Page 5 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

“If you want to explore,” Morgan said, fiddling with a grape, “go for it. Just avoid my nest and Kelsey’s bedroom.”

“No, it’s okay,” I said, shifting my weight from one foot to another.

Way to be obvious, you idiot.

Much to my relief, Morgan ate the grape. A tiny caloric victory.

“Then what are you going to do while I slug out?”

“Well, I made some soup—tomatoey chicken and rice. Kelsey told me where to find her recipe book.” I scratched the side of my neck. “Might try to make one of the yummy, pancake-like things in there. They’re all attributed to Oma. Is she one of your grandmothers?”

“Yeah. She was Papa’s mother. Passed away from cancer a few years ago.” She coughed and took another sip of tea. “The mini-pancakes—poffertjes—shouldn’t be too hard to make. But if they give you trouble, flag the recipes that look good. Kelsey loves having a reason to make Dutch snacks.”

She glanced up at me, scanning my expression for a silent question, which prompted one side of her mouth to curl upward.

“And yes, Van Daal is Dutch. My parents took their omega’s surname because they collectively decided it was the best option.”

“Compared to?”

“Lipski, Falaguerra, or Bland. Our mom and Dad met first and planned to hyphenate their names when they got mated. There’s an alternate universe where I’m Dr. Lipski-Bland. Except I’m technically a Falaguerra, so maybe not.”

“Is it…” My curiosity couldn’t overcome my insecurities.

“Fun having a big, multi-cultural family? Yes, with a few caveats. Take Nonna. She’s Pops’ mother and an omega with an incredible gift for cooking and homemaking. But the same goes for Papa. Their clashes are usually playful, but sometimes, they get offended or territorial, and feelings get hurt.”

Although she seemed tempted to go into further detail, Morgan opted to eat the grape instead. Another small win for sustenance.

“And I don’t enjoy having dozens of people freak out every time I have a health issue.” Her amber eyes locked onto me. “What about you?”

Her gaze’s familiar, reassuring intensity gave me the strength to be vulnerable.

“Just Joaquin. After we got mated, the Toledanos basically adopted me. His moms are my moms, and his sisters are my sisters. It’s the only family I’ve ever known.”

Morgan regarded me with a steady, neutral expression, free of judgment or pressure. Her only reaction was to pat the bed, inviting me to sit down. I perched at the very edge of the mattress.

“You know DesiPret?” I asked, staring at the expensive yet nondescript cream carpet.

Thousands of children had been victimized by DesiPret, a shady, now-banned blood test that claimed to predict a baby’s future designation with ninety-nine percent accuracy. A bullshit claim, of course—but the damage was done.

There was a drastic increase in child abandonments of supposedly beta babies by parents with ulterior motives. Because a disgusting subset of society still found ways to make money off alphas and omegas.

They might not get sold outright anymore, but if you pour enough money into a finishing school education, even a moderately talented omega can land a wealthy pack, moving their parents several rungs up the social ladder in one fell swoop.

“Did your parents—” Morgan’s tone was clinical, but her revised choice of words revealed her anger on my behalf. “Did your genetic donors use it on you?”

Her subtle indignation had no right to fill me with rose-hued relief, but it did.

“Yes. At least, that’s what one of my social workers told me when I was a kid,” I said.

Thankfully, I knew Morgan wouldn’t think less of me for what I was about to reveal.

“Must have rush-ordered the results because when they returned me to the hospital, citing financial hardship, it was considered a legal surrender since I was less than a month old. Went into foster care, like all the other abandoned babies, and got bounced around a lot. By the time they outlawed DesiPret and changed the rules regarding designation protections for minors, I was too old to appeal to most families looking to adopt.”

Pheromones like metallic-laced velvet cushioned me. A thread of pure orchid caressed my cheek, as compelling as it was reassuring. The rusted edge reminded me of the steel running through Morgan’s spine, her steadfast resolve, and self-determination.

Her scent signature was clearer and more potent than yesterday. As I reveled in the heady rush of her momentary protection, I understood why the alphas were in such a state. If her pheromones were so enticing to me, a beta, they must be intoxicating for a compatible alpha.

Wait.

Wyatt and Cal made sense. They were her current boyfriend and old crush, so compatibility was to be expected.

Joaquin being attracted to her scent was a relief because it boded well for our mutual potential.

But Owen…

He’d shown up for dinner last night uninvited. Had he picked up her pheromones in the hallway and been drawn inside, intrigued by their source—by Morgan?

Holy shit. Joaquin was right.

Even if Owen wouldn’t admit it, because of the convoluted web of professional ethics surrounding Morgan, he was interested in her, too.

Our entire pack—well, preferred pack—was attracted to the same woman. Our brilliant, beautiful, prickly, persevering Morgan.

And if she was willing to date Cal, maybe there was still a chance for the rest of us.

I turned to look at her, buoyed by a sense of hope—only to find her venting her frustration with my biological parents on the poor granola bar, systematically breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces, drowning them in the remnants of her tea.

“Have you ever looked into them?” she asked.

