Page 37 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Some shareholders had gotten wind of his cousin Roddy’s habitual embezzlement and were demanding answers. Chaz was dithering, trying to arrange a graceful exit for his alpha nephew instead of handling the problem.

Cal had spent most of the night and early morning reassuring Spencer and pulling covert strings on Heather’s behalf.

Even now, he was texting with Verray board members, convincing them to back Heather because she’d been doing Roddy’s job all along. Not that she deserved Cal’s assistance.

It was ironic. As much as the Belcrests loved seeking fame, they never stabbed each other in the back. Spotlights, like sunlight, were a remarkable disinfectant.

“Shit,” Morgan hissed at the other end of the table, wearing one of Cal’s sweaters, frowning at her laptop.

“Everything okay?” Wyatt asked, topping up her water.

He woke up looking like a new man today. The very picture of health. He was brighter, more vivid than in recent weeks, with eyes so clear and sparkling that no one could look directly at him—Morgan in particular.

She shied away from Wyatt, double-clicking her wireless mouse with a vengeance. “Got another rejection.”

“Their loss,” he said, giving her a vigorous shoulder rub.

Morgan dislodged his hands with a swift shove. “The free pass for intimacy expired yesterday.”

“Are you still upset about the shorts? I gave them back. Do you want more? I’ve got tons.”

Morgan turned and hit my brother with a first-rate death stare.

He cowered, raising his hands in defeat, and backed away. “I got it, I got it. Sorry.”

“Brunch is served!” Alijah announced, setting the casserole on the table.

The conversation while we ate was minimal, but more spirited than last night. Wyatt risked asking Morgan a few tactful questions about her job hunt. Joaquin leaned over, rubbing the back of Alijah’s neck while he whispered compliments in his ear. Cal drank his fourth cup of coffee.

And I was content to bide my time.

When Joaquin and Wyatt started clearing plates, I crossed to the console table along the back of the sofa and removed five sets of paperwork from the folder in my laptop bag.

Returning to the table, I placed one copy of the PheroPass gymnastics proposal at Wyatt’s place, then handed a proposal and an employment contract to Cal and Morgan.

“What’s that?” Alijah asked, leaning over to read the title of Morgan’s copy of the proposal. “Looks official.”

“The fuck?” Wyatt strode out of the kitchen, charging right at me. Despite knowing I could drop him with a snap of my fingers. “Morgan already said no mating stuff. This was just for her heat!”

Joaquin stood frozen by the sink, holding a dirty plate, water running in the background, his mouth set in a grim line. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“He didn’t,” Cal said, skimming through the paperwork. “They approved a PheroPass trial for gymnastics.”

“I don’t understand.” Morgan hunched forward, fingers digging into her scalp as she stared blankly at the legalese.

I rotated my glass of water on the tablecloth in disappointment. This wasn’t the reaction I desired. Maybe I should have waited another day. She was still recovering, after all.

“As you know,” I said, “our data is skewed due to the football team’s overabundance of alphas. And their trial period ends in a few weeks.”

Wyatt picked up his copy of the proposal, regarding it with sudden interest. “They actually agreed?”

“Yes, although it took a bit of persuasion.”

“Sounds like a good thing to me,” Joaquin said, dropping back into his seat with a fresh pot of coffee.

“Of course it is,” Alijah answered in my stead, nibbling on the last piece of toast. “PheroPass should go where Morgan goes because she understands it best. Obviously.”

Cal chuckled but didn’t look up from the paperwork. “Yes, obviously.”

“Works for me.” Wyatt dropped the agreement and looked at Morgan. “So long as it helps you.”

His words were diplomatic, but his gaze was anything but.

Rather than acknowledge Wyatt’s overt expression of desire, Morgan angled her back toward him as she sipped her water, shifting her attention to the second set of paperwork, and almost choked.

“A consulting agreement—with Redwing ?”

“For twenty-four months,” Cal said, having already finished reviewing his matching offer. “Minimum commitment of four hours a week during your fellowship.”

“And you’re paying our girl what she’s worth, right?” Joaquin asked, draping his arm over Alijah’s shoulders, adding a hint of casualness to what was likely a legitimate threat.

“Of course,” I said, prickling at the insinuation that I’d allow Redwing to undervalue Morgan’s contributions.

“I—I don’t know about this.” Morgan leaned back in her chair, pulling her knees against her chest, fingers plucking at the woven pattern of the sweater’s sleeves. Devoid of her usual ambitious fire. “Where am I supposed to find four extra hours in my week?”

Her breath hitched, words all but tumbling out as her body began to rock from side to side.

“I’m already maxed out as it is, between clinic appointments and football playoff games. Gymnastics overlaps with basketball, and I had to take time off for my seizure and heat, not to mention the holidays.”

Stress soured her pheromones and sharpened the lingering metallic edge. A blade pressed against our throats, warning us to keep our distance.

How badly had I miscalculated?

Cal rose from the table, pushing off on the worst of his two bum knees, causing him to stagger. He limped over to the living room sofa, where he collected a pair of throw pillows with different textures and offered them to Morgan.

She grabbed the closest one, pressing it between her knees and chest, and buried her face in the navy blue chenille. After a few deep breaths, the rocking stopped. Two more and her shoulders relaxed.

