Page 3 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Cal stared at me, his pupils inky black pools that blotted out the green portion of his irises, leaving only a ring of molten gold. He white-knuckled the footboard with enough force to make the plastic creak.

Wyatt’s calloused fingers yanked my hand away from the blanket, breaking the punishing grip I’d had on my thigh.

Letting out a snarl, I whipped to face him—only to find undiluted misery staring back at me.

“Stop,” Wyatt pleaded, voice raw and tired. So tired.

Bruise-like shadows haunted his eyes. A gray cast dulled his skin. Deep furrows framed his mouth and marred his forehead.

Why was the bone structure of his face so prominent?

He’d lost weight, and I hadn’t noticed—until this very moment—because I hadn’t allowed myself to take a proper look at Wyatt in weeks.

“What’s wrong with your pheromones?” he asked, fingers tightening around my wrist, forging a direct line to my fearful heart, causing it to skip several beats.

I stared at him in sheer, stunned panic. Unable to comprehend his words.

My pheromones?

I hadn’t emitted any in almost three years. So why—

Realization knocked me sideways. I slumped against the pillows.

Heat spike.

I was having an early heat spike, which meant…

Cal eased onto the bed beside me, pressing his chest against my back, anchoring me with one large arm, trying to soothe me with his purr.

But it didn’t work.

“How bad?” My strangled voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

Cal buried his face in the curve of my neck, offering a rumble of apology before whispering, “They’re just like Wyatt’s.”

***

The numbness lingered until nightfall.

I rolled over, searching for a cool spot on my bed, not caring if I disturbed the cats.

Burying my face in a pillow, I muffled a groan. Damn bruises.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Even if I had the guts to check who the message was from, I didn’t have the energy. I hadn’t even bothered to turn on a light. All I wanted to do was sleep.

But my mind wouldn’t shut off.

Rotten. My pheromones were rotten, with a metallic tang—so corrupted that Piper hadn’t even recognized my orchid scent signature.

And I’d been the last to know because of my fucking anosmia.

No wonder Garvey and his minions reacted strangely during our confrontation. Standing my ground came with a side of floral compost fumes.

Poor Chantal had been mortified. She apologized profusely for reacting as she did, dropping her tablet and dry heaving during a consultation. No amount of reassurance from Cal or me made her feel any better.

It was normal to avoid incompatible pheromones.

Unlike Cal and Wyatt, who seemed oddly possessive of my altered scent, as if it called to their primal need to protect me as an omega, to make me feel better.

And then there was Joaquin. He’d gotten two doses—once on campus, the other at the hospital—and his reaction had been anything but repulsed. Perhaps he found my scent more appealing with a rusty edge.

Too bad for him. It was only temporary and would disappear after a few more weeks on a moderate suppressant dosage.

If only I could say the same for the stench of decay…

The implications were dire.

Every introductory class to designation science included a module on mate waning syndrome.

The symptoms varied from person to person, but the telltale signs were always the same: prolonged body aches and muscle pain, insomnia, elevated blood pressure, weight loss, hormonal imbalance, uncontrolled pheromone output, and scent corruption.

I hadn’t let myself overthink Wyatt’s pheromone issues. Plenty of people hated the smell of boxwood hedges. That’s why our neighbors’ claims of rotting foliage and compost fumes in the gym seemed understandable rather than hyperbolic.

Nothing Cal and a quality scent-blocker couldn’t sort out. Unless Wyatt did have waning syndrome…

Professional ethics prevented me from asking Cal for more details about Wyatt’s medical condition. The only person who could confirm receiving such a devastating diagnosis was Wyatt himself.

My scent match, whose pheromones were even more corrupt than my own.

But wasn’t the answer obvious? A single glance was enough to see how much his good looks had been eroded by illness.

“Fuck.”

If Wyatt were sick, wouldn’t it be my fault?

I slammed my fist against the mattress and rolled onto my back. Scratching at my temples, I tried to rip out the insidious band of tension tightening around my skull, threatening to cut off the blood supply to what little remained of my right mind.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

My phone vibrated again and again.

I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“Hey.” Cal stood in my bedroom doorway, wearing a chunky maroon cardigan and gray sweatpants. He’d showered and changed at some point in the past few hours. “Dinner’s ready. Want to eat in here or at the table?”

“Like my opinion matters.”

“You have to eat, Morgan.”

“Of course.” My neutral expression was too forced, contorting my mouth into something vicious. “The exact amount of food you dictate. When you tell me to. Three times a day.”

I forced myself to sit up, pretending such a simple movement wasn’t enough to wind me.

“You know what I appreciate most about Kelsey? How artfully she maintains the illusion of choice.”

“Morgan—”

“What’s the prescribed diet for mate waning syndrome, anyhow?” I cut him off, savoring the alarm in his gaze.

Good. He should be worried.

“A shit ton of soup? No, I bet it’s something gross, like wheat grass smoothies. Maybe something with melatonin is more beneficial—or is tryptophan better? Good thing Thanksgiving is next week. A decent turkey sandwich should sort me right out.”

A lesser alpha would have interrupted by now or gotten angry. Not Cal.

