Page 22 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)
Fourteen
Morgan
R eyhan paused at the door of my exam room, holding a coffee cup and paper bag with the logo of a popular café on campus, struggling to speak, brows crumpled and mouth downturned, like someone had a gun to his back. “Uh, tea. Got you tea and a snack—or snacks?”
“Thanks. You can put it wherever,” I said, in the middle of typing up a hydrotherapy request for Landon, who’d just left after a quick check-up.
Aside from some tightness in his kicking leg, he was in good shape and excited for the conference championship game on Saturday.
“Have you considered letting Alijah make his own deliveries?” I teased.
Color flooded Reyhan’s cheeks as he set the peace offerings on the counter by the sink.
“He’s my friend, so…” Reyhan fussed with his stethoscope. “Just wanted to make sure things were okay. You’re not the type to cause drama, but Alijah seemed upset and a little…scared.”
“Of me?”
“Maybe,” Reyhan said before quickly adding, “but more like he was afraid you didn’t want to see him.”
After stretching my tense neck, I swiveled my chair toward him.
“You know I work with his pack leader on PheroPass, right? He and I had a misunderstanding about priorities. It has nothing to do with Alijah, and there’s no need to worry—for him or you. It’s just…part of the process.”
“You sure?” Reyhan asked, his genuine concern reminding me once more why betas were the best.
“Yeah. Nothing to worry about.”
And I meant it. After two short calls with Cal between appointments and a dozen panicked, typo-laden texts from Wyatt, I’d calmed down and realized the crux of the issue.
It was my fault.
I got impatient, making the cardinal mistake of mixing private concerns with business, and got exactly what I deserved in the process.
Owen had other projects and deliverables to worry about. Legitimate priorities. I knew that full well, based on his shared calendar. That’s why I was uncertain about the feasibility of his joining my heat.
It’s just… I wanted him there. Applying his reliable rigidity to moments of animalistic abandon.
Despite finding consistent, reassuring pleasure with Cal, I wasn’t sure whether such care and patience could withstand a heat’s instinctual overrides.
“Okay.” Reyhan edged toward the door, then paused. “Was the meeting as bad as Dr. McEwen made it sound?”
“Worse. Can send you the meeting notes if you want to revel in their dereliction of duty.”
“No,” he spat, scrunching up his face. “Keep it to yourself.”
He headed to his next appointment, and I finished entering the hydrotherapy order. Only then did I allow myself to inspect Alijah’s offerings—two chocolate chili biscotti and a cup of hibiscus tea. Tangy citrus and deliciously spiced sweetness.
A perfect pairing.
For food, I reminded myself, taking a sip of tea.
While Alijah, Joaquin, and Owen had scent profiles that matched my palate, that didn’t mean anything in the long run.
If today had taught me anything, it was that I was flying too close to the sun emotionally. One life-altering fall was more than enough. I couldn’t risk another.
Even so, I took a photo of my half-eaten snack and sent it to Alijah.
Just what I needed on a blustery day. Thanks.
His response, three heart emojis, took some wind out of my sails. I wavered, staring at my phone, wondering if I should try to reassure him. The arrival of my next appointment saved me from caving.
Focus. I had to focus.
Something I managed for a few hours until a text popped up from Coach Hager, my old gymnastics mentor. The content was frankly unbelievable.
Have a friend on the training staff at Garroway Forest. You left quite the impression the other week. Really appreciated how you helped with their quarterback’s injury. Asked for your CV. Interested?
I was—and yet, I wasn’t. Garroway Forest was three hours from Northport. Three hours from Cal and Wyatt, not to mention my siblings.
And Pack Redmond.
But my dream had never included settling. I wanted a position with the best program possible, and Garroway Forest was the leader in collegiate omega sports. The opportunity was too good to pass up.
Absolutely. I’ll email it to you in a few minutes.
***
As I walked out the front door of the football operations center, I spotted Cal’s silver truck. I pulled up my hood and hurried down the salted sidewalk in my snow boots, avoiding ice patches, and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Hi,” I said, making sure the door was closed before lowering my hood and leaning over, intending to kiss my boyfriend, only to find myself face-to-face with a smirking tomcat.