“Are you okay?” Alijah murmured, hand frozen halfway between them, concern etched into his face.

She exhaled and sat up, running her hands through her hair, then straightened her glasses. “Surprised. Worried. I can’t afford to fall behind.”

“Or,” Cal said with a delicate touch, tossing the unchosen pillow back on the couch, “you could get paid for the work you’re already doing.”

“Everyone knows you put in way more than four extra hours on PheroPass every week,” Alijah added.

“It’s your decision.” I tapped the edge of my plate. Just once. Without exuding a shred of alpha influence. “Think it over.”

Morgan shook her head. “But—”

“There’s no use fighting it.” Joaquin rested his arms on the tabletop. “If Owen’s handled this personally, the terms will be too good to pass up. And just think…” He took a leisurely sip of coffee. “Won’t it look amazing on your resume?”

Wyatt sucked in a sharp breath, chest inflating so much it propelled him upwards in his chair. “She already has an amazing resume!”

“He’s right, though,” Cal interjected with a casual stroke of his stubble, leaning against the back of the couch. “It’s a stronger draw than Northport.”

“But not for sports medicine.” Morgan gestured at herself. “Doctor, remember? Not a bioengineer.”

I nodded. “Your medical expertise is the reason we want to hire you.”

“We?” she asked with pointed emphasis.

“Yes, Tabitha and me.” The mention of my aunt’s name produced the look of controlled surprise I’d been waiting for—much to my dismay. “Isn’t it obvious this would all require her approval?”

“Very willing approval, too, I bet.” Joaquin laughed and leaned toward Morgan. “Do you know how long Tabby’s been trying to get her claws in your big ol’ pheromone stud?”

“Years,” Wyatt said with a huff.

A spark of indignation lit up her gaze. The first flicker of her usual fire was so distracting that I couldn’t stop her from launching an offensive strike.

“I see. So, I’m just a tagalong, am I? A helpful little bonus that does all the data mining for you?”

“Of course not,” Cal said, taking a tentative step forward, reaching for her shoulder. Morgan stopped him with a glare. “You’ve got the wrong idea, sweetheart.”

“Do I, though?” she asked, fingers clawing at the pillow.

An electronic beep cut through the tension. Someone had just unlocked the front door.

Morgan froze, brows furrowed in confusion.

The door swung open.

“Kels!”

A short, solidly built man with curly brown hair walked in. He wore sunglasses, an oversized leopard print scarf, a long gray coat, and black leather boots with block heels. A sleek gold suitcase rolled in behind him.

“My flight was early, so I decided to—” His head reared back. Pulling off his sunglasses, he stared at us with something close to horrified wonder. “The fuck’s all this?”

“Oh my god—Jacobi!” Morgan shot up, abandoning the throw pillow as she hurried toward him. “What are you doing here?”

“Surprise,” he said with a defeated flourish of his hand. “I came home early to spring you from horny jail.” Dark brown eyes perused us with great interest. “Not that you needed my help, as it turns out.”

As Morgan approached, arms outstretched to embrace him, Jacobi scurried back a few steps.

“Nuh-uh. Stay away. Stop right there.” He dodged behind his suitcase. “To put it politely, you smell like an overfilled cream donut, and while I’m thrilled for you—elated, in fact, congrats on all the sex, I’m dying to know every single filthy detail—don’t come any closer.”

He toed off his boots, shaving a few inches off his height, and started up the stairs with his suitcase, then came to an abrupt halt. “Wait. Where is Kelsey? Her scent’s gone cold.”

“At a hotel until tomorrow,” Morgan said.

Pressing a hand to his chest, Jacobi let out an exaggerated gasp. “A set-up! She wanted me to walk into this—this mess —while you reek of grumbly alphas and other sensory delights.”

Morgan’s phone began to vibrate at the far end of the table. Only Wyatt noticed, unfazed by our unexpected guest’s dramatic flair. He swooped in to grab the phone and take it to Morgan.

“Oh,” Jacobi continued, voice increasing in volume with each word, “I’ll make her pay for this, starting with—”

Morgan held up a hand to silence him, then accepted the phone from Wyatt with a curt nod of thanks. Taking a deep breath, her spine straightened, and her neutral mask fell into place. A seamless shift into her professional persona. She cleared her throat and answered the call.

“Hello, this is Morgan Van Daal.” Her amber gaze sharpened as something in the caller’s opening salvo caught her interest. “I’m doing well. How are you?”

Jacobi tiptoed back down to the ground level and raised his brows at her. She mouthed something I didn’t catch before heading to her suite.

“Yes, I’m available for an interview. Just let me pull up my calendar.” She closed the double doors with a decisive click behind her.

“Who was that?” Wyatt asked.

Jacobi flashed a knowing grin as he started up the stairs once more. “Oh, no one special. Just the human resources department of Garroway Forest.”

“Fucking perfect,” Wyatt spat, crumpling the PheroPass paperwork and throwing it on the table.

Cal provided context for the rest of us. “They’ve got one of the best omega athletics programs in the country. It was Morgan’s first choice for her fellowship.”

Alijah slumped in his chair. “Oh. What if she…”

Wyatt stalked around the kitchen island, his restless pacing the physical manifestation of our collective emotional state.

Joaquin let out a low whistle and refilled Cal’s coffee. “We’re fucked, boys. In more ways than one.”