He stood there, neither advancing nor retreating, taking it like a champ. Like he expected me to rant myself into submission.

Well, fuck that.

“I’d rather try the traditional folk remedy for waning syndrome.” I sneered at him. “Lots of good old-fashioned dick.”

“I understand you’re upset,” Cal said as he crossed the room, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his sweatpants. He stopped beside the bed. “But this isn’t helping.”

“Why not?” I shot back. “I thought you were into fucking medical mysteries. Or have you lost interest now that my scent’s back?”

Even that didn’t faze him. The lack of reaction made me feel worse.

“I can admit that your missing scent intrigued me,” he said, sounding so calm, so reasonable.

Cal eased down to sit on the side of the bed, placing a hand on the covers between us—making his warmth available if I wanted it.

“Because I think about pheromones all the time. The science of them. How they influence us, for better or worse. It’s what I do. ”

“But you only noticed me because I’m a defective omega.”

“No.” His fingers inched closer, almost touching mine. “My attraction to you, my feelings for you, have nothing to do with your designation or pheromones. How could I not fall for you, Morgan? When you think the way you do. Persist the way you do. Look the way you do—”

“Stop. Just stop.”

I kicked at the covers, trying to get out of bed, but the weight of Cal’s head falling against my shoulder caused my anger to falter.

“Tell me what I did wrong,” he murmured. His arms circled my waist, easing me closer to his bulky frame. “Every single thing. I will listen and learn. I will do better next time.”

Cal tucked me against his side, assuming full responsibility for keeping me upright.

“Because I know there will be a next time, Morgan,” he said softly. “And I’ll be by your side when it happens.”

Seething, I mangled the hem of his cardigan. “I hate pushy alphas.”

“Noted.”

“My opinion matters. It matters . Especially when it’s my shitty body on the line.”

“Yes, it does. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel disrespected.”

Cal stroked my hair a few times before cupping the back of my head, angling my face so that I met his earnest gaze.

“But I will not apologize for doing what was necessary to keep Kelsey in Tacoma with the rest of your family for Jenna’s birthday—or for pushing to get you home as soon as possible.” His thumb caressed my cheek. “Because I knew that was what was most important to you .”

Unmoored by his insight, I could only bury my head against his chest. “God, I’m such an ungrateful bitch.”

“No—”

“I hate this,” I hissed, fighting to get the words out, ignoring the pain radiating through my weary husk.

“Being this way. Feeling so unbalanced and overwhelmed by everything you’re doing—even though I know it’s for my own good.

I know I need help. And I don’t want to be angry with you, but I am …

Yet, I’m not . Not really. It just—just happens. ”

A trio of kisses dotted my hairline, each one grounding me a little more.

“Having a temper flare-up is simply another facet of your personality, as far as I’m concerned. And just so we’re clear…” Cal leaned down for a proper kiss. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His lazy grin had no right to look so dependable.

“And after dinner, you can explain precisely what boundaries I crossed in excruciating detail. Okay?”

“Be a glutton for food, not punishment,” I said with a sniffle, forcing a small smile.

Cal helped me to my feet with one hand on my back, taking advantage of a slight wobble to pull me into an embrace. I didn’t resist. He needed physical reassurance, too.

I’d done a number on my entire support system.

After holding me close for a long moment, Cal kissed the top of my head. Then he gently took me by the shoulders, turned me around, and guided me into the foyer of my suite.

“Joaquin made his grandmother’s chili,” he said, reaching around me to open the double doors. “It’s got serrano peppers, jalapenos, and a bunch of other stuff you love, simmering away and smelling amazing.”

“Tastes amazing, too,” Wyatt chimed in from the dining room, mouth half-full of cornbread.

The rather crowded dining room.

“Oh, Morgan! You’re joining us?” Alijah sprang up, his napkin falling to the floor as he beamed at me. “Let me get you a bowl.”

Joaquin intercepted his mate before he could scurry off, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Hold up, babe. Cal’s got this.”

“But I—”

“Sit down.” A tap of Owen’s finger against the table emphasized each word.

Complete overkill. Even his mildest commands contained enough dominance to ensure compliance.

Alijah dropped back into his chair.

I couldn’t fight the compulsion either, taking the empty seat at the far end of the table, too drained to be bothered by Cal fussing with my napkin.

“Don’t keep the lady waiting, Charles ,” Joaquin said. An errant drop of chili obscured the intricate lines of the red spider lily tattooed on his right hand. Flirty brown eyes locked onto me as his tongue darted out to lick it away. “The chef is eager for more compliments.”

“Our compliments are for your grandmother,” Cal snarked on his way to the kitchen.

I’d envisioned a solitary, half-eaten dinner spent stewing over all the perceived slights of the last twenty-four hours. Not whatever this was—pack dinner or pity meal, I couldn’t tell.

As I sat there, wringing my napkin, a crisp voice asked, “Status check?”

Every frayed thread of my being converged at the opposite end of the table, transfixed by Owen’s steely gaze, unable to look away, to deny his power over me. His intensity was magnetic—like north on a compass.

“A bit of a mess,” I admitted in a hoarse voice. “But I’m working on it.”