In a word, Doctor Danny smells desperate. In two words, he smells tragically desperate, as the last thing Rachel hears him say is “I’m so very lonely” before he falls from the operating table and onto the floor with a heavy thud. The lights in the room flicker, and from beyond the broken dam of memories that flood Rachel’s mind, the memories that remind her no, you really shouldn’t be alive, she almost finds it within herself to feel sorry for him.
It’s all because of the doctor’s scent. It’s thick and lingering, oppressive with the sheer amount of despair that Rachel has sensed in only one other Omega before, that Omega being her mother. It’s got a sourness to it, a pungent loneliness she can understand only as much as any other abstract sensation is meant to be understood.
Perhaps she doesn’t understand it at all.
All of that constitutes to very little when a new presence enters the room (or perhaps, it’s always been there?) and lingers in the doorway, like a nightmare at the edge of the bed. The scuff of a boot and the thump of a heavy object indicate that Danny’s body has been kicked out of the room. The door is closed behind him.
The monster in the corner stares.
Rachel can’t see him, but she can certainly smell him – the Alpha from the previous floor that chased her to the elevators. When they had locked eyes, he’d said something interesting - how only the best prey reek of fear; how this mouthwatering scent of despair makes them the most satisfying to cut into. The memory sends a reflexive surge of something (need? anticipation?) through her limbs. She flexes her wrists, but they’re still bound in the operating table’s restraints.
The blood-red light of the room turns dim when the nightmare in the room becomes flesh and bones and glinting white teeth; shadow and sin grinning down at her with a devil’s golden eye.
“Hey there, little miss. You’ve got one hell of a scent on you, couldn’t forget it if I tried. I chased you all the way here and found you in one hell of a spot, huh?”
Rachel doesn’t answer because there really is nothing to say. It was enough for her to see the flicker of lust in his eyes when they first met. But this is the stench of flame and hunger, and the thought of being prey doesn't sound any less appealing besides.
She had never paid attention to the pheromones coming off other Alphas before, but this man―Zack, she reminds herself, because that’s what Doctor Danny had called him when he spat it like a curse―has an aroma unlike anything else. Powerful. Stifling. It feels like a noose.
She likes that.
“You’re not gonna run are ya?” he says, rounding the table like a circling vulture. “Scamper off like a rat in a maze and have me chasin’ you all over this damn floor, too?”
Rachel lowers her head, feels her veins twinge behind her metal-chilled skin.
“I won’t. I can’t move, after all.”
And for the first time, Zack notices the handcuffs Danny placed on her and this makes him laugh - high and keen and deceptively gleeful. “I guess not, huh. But you weren’t gonna run anyway, were you? Your eyes aren’t the same as they were back on my floor. You actually look pretty damn boring.”
Rachel is slow to register the clatter of metal and shifting of weight as he casts his weapon to the floor and settles on top of her. He blocks out the anemic hospital lighting with his form alone, all broad shoulders and wide chest, and he becomes her new point of focus.
“Your scent, though,” he breathes, lips smearing against her neck, the bulb of her collared throat. “Best damn thing I’ve smelled in my life. Always hated that sappy, syrupy aroma from happy people. And the sour smell of all the terrified fuckers that come to my floor just makes me wanna cut ’em up. But you... You’re―”
“Are you going to mark me?” she asks, and even she isn’t initially aware of the way her head tilts, like she’s inviting him, like her body has an internalized contract that it desires to uphold, whether she decides to consciously go along with it or not. “I want you to.”
Zack scoffs. She catches his meandering gaze as it wanders down past her face, her chest, her hips and settles on her legs that she’s spread open to accommodate him. He sits back on his haunches and she spreads them a little wider.
“Mark you? That’s all you want me to do?”
The response that first enters her head make no sense to her. It’s all just one big abstract concept, able to be sensed but not understood. She bares her neck anyway.
“I want you to do what Alphas do to Omegas.”
A flash of memory brings her father and mother to mind, and with it, the ever-present memory of her sins. It stirs in her, sickens her, especially amidst the hot rush of want and the thick scent of need being directed (for once) in her direction.
I want to forget.
“I don’t give a damn about mates and marking and all that,” he tells her, taking her canted chin and jerking it to the side so her cheek smushes against the table. He tears through the clasp on the back of her necklace and throws the whole thing away, burying his nose in her overactive scent gland. “I couldn’t care less about all that shit.”
His hand wanders down and Rachel’s eyes follow it as closely as one would a natural disaster. The view of her pale legs, dabbled with half-light and shadow, chills her more than she ever expected as she watches her shorts being pulled from them. It’s an unreal thing to watch someone else’s hands undress her, skim her thighs, grab her ankles and then spread them apart so she’s on display for eyes that aren’t hers.
And then she’s feeling fingers that aren’t hers―heat that isn’t hers― slipping into the gap of her underwear and then into her, pushing first against her clit and then into the viselike tightness of her pussy.
Zack presses his face into the juncture of shoulder and neck and paints a stripe with his tongue along the cut of her jaw. She tightens around him and he snickers.
“You want me to mess you up, huh? Get you all desperate and weepy and screaming for it?”
He flexes his fingers and Rachel’s vision shorts out at the edges. She pushes her hips up because she can’t grasp him and bring him down any closer. She hopes it still gets the point across.
He gives her an unreadable face upon hearing that, so she lifts her hips again, swallowing his fingers to the knuckle and still pressing up for more.
“I want, I―” She swallows down the impressive, heady scent of death and desire radiating off him. “I want to forget. Please.”
“That I’m still breathing.”
And in spite of all Rachel’s focus, she doesn’t realize when his fingers are yanked out and he’s pushing himself in until it’s actually happening. She’s slick enough to be inviting, but the size throws her off and she has to hold her breath so she can handle the tip without crying out.
―Except none of that matters to Zack. He lifts her legs and bucks his hips and she cries out anyway as he tells her, “You said you wanted to forget, right?”
He’s not wrong.
Something breaks inside her, twin surges of pain and embarrassment rising up within, and all she knows is that she’s dripping down warm and bloody on his cock and she deserves it.
He bites into her neck, breaking the skin with a succulent pop, and she knows she has no right to tell him to stop, so she lets him suck a bruise to life along her scent gland; lets him jerk his hips back and pound into her until the table is creaking and her back is sore and weeping with sweat.
Somehow she manages to keep her eyes open, watching as he moves in and out, listening as her slick mixes with his pre-cum, and yes, finally she’s forgotten why she’s here and why it hurts and what it’s like to feel something again.
The whole world narrows down to this moment of scent and sex and sin, where nothing else exists but the sweet sting of greed as it spills out around her, upon her, inside her. And as the pleasure turns sour and the tide and roll of his hips slow down, it’s all Rachel can do to gasp out, No, wait, please― before the dam breaks and guilt rushes in to take its place.
It coats her stomach like melted wax. She lingers in it.
And when she opens her eyes, she’s in a blood-red room with bone-white light; a sting between her legs and an ache in her wrists. The gland in her neck is flayed down to nerves, throbbing with a satisfaction that doesn’t feel like satisfaction at all.
It’s got a sourness to it, a pungent loneliness she can understand only as much as any other abstract sensation is meant to be understood.
Perhaps she doesn’t understand it at all.