Wolf Teeth || Book I : Summer {M/M} ❄

Chapter #3

In the morning, Edrik was gone. He'd left a note.

"I'm not very good at goodbyes. Figured this would be less weird. I'll take your stuff to storage for you. Major said to leave your keys on the kitchen table, and some people will be by to pick you up.

Miss you already, asshole.

Edrik xxx"

Ignoring the way his throat closed when he read those words, Oryen gathered his things and got dressed in time for his escort to arrive and take him to quarantine. There would be no goodbye party or official send off. Fens got turned all the time, and it was bad for morale to remind everyone regularly how dangerous their jobs were. He got into the back of a sedan and waved goodbye to base as they drove out the gates, but nothing and no one waved back.

They arrived at the facility several hours later, where two armed guards holding werewolf-grade siinca rifles flanked the entrance. His escort passed him over to the guards, who cuffed him in inhibitors. A shock travelled like pins and needles up Oryen's arms and through his body, suppressing whatever dangers lurked in his blood.

The inhibitors were a largely unnecessary precaution. Oryen wouldn't have his first transformation for weeks yet. It would have been convenient if he could have just worn a cuff voluntarily and remained free, but unfortunately this type of confinement had lethal consequences. Preventing a werewolf's transformations for extended periods resulted in rapid health degeneration and, eventually, death.

So quarantine it was.

Without a goodbye, his escort got back into the car and drove away. Oryen turned to his new handlers. "I'm guessing you have more paperwork for me?" he said.

They had much more than that. None of the people who dealt with him knew who he was or that he'd submitted willingly to quarantine. They fingerprinted him. Took retinal scans. X-rayed him to ensure he wasn't ferrying in contraband. They took his backpack and dug through that too. They told him to strip all his clothes off, including his bandages, and then stood him in a room where pressurized jets in the walls sprayed him down from every direction, scraping his skin of any contaminants. They had him sit, naked and soaking wet, on a cold metal table while a doctor drew his blood, took his temperature—higher than a normal human—and asked him a million invasive questions about his medical history and how he got infected.

Once he'd finally finished, the guards took him into a doctor's office. The room was equipped with most of the things you'd normally find—cupboards full of cotton swabs, a desk, a tray of medical instruments. The only thing out of place was a chair with several reinforced iron restraints.

A man wearing a white lab coat sat at the desk, muttering to himself and staring down at the clipboard. He looked up when he heard Oryen enter.

"Captain Taron Beckett?"

It was a relief to hear his name. At least this doctor had been briefed on his particular situation. Oryen waved off the formality, though it was nice to hear the honorific one last time. "It's just Oryen now."

The doctor nodded, unfazed. "Oryen. I'm Doctor Cobb. I'll be fitting you with your quarantine collar."

Oryen had no clue what that meant, but he grinned good-naturedly.

"Have a seat, Cap—Oryen. Please ignore the restraints. Some of our patients aren't as cooperative as you've been."

Oryen sat down, eyeing the warped metal from where countless patients had struggled. Meanwhile, the doctor busied himself with some of the paperwork on his clipboard. "We apologize for any discomfort during processing," he continued. "We try to be thorough, but it isn't the most dignified of experiences."