“No. But I did see a high society mating notice last year for an omega girl who looked just like me, but more feminine. Super pretty. Had the finishing school pedigree and everything. Figured they probably couldn’t afford to raise me and her. At least, not if they wanted to move up in the world.”

She sighed, leaning back against the headboard, squinting at me with sympathy. Not pity. An emotion neither of us had much tolerance for.

“I know it’s not worth much, but I’m sorry, Alijah,” she said. “You deserved so much better. But I’m relieved—and honestly thrilled—that you have a family now.”

“Me too. Between therapy and Joaquin, I’m in a much better place. But, if you want to make me feel even better, we could be Saturday slugs together,” I said, despite knowing the proposal was a non-starter. “Maybe watch a few episodes of Designation Dance-Off or something?”

Morgan broke the remaining piece of the granola bar in half and looked at me with unexpected interest. “Is that the dancing show with celebrity teams?”

“Yes! Have you watched it?”

She shook her head, swapping the granola bits for another grape. “They keep offering Jacobi more and more money to do it. Grace thinks he should. Easy for her to say. She won her season.”

“Grace?” A past winner immediately came to mind, sending a flash of excitement through me. “You mean Grace Arata ?”

Morgan gestured to the single framed photo on her dresser. “She’s our other best friend.”

I hurried over to pick up the photo. The three of them were at a fancy evening event, maybe a mating party, in front of a tiered fountain surrounded by opulent floral arrangements and twinkling lights, arms wrapped around each other’s waists.

Morgan was in the center, the tallest of the three, wearing the same one-shouldered black dress she’d worn to the Belcrest Ballet’s fall fundraising gala. Grace looked lovely, but I was more interested in Jacobi because I could finally put a face with the name that I’d heard so much about.

There was an element of mischievous pretty boy, with his floral print blazer and mop of dark curls, but I’d expected someone closer to Wyatt or Rory’s height, not an impish sprite with bulging biceps. He was short and solid, built more for power than precision.

My face must have betrayed my surprise because Morgan stifled a laugh.

“Told you Wyatt was tall for a gymnast.”

“Didn’t you say Jacobi likes taller people?” I turned the photo toward Morgan. “You’re taller. What’s not to like?”

“I’m wearing heels in that photo. We’re about the same height. And I’m not an alpha.”

I looked back at Jacobi. While I didn’t want more competition for Morgan’s affections, I could only doubt his taste in partners.

“I’ve never seen Jacobi do gymnastics,” I said, “but he’d probably fare all right on the show, given all the training you guys go through.”

“One episode.” She put on her glasses and eased out of bed. “If I’m going to encourage Jacobi to embarrass himself on national television, I’d better make an informed decision first.”

“More like international,” I said, picking up the tray, trying to ignore the sway of Morgan’s breasts beneath her t-shirt as she walked past.

There was no reason for her to wear a bra during a nap in her bedroom—but that didn’t give me permission to ogle her. No matter how much I wanted to.

“It gets huge streaming numbers,” I added, staring at the tea-soaked granola at the bottom of the mug.

Pulling on a fluffy bathrobe—a Beaufeather’s bestseller that I recognized from the website—Morgan flashed a wicked little grin and shuffled out the door.

“Even better.”

***

One episode turned into three. Not because Morgan was interested, but because she had fallen asleep as soon as she got comfortable on her mound of throw pillows in the TV room upstairs.

And I was content to sit there until tomorrow if it meant her sock-clad feet would stay nestled in my lap.

I’d allowed myself to place my hand on her ankle, but that was all. No stroking or wandering. Just a simple, reassuring touch.

I was also perfectly happy to watch Grace dominate the competition, keeping the volume down low as she gave a rumba masterclass.

“Hey,” Morgan mumbled, eyes barely open. “Did I apologize? Can’t remember.”

“What for?”

“Being mean.”

“Oh—the thing at work? No apology necessary.”

“Yes, it is.” Her eyes drifted closed, losing the battle to stay awake. “I’m sorry, Alijah… Wish things were different.”

My heart raced for the next two dance numbers, as if trying to engrave her sleepy but genuine apology into my ribcage.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

My feelings mattered to Morgan enough for her to apologize to me, a mere beta… But Morgan didn’t fixate on designations. Just individuals.

Me. She cared about me.

Which meant I had to reluctantly allot another point to my mate. Joaquin’s assessment that she’d tried to protect me from Garvey and his minions by scaring me off had been correct.

What was I supposed to do with the surreal giddiness coursing through my system?

My pulse had only just begun to slow down when Joaquin came into the room, drinking us in with deep breaths. The mere sight of my mate was enough to send my emotions spiraling once more.

Moments exactly like this—cooking, cuddling, talking—were what I wanted with the two of them. So, so badly.

If only she’d give me the chance.

“You smell delectable together.” Joaquin braced a hand against the back of the couch and leaned down to whisper in my ear, “And you look very comfortable.”

Afraid of disturbing Morgan, my answer was simple but effusive—eager nods and a foolish smile.

“Good.” Flashing the dimple on his left cheek, Joaquin demanded a thorough kiss. “Now, behave while I’m gone. Or don’t.”

Our bond was an electric current of salacious anticipation beneath my skin.

“I’ll be jealous either way.”