POV: Dante
Aurora's dizziness begins before anyone notices.
I smell it first: a subtle shift in her chemistry, cold sweat mixed with that underlying heat I already recognize. From the hallway, as I finish talking to Andrade, I see her stop halfway and cling to the edge of a cubicle as if the floor had moved.
My rational side thinks, "Stress, first days." The other side, the one I've trained for years to ignore, recognizes something much more concrete: the body of an omega reacting to the wrong alpha, in the wrong place.
Me.
I walk toward her without visible haste. Each step, however, accelerates something that has nothing to do with the company.
"Miss Vega."
Her name comes out of my mouth softer than I intended. She looks up. Her pupils are slightly dilated, her breathing too rapid for someone who just changed seats.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
I know I shouldn't get any closer. The other part takes a step forward.
"Just... dizzy," she whispers. "I stood up too fast."
Half a lie. The pulse I feel in the air says otherwise.
I look down at her hand, still clutching the cubicle panel. It smells of ink, anxiety, static electricity. And underneath, that nuance that shouldn't be so present yet. Not at this age, not without having had a first heat.
"Maybe you should sit down," I say.
Her body obeys before her mind. She nods and returns to her cubicle. I walk beside her, close enough to intervene if she falls, far enough away so as not to make her condition worse.
I don't touch her.
When she sits down, she presses her feet firmly on the floor, as if she needs to remind her body that gravity is still there.
"If the dizziness persists, go to the infirmary," I add. "I don't want anyone collapsing on my floor from low blood sugar."
I say it in a neutral tone. No human would read danger into those words. Her body, not entirely human, interprets it differently. Her scent gives a little jump, as if an exposed nerve had reacted to the word "my."
I walk away before making things worse.
I return to my office with measured steps. I close the door and lower the blinds halfway. I need the building to stop watching me.
I take a deep breath.
Aurora's perfume still clings to my clothes. She's not in heat yet, but her system is already stirring. The contract she signed binds her to the company; what's in her blood binds her to something else.
I pick up the phone.
"Sebastian."
He answers on the first ring.
"Alpha."
"Status of the scholarship report," I say. "Especially the one related to the Aurora Program."
Keystrokes on the other end.
"Seraphim used intermediary accounts to finance several of the foundation's programs," he explains. "Most of them seem clean. The program that bears her name, not so much."
I clench my jaw.
"Explain."
"There are items coming in from a foreign holding company," he says. "The same account we've seen in mixed clan movements. Humans in front, wolves and others behind. Legally, it's signed by a director who is no longer there. But the pattern indicates orders from someone else."
"Find that name," I order.
"Yes, Alpha."
I hang up.
I could stop there, focus on the project, and pretend the analyst is replaceable. She's not.
I open the medical folder Sofia added to Aurora's file. I reread the admission exam: "generalized, functional anxiety." I scroll down to the medical clause. Periodic hormone evaluations. Notification of cycle changes.
I put those clauses in to avoid human error; now they could be used to justify the wrong medications, diagnoses that attempt to shut down who she is.
I won't let them turn her awakening into a chemical problem.
I dial the occupational health extension.
"Medical unit."
"Noir," I say. "Update instructions on a risk analysis employee. Name: Aurora Vega."
Pause on the other end.
"Any performance issues, sir?" he asks.
"No," I reply. "But any indication of psychotropic drugs for her must be reviewed by me before being administered. If an external order comes in, block it and call me."
"That's not standard protocol," he stammers.
"Neither is my interest," I reply. "Record it."
He agrees. No one argues with me much.
I hang up.
I think about the hallway, the way Aurora held onto the cubicle, how she swallowed her words before saying "just dizzy." I think about the beta in the next cubicle, with her annoying sensitivity every time I step on that floor.
That beta is a problem and a resource.
If she loses her composure every time I show up, others will notice the pattern. But she'll also be the first to notice when Aurora's chemistry changes permanently.
I don't need to see her every day to know how she is. I just need to listen to how her environment reacts.
The computer flashes with a new email.
"Subject: Potential conflict of interest – Vega/Seraphim."
I open it.
Aurora wrote:
"Director, while reviewing the foundation's funds, I identified a program called 'Aurora Program – Cohort 03,' which matches the name and format of the scholarship that funded my studies. I believe this could constitute a conflict of interest in the Seraphim review. I await your instructions."
Clear. No victimhood.
My response could be institutional and cold. It will not be.
I write:
"Received. The situation is being analyzed at a higher level. It is precisely because of that connection that I am interested in your reading of the project. Continue to document everything. Nothing you see will be used against you if you stick to the facts. D."
It's not a promise the company would make. It's a promise I can keep.
I send the email.
For a moment, I allow myself the image I've been avoiding since I first smelled her: Aurora in full awakening, her body finally understanding what she is, her scent impossible to ignore in the tower, the clans lurking.
If we play our cards right, no one else will have a chance to get close.
I don't know if it's a protection strategy or a sophisticated form of possession.
Maybe both. And too soon to admit it.