“Doc,” Joaquin purred, brushing errant snow off my hair. “How’d you know I wanted to kiss and make up?”
Retreating to my seat, I buckled in.
For all his flirtation, Joaquin was trustworthy—see exhibit one, his mate. He’d get me home sooner or later.
“Are we waiting for Alijah?”
“Nope.” He started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “This is a jailbreak.”
I scrutinized his hawkish profile. “Does Cal know you have his truck?”
“Mhm. But not what I plan to do with it.” Pausing at a stoplight, Joaquin angled his body in my direction, dimple flashing, mouth curled up in devilish delight. “Wanna have some fun?”
Shooting a warning glare over the tops of my glasses, I asked, “Meaning?”
“You’ll see.”
A tattoo parlor. Trying to ply me with drinks at a bar while an up-and-coming local band played. All-you-can-eat ribs. Sneaking me in to watch a dress rehearsal of The Nutcracker . Those were all things I was mentally prepared for.
But Randall’s Rage Emporium took me completely by surprise.
I leaned against the dashboard, blinking stupidly at the storefront, which advertised smashable fun by the minute. It was a neon sore thumb in a nondescript, half-vacant strip mall. Everything this far south of the river had seen better days.
Joaquin opened the passenger door and offered me his hand. “Come on. You need a release.”
Almost against my better judgment, I placed my hand in his tattooed fingers and slid to the ground. Refusing to relinquish his hold, Joaquin led me inside.
“If twenty minutes isn’t enough, we can tack on some bonus items. They’re running a special right now—ten bucks for a TV and a couple of vases.”
The next thing I knew, I was wearing a boiler suit, chest protector, face mask, and heavy-duty gloves, staring at a buffet of weaponry: baseball bat, crowbar, hockey stick, and sledgehammer.
The ugly, violent streak I tried so hard to keep hidden threatened to boil over. Every choice had its appeal.
Did I ease into my rampage with the hockey stick, or should I grab the sledgehammer and go out in a blaze of glory?
“I don’t know where to start,” I said, looking at Joaquin.
He stood in the corner, wearing the same protective gear, but had no intention of participating, other than supplying a bass-heavy playlist full of sinuous guitar riffs and pounding drums.
“Go with your gut.”
Destruction. Irreparable harm. Smithereens. That’s what I wanted.
The crowbar felt amazing as it swung through the air, destroying three dinner plates on a plinth. Another swing and a pair of ugly purple water goblets exploded.
I turned to Joaquin, smiling despite myself, shoulders trembling as I tried not to betray the bloodthirsty euphoria welling inside me.
“How’s it feel?” he asked, dark eyes gleaming behind his face mask.
A laugh burst out. “Spectacular.”
“Then keep going.”
I nodded—and unleashed hell.
One strike for stupidly approaching Owen.
Another for worrying Alijah.
For distracting Cal while his grandfather was in critical condition.
Causing Wyatt to be unstable in the middle of a workday.
Making Joaquin skip out on ballet business to cater to my temper.
Another swing for my aching head, another for my sore back, for the shitty sleep I’d gotten the night before, my spotty memory, and my ruined dreams…
Shards of glass filled the air.
Switching to the sledgehammer, I smashed the screen of a boxy old television. That was for letting my omega take control and getting my hopes up.
A second swing caved in the TV’s left side. That was for losing sight of what was most important.
The right side had to pay for my sins, too. For viewing my heat as anything other than a means to an end.
One more swing cratered the top of the case.
A painful reminder that no matter how compatible our scents might be, I still couldn’t smell any of the men I’d invited to my heat.
I didn’t know Pack Redmond that well. Couldn’t fully trust them. Or myself, I realized as I watched Joaquin carry a second crate of breakable objects into the room.
Because standing there—chest heaving, holding a sledgehammer, drenched in the sweat of satisfaction—all I wanted was to sink my fingers into his beard and kiss the smirk off his face.