Page 10 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Maybe it was the night he took me out for sushi. After polishing off two dozen cucumber and avocado rolls, he declared with a near-manic grin that it was the perfect time to embrace vegetarianism again—because he’d accepted an artist’s residency in California.

A residency I didn’t know he’d applied for.

Oh, and his loft was going on the market at the end of the week.

Or was it after the gallery’s opening night party for his last show, when he’d gotten sloppy drunk and wouldn’t stop blathering about Hugo?

Fantastically sexy Hugo, the handsome alpha in the designer suit who was so effortlessly charming, so perfect, it felt like destiny, who was just so sophisticated and successful, so delightful.

Who cared if he was already mated with an omega?

Not a big deal, not at all—because Jacobi was too young to settle down. He didn’t want to lose his freedom. And he didn’t want to be a stepdad to another established pack’s children. At least not yet.

No, it was probably the day after my last disaster of a heat, when I was still sore and fuming, cursing any alpha that so much as looked in my direction, when Jacobi made the sensible but infuriating suggestion over brunch that it might be time to develop a steady roster of fuckbuddies that didn’t view lube as an insult to their fragile alpha egos.

I ignored his advice because taking unattached alphas for test drives would detract from my residency at the children’s hospital.

But the uncomfortable truth in his words lingered, prompting fresh anxieties and a persistent twinge of fear.

Just like tonight. And I hated that he was right.

Tenny shifted and draped a foreleg across my calf, burying his face in the back of my knee. On the cat tree, Kip twitched in his sleep, belly-up, front paws kneading the air, whiskers quivering.

But sleep eluded me, and it would continue to do so until I purposefully exhausted myself or took a sleeping pill.

I squinted at my phone. It was just after midnight, which was too late to call Grace. She was visiting her parental pack for Thanksgiving, and they went to bed early.

Dropping my phone on the upholstered surface, I rolled onto my stomach, burying my face in a pillow and stifling a pained curse.

I’d forgotten my right knee and hip were still bruised from falling to the floor.

Tenny didn’t care. He just snuggled tighter against the side of my leg.

Which was more reliable, my slippery sense of time or my battered body—or was it too risky to trust myself at all?

I wished Cal was spending the night, holding me close, weaving a spell around me in his deep voice. For our bodies to become so entwined that not even a cat whisker could fit between us.

But I couldn’t bother him. Not when he was at the hospital and his grandfather’s health was still touch-and-go.

My phone vibrated.

Hoping for good news from my boyfriend, I picked it up, only to find another blasted reminder to buy winter Northport apparel.

Hadn’t I already deleted that after Cal got me everything I could need and then some?

“Fucking short-term memory,” I hissed, deleting the reminder with a violent stab of my finger.

Unwilling to let my mind go quiet, lest I start replaying Piper’s or Jacobi’s well-deserved admonishments, I reached for the half-notated white paper on the health benefits of beta-only packs.

It was better to feign productivity than to acknowledge the obvious solution to my problems—Kelsey.

She was puttering about in the Beaufeather’s stockroom, packing orders. However, my sister was rightfully still giving me the coldest of shoulders. We’d barely spoken ten words to each other since she returned from Tacoma.

It’d take more than foregoing spicy food for a few weeks to make things right with her, and I had no idea where to start.

The clock ticked forward another minute. Then another.

My sticky notes and highlighters sat unused as I stared at my phone screen, mentally urging Cal to call me, text me, anything.

I’d even settle for a good grovel text from Jacobi.

But the screen stayed blank.

“Screw it.”

Shifting through the stack of documents on the bottom shelf, I found Cal and Owen’s white paper on mating bond stability during deployment. Dog-eared and highlighted to high heaven, it was a familiar old friend that would help redirect my racing thoughts.

I expected fresh inspiration for PheroPass or vibration therapy, not a series of sticky notes with Cal’s blocky script sprinkled across the pages.

Have I ever mentioned your handwriting is remarkably legible for a doctor?

Remind me to tell you about spending two weeks at a desert military base with Owen sometime. Absolute misery.

An excellent paragraph to underline—I wrote it.

This note is redeemable for one takeout dinner date of your choice.

Can I leave a note on every page without you noticing what I’m doing?

Probably. You just glared at your tablet and shoved your glasses up your nose. Someone has displeased Dr. Van Daal. Tsk tsk.

Think my truck is jealous of your loft. It won’t feel better until we’ve adequately fooled around in the cab, with you in my lap, only wearing one of my sweaters…

Where do you want to go on our first proper date? I can get us a table somewhere fancy with harbor views.

Exchange this note for a thorough fingering—never mind, you just replied to your last email. No time like the present.

I arranged each sticky note in a precise grid on a dark blue linen throw pillow, reading them repeatedly until my vision blurred with sleep, and I drifted off with a smile.