chapter 3

Rhonin sat stiffly in the examination room, staring at the glossy pamphlet he'd found on the doctor's desk while trying very hard to pretend he wasn't mortified. 

Eden.

Beneath the elegant lettering, a tagline read: 

"Excellence in genetics. Discretion in service."

He flipped through it, taking in the sleek images of high-class breeding suites, detailed medical procedures and alphas described like they were fucking racehorses. 

Genetic compatibility charts. Fertility optimization statistics. A ranking system for alphas based on client satisfaction. 

"Jesus Christ," He muttered. "This place is a fucking baby factory." 

He barely had time to process how deep in this shit he was before the door opened again. 

Dr. Reid walked in, holding Rhonin's sperm sample like it was a goddamn wine glass. 

Rhonin immediately looked anywhere else. "So… uh. Everything good?" 

Dr. Reid examined the vial with clinical interest, then gave a satisfied hum before placing it into a temperature-controlled storage unit. 

"Strong motility, excellent viscosity," The doctor said, almost approvingly. "Very good." 

Rhonin wanted to throw himself into the sun. 

"Great," He muttered, rubbing his face. "Glad my… stuff meets expectations." 

Dr. Reid ignored him, typing something into his tablet. "Wait here while I process your results. Your interview will begin shortly." 

And with that, he walked out like this was just another Tuesday. 

Rhonin exhaled sharply, slumping back into his chair. "What the fuck is my life?" 

He barely had time to spiral before the door opened again. Dr. Reid returned but this time, he wasn't alone. 

A tall, sharp-dressed beta man followed behind him, holding his own clipboard and a knowing smirk. He looked sleek as hell—charcoal-gray suit, perfectly styled hair and the air of someone who probably carried a silk handkerchief just for dramatic effect. 

"Mr. Winter," The beta greeted smoothly, flipping through his notes. "I'm Julian Vaughn, Director of Talent Acquisitions." He pulled out a pen, clicking it with slow deliberation. "Let's begin." 

Rhonin sat up straighter, already feeling like this was going to be a shitshow. 

Dr. Reid took a seat beside Julian, both of them now staring at Rhonin like a science experiment. 

"First question," Julian said, tilting his head. "Do you have any hereditary illnesses, genetic disorders, or predispositions to chronic conditions?" 

"No." 

Dr. Reid nodded, tapping his screen. "Healthy medical history confirmed." 

"Good," Julian said. "Now, let's talk lifestyle. What's your diet like?" 

Rhonin blinked. "Uh. Food?" 

Julian gave him a blank stare. "Could you elaborate?" 

Rhonin shifted. "I eat… normal stuff?" 

Dr. Reid raised a brow. "List your regular meals." 

"Uh, okay. Breakfast… usually coffee." 

"Just coffee?" 

"Yeah." 

Dr. Reid made a note. Julian didn't even react before firing another question. "How often do you consume fast food?" 

Rhonin scratched his cheek. "Define often." 

Julian sighed. 

Dr. Reid typed something. Probably 'Feeds himself like a feral raccoon.'

"Next," Julian continued. "What's your exercise routine?" 

"I walk everywhere. Does that count?" 

"It does not," Julian replied, unimpressed. 

Dr. Reid adjusted his glasses. "Your physique suggests you engage in physical labor." 

"Yeah, I work at a garage part-time," Rhonin muttered. "And I walk dogs." 

Julian actually looked pleased at that. "Animal lovers score well with certain omega clients. We'll make a note of that." 

Rhonin groaned. 

"Moving on," Julian said, far too amused. "How often do you engage in sexual activity?" 

Rhonin choked on air. "Excuse me?" 

"Your sexual activity," Julian repeated, writing something down. "How often?" 

Dr. Reid didn't even blink. "Daily? Weekly? Only during rut cycles?" 

Rhonin had never felt more judged in his life. "I—what the fuck kind of question—" 

"It's a standard evaluation metric," Dr. Reid said, completely deadpan. "Sexual stamina and experience directly correlate with client satisfaction." 

Julian clicked his pen. "Additionally, an alpha's past experience can indicate potential success rates." 

Rhonin gawked. "You're telling me my fucking body count affects my performance review?" 

Julian smirked. "It certainly doesn't hurt." 

Rhonin scrubbed a hand down his face. "I dunno, man. A few times a month? I don't exactly keep a goddamn logbook." 

Dr. Reid nodded. "And do you engage in intimacy outside of rut periods?" 

"Why is that relevant?" 

