Page 21 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Thirteen

Owen

I had low expectations for our meeting with the university leadership. Yet I was still taken aback by their willful disregard for the facts.

“They were just wound up,” the head coach insisted, slapping the polished surface of the conference room table. “It was our only chance to secure our place in the conference championship, and it worked.”

“But at what cost?” Talia asked.

Cal’s deputy administrator was a straight shooter with limited patience for nonsense. She was more than willing to play pit bull on behalf of the entire disgruntled Designation Services department.

The coach shook his head. “You don’t understand. We’re better than Garroway Forest and Wakeland State. Everyone knows it. But we can only prove it by playing to win, and yes, that means pushing the boys to their limits.”

“Most of the starting defensive line is injured,” Dr. McEwen said. He gripped the arms of his chair, posture tense, like a loaded cannon looking for any excuse to fire. “That’s not pushing the limits, it’s negligence.”

Redwing’s head legal counsel agreed, setting off another round of protracted discussion.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I suppressed the urge to sigh.

My aunt wanted solutions, not excuses, and it was up to me to deliver—a thankless task I had no choice but to accept.

Otherwise, she would withhold approval for Cal and Morgan’s special consultant agreements.

It had taken weeks to convince her, culminating in an hour-long negotiation after Thanksgiving dinner. Concessions were required, of course.

One of my other projects had to be delivered three months earlier to help offset the increased cost of PheroPass development.

And the vibration therapy module had to hit the market in two years.

In return, I was allowed to offer Morgan a salary on par with Cal’s hourly rate, with generous medical and heat leave allowances.

Scanning my quagmire of an inbox, I noted a status update from my assistant. The offers should be ready within the next two weeks if HR and legal didn’t present any unforeseen obstacles.

I glanced across the table, where Morgan was busy typing meeting notes on her laptop. Her gaze was focused, fingers flying across the keys. Nothing like the pale, shaky figure who couldn’t stay awake a little over a week ago.

My gaze lingered on the geometric silver pendant around her neck, paired with a crisp blouse, which highlighted the slender column of her throat.

While t-shirts and scrub pants were suitable for her work as a physician, the clean lines of professional attire suited her better.

Returning to my inbox, I tackled several pressing emails, content to ignore the alpha posturing and circular arguments at the other end of the table.

Ten minutes later, they were still bickering about what level of inaction would be least negligent.

And my patience expired.

I met the gaze of Redwing’s legal representative and nodded. They interjected, introducing the only agenda item of consequence—my aunt’s not-so-veiled threats.

Either the university took the pheromone intimidation issue seriously, or Redwing would investigate, starting with the detailed timeline Morgan sent over late Sunday night.

It documented with crystal clarity that multiple Narwhal defensive linemen had emitted pheromone spikes at the line of scrimmage, disarming the Garroway Forest players.

This left their quarterback unprotected, resulting in a catastrophic injury.

We might not be able to prove pheromone intimidation, but reckless disregard and negligence were another matter. They knew their players were too amped up to play by the rules, and we could prove it.

Cal leaned over, intending to whisper something to me, when his phone exploded. He grabbed it, holding it in his lap as repeated texts from Heather and his various parental figures poured in.

A few keywords stood out: flatline, resuscitation, and critical condition.

Charles the First’s life was in danger once more.

“I’ve heard enough. Since you refuse to listen to reason, do whatever you want.” Dr. McEwen stood up. “But don’t complain to me—or my staff—when this blows up in your face and Redwing walks.”

After ninety minutes of casual avoidance, Cal and Morgan looked at each other.

It was a fleeting glance. Unremarkable to anyone ignorant of the true nature of their relationship. One flash of brilliant amber as she lowered the screen of her laptop, meeting his troubled gaze.

Morgan canted her head toward the door, encouraging him to leave first, but Cal didn’t budge, resistant to putting his family before her. He squeezed his phone to the point where I feared for the integrity of the screen.

“Van Daal, let’s go,” Dr. McEwen said on his way out the door.

She followed him with swift, confident movements, sparing only one brief, professional smile in parting—for both of us to share.

The chance of her betraying their clandestine affair while on the clock was zero.

Cal stood, intending to follow her, but his phone started vibrating again. It was a call from Chaz.

He made even fewer personal phone calls than I did.

Muttering quiet curses, Cal retreated to the window in the far corner and answered, talking in grunts and monosyllables.

Not wanting to draw attention to my friend or leave myself vulnerable to inane small talk, I retrieved my coat and bag, heading for the staircase that would take me to the lobby and out of the building.

A text from my assistant arrived.

The head of the gymnastics program was willing to meet with me to discuss PheroPass—in thirty minutes.

Calculating how long it would take me to get to the other side of campus, I lengthened my stride.

As I turned the corner, I found Morgan waiting at the top of the stairs, jaw tilted upward, issuing a silent challenge as I approached, a polished yet intimidating presence with perfect posture. A few lesser beings steered clear of her.

My reaction was the exact opposite.

I wanted to blanket her with my dominance. To bend her to my will. For her iron spine to lose resistance to my way of thinking. A mindless, base impulse that lost its appeal upon second thought.

Forcing Morgan into submission would dampen her inner fire.

It was far better to witness her brandish her claws and fight, to continue her winning streak. I’d yet to see her concede so much as a single point to anything other than her health.

