located them, the metal jangling softly against the sudden quiet.
“You okay, Chief?” I asked, my voice still rough.
She started, as if my words had broken a spell. Her gaze flicked to me, and for a moment, it was unfocused, hazy. Then her professional mask snapped back into place, but it was a poor facsimile of the original. The edges were frayed. “Fine. Let’s just get to the yacht club. Cho’s waiting.”
She stabbed the down button for the elevator. The little plastic square glowed red. We stood in silence, the hum of the building’s ventilation system the only sound. I could smell it on her now, a faint echo of the wisteria and musk clinging to the fabric of her jacket. Jane’s scent. A territorial marker left on my boss. The thought was so primal, so outrageously possessive, that it sent a fresh wave of unease through me. The elevator arrived with a soft chime, and the doors slid open. Inside the cramped metal box, the secondhand scent was more pronounced, an unwelcome third passenger.
The drive was worse. The sedan was a specimen jar, and we were trapped inside with the ghost of his perfume. Lisbon was behind the wheel, her knuckles white on the leather. She drove with a brittle, jerky precision that was the opposite of her usual fluid confidence. Twice she signaled for a turn and then drove straight through the intersection, her eyes fixed on some middle distance that had nothing to do with the Sacramento street grid.
I tried to breach the silence, to drag us back to the mundane sanity of work. “So, the witness. A Mrs. Albright. Said she saw someone leaving the accountant’s office the night of the data breach, but she clammed up when the locals pushed her.”
“Right,” Lisbon said. Her voice was flat. Distant.
“Cho thinks she’s just dramatic. Likes the attention but is scared of actual involvement.”
“Mm.”
We drove on. The silence stretched, thin and tight. It wasn’t a comfortable silence. It was the quiet of a pulled grenade pin. Then she missed our exit for the marina, sailing right past the off-ramp without a flicker of recognition.
“Lisbon,” I said, a little more forcefully. “That was our turn.”
She blinked, her focus snapping back to the road. A flush crept up her neck. “Right. Sorry.” She took the next exit, her movements sharp, angry. A few blocks later, she suddenly wrenched the wheel, pulling the car over to the curb with a squeal of tires. She killed the engine.
The sudden silence was deafening. She didn't look at me. She stared through the windshield, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.
“Teresa?” I used her first name without thinking. The situation felt too raw for ranks.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s his… cycle,” she bit out, the words tasting like poison in her mouth. “The suppressants must be failing. Or he’s not taking them.” She finally turned to look at me, and her eyes were filled with a desperate, cornered frustration. It wasn't directed at me, or even at Jane. It was a fury at the situation itself, at a biological reality she couldn't out-strategize. “It’s never been this… loud. Not in the field.”
*Suppressants.* The word dropped into the car like a stone. A medical intervention. A tool to manage this. And it was failing. This wasn’t just Jane being a provocative ass; this was a system breaking down, a safety protocol being ignored. An Omega’s heat was a private, dangerous thing. To broadcast it willingly, in a federal building, with this intensity… it wasn’t just a challenge. It was an act of profound desperation or aggression.
“What are we supposed to do?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“Protocol says he’s off-duty. Immediately,” she said, her tone clipped and professional, a stark contrast to the vulnerability in her eyes. “It says any affected Alpha personnel are to maintain distance. But he’s Patrick. He doesn’t follow the damn protocol. He uses it.” She ran a hand through her hair, a gesture of pure exhaustion. “He’s trying to force a reaction.”
She didn’t say whose. Mine, or hers. Maybe both.
“Let’s just get through this interview,” she finally said, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual command. She restarted the car. The mask was back, welded into place this time. “We do the job. We go back. I handle Jane.”
But I could see the cost of that composure in the faint tremor that still lingered in her hands as she gripped the steering wheel. She was holding herself together with sheer force of will, and the effort was draining her.
When we pulled into the yacht club parking lot, Cho was waiting by the entrance, arms crossed, the picture of impassive patience. He glanced at his watch as we got out of the car.
“You’re late,” he said, his voice its usual monotone.
“Traffic,” Lisbon snapped, striding past him before he could say another word. It was too sharp, too defensive. Cho’s eyes flickered to me for a fraction of a second, a silent inquiry. I gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of my head. Not now.
Lisbon was already halfway to the main building, her stride stiff. She was a soldier marching into a battle she wasn't sure she could win. I watched her go, a knot of ice forming in my stomach. This was more than just a weird office dynamic. This was a vulnerability in our command structure, a weakness Jane was actively exploiting for reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom. And I was the only one who had seen the mask slip completely.
As I started to follow, a glint of familiar, faded blue caught my eye. Tucked away at the far end of the lot, almost hidden behind a garish luxury SUV, was a dusty, dented Citroën DS.
Jane. He was already here.