"Some omegas prefer a slow-build experience over immediate physical intensity," Julian said smoothly. "We like to evaluate an alpha's range of engagement." 

Rhonin stared at them. "You guys talk about sex like it's a fucking business transaction." 

Julian smiled. "It is a business transaction, Mr. Winter." 

Rhonin had no idea how to process that. 

Dr. Reid typed something again, then glanced up. "How do you typically engage with omegas during intimacy?" 

Rhonin narrowed his eyes. "What the fuck does that mean?" 

Julian sighed. "Are you more dominant or responsive? Do you prefer fast, intense sessions or slower, more intimate engagements? Do you employ verbal stimulation? Praise? Restraints?" 

Rhonin pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are not asking me if I dirty talk on the job application." 

Dr. Reid looked up. "We are." 

Rhonin groaned. 

Julian leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. "Your first breeding assignment is a high-profile omega client. If you fail to perform adequately, you will not only owe the facility fifty grand per failed attempt but your overall ranking will determine whether you qualify for future contracts." He smiled. "I suggest you take this seriously." 

Rhonin scowled. "I am taking it seriously." 

Julian studied him, tapping his pen against his notes. Then he smirked. "I believe you." 

Dr. Reid finally set down his tablet. "Final question. Are you prepared to commit to the contract?" 

Rhonin let out a slow breath. He thought about his negative bank balance, his student debt, his car that was one bad week away from breaking down for good. 

Three omegas. Three hundred grand. A way out. 

"Yeah," He muttered, rolling his shoulders. "I'm in." 

Julian grinned. "Excellent." 

Dr. Reid stood. "Welcome to Eden, Mr. Winter."

_

Rhonin followed Julian down the sleek, marble-floored hallway, trying to process the absolute overload of information being thrown at him. 

"So, let me get this straight," Rhonin muttered. "I can't use my real name, I have to follow a performance-based ranking system and if I suck at this job, I'll be buried in so much debt I'll have to start selling my own organs?" 

Julian smirked. "That's the simplified version, yes." 

Rhonin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fucking hell." 

"As an alpha, you will be assigned a professional alias," Julian continued, tapping on his tablet. "Your clients will never know your real identity unless you choose to disclose it outside of Eden. Any breach of confidentiality within the facility results in immediate termination and financial penalties." 

"So, I have a fake name?" 

"Correct. You'll be identified as Alpha 017 - Valor during your contract period." 

"Valor?" Rhonin raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like a superhero knockoff." 

Julian ignored him. "You will also be assigned a temporary breeding suite for your first session with each client. Afterward, you may rent a suite for continuity or use the standard facility rooms." 

"Let me guess," Rhonin muttered. "The rental fee is a rip-off." 

Julian smirked. "Only if you don't perform well enough to afford it." 

Rhonin rolled his eyes. This place really was a fucking business down to the last drop. 

As they walked, Julian continued listing off rules like he was reading from a Terms & Conditions page that no one actually wanted to hear. 

"Alphas are not permitted to solicit personal relationships with clients within Eden's walls." 

"All contract sessions must be completed under facility supervision." 

"Client satisfaction is the highest priority—your pay may be adjusted based on feedback." 

"Any attempt to break the contract results in an automatic lawsuit." 

Rhonin rubbed his temples. "So basically, don't fuck up or I'm fucked." 

"Precisely," Julian said, unbothered. 

They reached a set of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a high-end private lounge. Below, a group of alphas sat around, all looking like they'd stepped straight out of a luxury fitness magazine. 

Julian gestured toward them. "These are Eden's Top Ranked Alphas." 

Rhonin looked down at the living embodiment of rich, well-bred testosterone. 

One alpha leaned back, lazily sipping whiskey, while an omega draped over his lap, whispering in his ear. Another sat in a tailored suit, scrolling through a tablet like he was signing million-dollar deals instead of knocking up elite omegas. 

"These men have contributed significantly to Eden's success," Julian explained. "They rank in the top percentile for client satisfaction, performance and genetic desirability." 

"Jesus," Rhonin muttered. "Do they also get their dicks gold-plated?" 

Julian smirked. "Not quite but they do receive permanent alpha contracts, private breeding suites and performance-based bonuses." 

Rhonin exhaled. "Right. No pressure or anything." 

Julian turned, watching him with a calculating look. "Do well and you could join their ranks." 

"Yeah," Rhonin muttered. "Or I could just do my three and get the fuck out." 

Julian chuckled. "That's what they all say at first." 

Rhonin wasn't sure if that was a warning or a fucking prophecy.