A strange thrill unfurled within me, deepening my appreciation for Morgan into something less cerebral. It was more immediate and provocative, almost tactile. Closer to what my logical mind would consider attraction. Actual physical attraction.

What a peculiar, distracting idea that was.

Morgan’s head tilted back as I closed the gap between us, her angular beauty exuding determination, hand fixed on the strap of her work bag, but her stance suggested she was open to my approach.

An intriguing duality, so at odds with her usual demeanor during our interactions, as if she were leaving the decision to move from colleagues to something more intimate in my hands.

But why?

“Can I walk you to your car?” she asked.

I glanced down at her tailored dress pants and black suede heels. Entirely unsuitable for an excursion to a snowy parking lot.

For such an intelligent woman, she took perverse delight in unnecessary exposure to the elements.

“To the door will suffice.” I gestured for her to follow me down the stairs. “And I’m in a rush.”

Morgan adjusted her pace so that we took them side by side. “I just wanted to follow up. You should’ve received an important email.”

“If you need research materials, contact my assistant.”

“No, it’s—” A group of business casual office drones approached, causing her words to dry up.

“Your weekly report? I’ll review it when I have time,” I said, increasing my pace, cutting between her and the passersby. “But it won’t be for a few days.”

She hurried to catch up to me.

“I understand you’re busy, but this…” The tendons in her neck tensed, and she gripped the bag strap tighter. “It’s incredibly time sensitive.”

“For you.” As we reached the bottom step, my phone vibrated in my bag. It was a text message from Alijah asking if I was still in the building. “I have other priorities.”

She came to an abrupt halt, causing me to take a few accidental steps away from her.

I turned back, only to find Morgan’s aura had hardened, far more guarded than before, no longer receptive to me.

As if I’d failed a test.

My alpha snarled at the thought.

She regarded me with an expression so neutral it verged on dissociation. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

And then she was gone—leaving me in a pool of floral-tinged acid and rust.

“Wait, Morgan!” Alijah dashed out of the elevator, holding his phone. Cal trailed a step behind.

But it was too late. She’d already disappeared through the door leading into the player areas.

Cal looked winded, almost panting as he collided with her pheromones. He leaned forward, one hand digging into his hip while the other pulled at his hair. “Honestly, Owen. Unbelievable.”

Alijah turned on me with cold black eyes and entered my space.

“What did you do?” he bit out, jabbing his finger into my tie.

If he wasn’t a packmate, I would have eased my control—and dropped him to the floor.

“Excuse me for not reading her latest missive.”

“Oh—oh no.” Alijah reared back, trying to unlock his phone with shaking fingers.

Cal groaned, head angled toward the ceiling, hands clenched as if resisting the urge to deck me, voice quiet but threatening. “I can’t—not right now.”

He exhaled and started for the exit.

Holding his phone to his ear, arms pressed tight against his slim torso, Alijah hurried after him, leaving me no choice but to follow suit.

“Babe? Hold on a sec,” Alijah said as we stepped out into the blistering cold. Shielding the microphone, he called after Cal’s retreating bulk. “What should we do?”

Cal paused long enough to bark out orders—an actual bark. “No one talks to her. Let me handle it. Be at your place by seven.”

A furious gaze landed on me, overflowing with censure, but we were in public, and he couldn’t unload on me here. Cal stalked off in the direction of his truck.

“What is so important about one clinical observation report?” I asked, but Alijah was focused on talking to his mate in a hushed tone.

“No—yeah. Yeah, he fucked it. Told her he didn’t have time…

Don’t know if he said that exactly … You mean it might just be a misunderstanding?

I don’t know, babe. Her pheromones smelled like—like rejection.

And a little bit of heartbreak… Wait, you what?

Oh, okay.” He shoved the phone at me without warning. “Talk to Joaquin.”

“Listen up, you prick,” Joaquin’s voice came blaring out of the phone. Impressive, considering it wasn’t on speaker. “Did you tell Morgan that you didn’t have time to read an email—or that you don’t have time to assist with her heat ?”

Cold assaulted me from all directions. “Her—her— what ?”

“Wyatt got an offer to join Morgan’s heat. She told him we should have one, too, but they sent it to your personal email.”

Vulnerability. That was the unfamiliar element to her demeanor just now.

She dropped her guard in my presence for the first time because she wanted my pack—wanted me—to assist with her heat.

And I ruined it.

It was an honest mistake. An oversight on my part.

Yet again, I’d let my professional ambitions trample on the feelings of my desired pack.

I thought rushing to this gymnastics meeting was the right thing to do—for PheroPass, for us—and that fleeting sense of belonging she inspired when standing between Cal and me.

“Fucking Redmonds and your fucking communication allergy.” Joaquin huffed into the receiver. “Okay, listen up. You’re going to get in your car, find the message, and forward it to Alijah and me. Do not get distracted with work shit. Put your pack first for two minutes, okay?”

“Yes. I can do that.” Thinking back on Cal’s words, I asked, “Can you be home by seven?”

“Sure, but fair warning—Wyatt’s going to be pissed .”

“Cal already is,” the eavesdropping Alijah added, rubbing his arms for warmth.

Joaquin’s sneer was audible. “Way to go, oh mighty pack leader.”