Page 27 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Seventeen

Cal

“ I still don’t understand how you can accept this lack of specificity.” Owen tapped his finger against the list of stipulations in Morgan’s heat dossier, which he’d printed out and placed in a binder with dozens of meticulously organized reference tabs.

I was reclining on my sofa with a beer, watching the Tritons, Northport’s professional football team, miss yet another field goal. They needed a new kicker yesterday, if not three seasons ago.

The announcers jeered as I stifled a groan, but Owen didn’t so much as glance at the screen.

“How much less slick does she produce than the average omega because of her anosmia?” His frown deepened. “Are we talking milliliters, ounces, pints?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Owen’s back stiffened. “Why? Because I won’t be observing such details in person?”

I studied him, noting how his shoulders rolled back, expanding his chest. It was an unconscious display of dominance—a silent warning. He was ready to spar if I took issue with his attitude.

But what could we possibly have to argue about?

He and Morgan had resolved their miscommunication issue, and heat preparations were well underway. Owen had proven to be an eager, albeit somewhat anal-retentive facilitator-in-training, committed to understanding Morgan’s needs and preferences in intimate detail.

I should know—since I’d had to provide multiple lengthy, Owen-coded responses via email each day this week.

The man was almost as invested in the success of Morgan’s heat as I was. He even suggested our cover story, a ski trip to Vermont.

So, why the sudden sour grapes? He was a willing participant until now.

Realization struck me square between the eyes.

Owen wasn’t a participant . He was the facilitator.

That meant observing Morgan’s heat from a safe distance, ready to step in at a moment’s notice, without being able to touch her.

He was only allowed to solve problems and ensure her boundaries were respected unless Joaquin, Wyatt, Alijah, and I were absolutely drained and unanimously agreed to activate him as a last resort.

“Do we have a problem?” I asked.

Owen chose to turn the page rather than respond. “What constitutes a liberal amount of lubricant? They should have provided a frame of reference, like a quarter-sized amount. Or perhaps a large grape.”

“My rule of thumb is to use more than you think you need,” I said, watching him out of the corner of my eye as I drained my beer, “and then add some more on top of that. Very scientific and precise, I assure you.”

“How enlightening.” Owen flipped to the back, a reference section of his own making, containing a list of detailed rules he’d emailed to us earlier in the week. “Should I add a new section: the mating habits of the pheromonum ammissarius ?”

It took a few seconds for my brain to work out the translation—pheromone stud in bastardized Latin—but once it clicked, I couldn’t stop laughing.

The longer I guffawed, the tighter and flatter Owen’s mouth got, his expression increasingly peevish.

He adjusted his glasses and pronounced, “Your amusement is excessive.”

The scrape of his dominance against my skin tickled rather than chastised me. I doubled over, holding my stomach, and howled. “You— you —made a sex joke!”

“A mistake I’ll be sure not to repeat in the future,” he said, thumbing through a few more pages.

“Oh, man.” I flopped against the back of the couch, trying to catch my breath. “I needed that.”

It was true.

I felt lighter than I had since I first opened the confidential attachment Chantal had included with Morgan’s heat dossier, which outlined in infuriating detail what went wrong during her last heat.

My breath caught, replacing some of the weight I’d momentarily managed to dislodge. The lingering echo of my laughter now rebuked rather than rejoiced.

Heats are all fun and games until someone ignores the rules of engagement.

If a sexual partner asks for lube—use it. Don’t mock them. Or make them beg for it.

If they say penetration hurts, stop. They shouldn’t have to ask twice.

Pain.

For Morgan to admit sex hurt her, especially during a heat—the woman who classified migraines that would knock me out for days as a mere headache—meant it must have been excruciating.

Thankfully, the alpha with the clearest head realized what was happening, stepped in almost immediately, and made sure she got the care she needed.

But one alpha kept pushing, egging the others on, his words too aggressive to be trusted.

What the fuck does an omega need lube for? Just keep going. I bet she’s really pretty when she cries. Don’t you know this bitch used to be famous?

Morgan and the other alphas filed reports with Harborview after the fact, ensuring the troublemaker was never invited back for another heat.

Of course, the asshole folded like a cheap deck chair when Harborview confronted him about the potential legal repercussions of ignoring an omega’s heat directives. He claimed what all spineless pieces of shit do when held to account for their own bad behavior— It was only a joke.

Yeah, one so fucking funny my girlfriend hadn’t felt safe to have a heat in three years.

My blip of good humor evaporated.

We had to make this heat a success. Not only to right the wrongs of the past, but to set a strong foundation for our future.

Together.

As a couple—and as what I hoped was a pack-in-the-making.

Owen noted the abrupt downward shift in my mood. After he finished highlighting a sentence about the importance of cheese cubes with a flick of his wrist, he turned toward me with a raised brow. “What?”

“Morgan’s a straight shooter,” I said. “And there’s very little she does without thorough consideration. She asked you to facilitate for two reasons. First, she trusts that you will uphold her stipulations and keep her safe. And secondly, she doesn’t think you’re attracted to her.”

He tapped his forefinger against the top of the binder, his brows pensive.

“But I’ve demonstrated my appreciation.” Another deliberate tap. “Multiple times.”

The third tap of his finger sealed the deal.

Owen was into Morgan, but he didn’t know how to connect with her. At least not yet. They’d only met a little over two months ago.

Alijah and I had a three-month head start. Wyatt had us all beat by a decade.

As for Joaquin? He’d just take the shortcut.

Deciding to give Owen a helpful nudge, I said, “You have to tell her with words. Or demonstrate it in a way she can understand. Otherwise, she’ll only view all those research papers as professional favors, not foreplay.”

“Ah. I see.” His eyes flashed with inspiration. “Foreplay.”

I didn’t bother to correct whatever misguided notion had begun to percolate in his unfathomable brain. Owen had to work things out with Morgan on his own.

He set the binder on the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows planted on his knees, steepled fingers pressed to his lips. I had a sudden premonition that Owen was going to give Joaquin a run for his money when it came to determination and shamelessness.

His gaze speared the side of my face with all the subtlety of a javelin. “Which method yields optimal results—clitoral or vaginal stimulation?”

Pushing off my better knee, I clapped him on the shoulder and went to grab a fresh beer from the fridge.

It was going to be a long night.

***

“I’m going out of town for a week. Taking a ski trip to Vermont with Owen and some other friends,” I lied to my grandfather, cradling his papery hand in mine.

The strong hands that used to toss me in the air as a child were now too thin and frail.

“So, I won’t see you until next Friday, okay?

But I’ll have my phone and call when I can. ”

The once invincible Charles Verray Carling couldn’t hear me.

His jaw shifted aimlessly, watery eyes fixed on the sunbeams flickering across the embossed wallpaper of our family’s VIP suite.

It was more like a high-rise apartment, with a full kitchen, extra bedrooms, and multiple bathrooms. There was even a small office with Verray equipment installed.

Morgan would hate it. Anything to do with inpatient care raised her hackles.

While the irony of a physician having an aversion to hospitals wasn’t lost on me, I couldn’t blame her.

She’d spent months trapped in a sterile environment, taking a crash course in basic functions, unable to remember what she ate for breakfast that morning, without being able to smell a single comforting, familiar scent.

I glanced at the palliative atomizer on the other side of the bed.

It was Owen’s first big success at Redwing.

The mist was laced with synthetic lavender pheromones, reminiscent of my late omega grandmother’s, which helped to keep my grandfather in a relaxed state.

It also lessened his need for pain medication.

Would I ever fully understand what it was like for Morgan to live in a world dominated by pheromones, but isolated from her basest instincts through no fault of her own?

A nurse walked in with Grandfather’s afternoon medications.

“See you soon,” I promised, giving his hand a final gentle squeeze and heading to the central lounge area.

Spencer, my alpha nephew, was perched on the edge of a sofa, knees bouncing, waiting for his turn. He shot up when he spotted me.

Despite being a few inches shorter than me, Spencer’s looks more than made up for it. He’d inherited all the best parts of his mother and grandmother—the light tan complexion, thick black hair, grey-green eyes, the Carling intelligence, and the Sethi determination.

“Did he recognize you? Or try to talk?” he asked, glancing uncertainly through the doorway.

I gave his shoulder a reassuring rub. “No, but that doesn’t mean he can’t hear us.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “Nani already told me.”

Now, it was my turn to look around with a touch of wariness. “Is she here?”

Spencer nodded, pointing to the adjacent office space. “In there. Wants to talk to you if you have a minute.”