Page 53 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Thirty-Four

Joaquin

M organ’s early morning text was exactly my type of petty. Ignore the icicle until he cracks. Simple yet brilliant. But I needed backup to make it work.

I pulled on a shirt and set off in search of our wandering meathead.

He was usually working out with Morgan around this time in her private gym. Rather than waiting for him to come home and risk being overheard by Owen, I went downstairs, parading past the prickly one in the dining room, taking uniform bites of his sad, unbuttered wheat toast.

“You’re up early,” he said.

I didn’t respond. Didn’t look at him. Kept walking, like he didn’t exist. Loving every second of his incredulity—brows arched, nose pinched, mouth downturned. He gave the crust of his toast a warning tap.

So, so good.

Boots on, I headed across the hall, hoping I could remember the door code we used during Morgan’s heat. Three failed attempts all resulted in sharp beeps of admonishment.

The door opened before I could try for a fourth time, revealing a pallid zombie wearing Kelsey’s face.

“She’s in San Diego.” Her voice was strained from lack of sleep, dark circles weighing down her eyes, draining them of their usual competent spark.

“I know. Looking for my favorite stack of sentient muscle. Is he in the gym?”

She nodded, stepping away from the door, keeping it barely ajar. Cat escape prevention, not dismissal.

Slipping inside, I followed her through the dining room. The table was covered with open shipping boxes. A bin of packing peanuts sat on a dining chair. She must have pulled an all-nighter fulfilling orders.

Kelsey headed for her fancy coffee gear in the kitchen.

“Want some?” she asked, pouring herself a fresh cup.

“Sure.” I stopped to admire the organically shaped pottery and brightly colored candles waiting to be bubble-wrapped. “When are you finally getting a real store?”

She paused a few feet away, her demeanor cagey, withholding the mug as she scrutinized me. “Did Jacobi put you up to this?”

“No,” I said, unable to decipher her reaction. “Just being honest. Why?”

“He and Morgan want to buy me a building.” Kelsey extended her hand, not so much offering me the coffee as surrendering it. “Well, more like buy a building where I’d have a store.”

“Makes sense to me. You know your design and decorating shit. Beaufeather’s does good business. The brand’s solid, and it’s got room to grow.” Cocking my head to one side, I took in her bedraggled appearance, so at odds with her usual retro polish. “At least hire some help.”

“It’s too expensive. And no one ever does things to my standards.”

“You Van Daals sure do aim for perfection, don’t you?”

Ignoring her very Morgan-like glare, I took a long sip of coffee. After a brief internal debate, I decided to tell her exactly what I’d say to my own sisters if they happened to be in a similar situation.

“You can be demanding, but don’t be a martyr. I know you like taking care of Morgan—but you’ve basically given her a blank check’s worth of your time, and she wants to return the favor.” I nodded toward the piano. “She wasn’t sure you’d even accept that from her.”

Resting an elbow on the island, I looked Kelsey in the eye. “Do what you want. Ask for what you want. She will make it happen. Because she wants to—and not just because she feels like she owes you. Your business is worth it.”

Kelsey was about to nod when a cloud of rank boxwood rolled in, followed by Wyatt, rubbing his sweaty face with a hand towel.

“Listen to him, Kels. He’s talking sense.” He shot me a shit-eating grin. “For once.”

I blinked with a deadpan expression. “What a resounding endorsement, asshole.”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

I shoved my phone at his over-muscled chest without answering. Then I turned back to Kelsey. “You good?”

“Other than having to deal with early morning alpha visits, yeah.” She crossed to the ventilation control panel and turned it up a few notches.

Grabbing Wyatt by the shoulder, inadvertently coating my hand with boxwood stink, I steered him toward the door. “Time to go—before you contaminate all her orders.”

“Hey, I smell fine,” he grumbled, sniffing the front of his damp shirt as he trudged toward the door. “Well, almost fine.”

Shaking my head, I glanced at Kelsey over my shoulder. “If you’re interested in better, more informed advice, might I make a wild suggestion?”

She quirked her head at me, messy blonde ponytail falling to the side.

“Talk to Morgan,” I said. “If anyone knows how to beat the odds, it’s her.”

She crinkled her nose, then let out a light laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

“Bye, Kels.” Wyatt held the door for me.

“Sleep at your own place tonight,” she called after us as the door clicked shut.

What a short, sneaky stinker. He’d basically moved in with Morgan on the sly. Alijah and I needed to play some major catch-up.

“What do you think of Morgan’s text?” I asked, following him back to our place.

“How’s it any different than my usual vibe with Owen?” Wyatt asked, reaching for the door handle.

Ouch. I might be irked at Owen for disregarding Alijah and ignoring multiple requests to address this whole pheromone bomber situation, but he wasn’t a shit brother.

At least, I didn’t think he was.

But maybe I understood my old friend better than Wyatt did. The benefit of living together from the age of eighteen, I suppose.

Deciding that since I’d helped patch up one sibling schism this morning, I might as well go two, I followed Wyatt up the stairs—ignoring the steely gaze following our every move from the kitchen—and trailed Wyatt into his bedroom.

The space was as sad and bare as the day he moved in.

“And here I thought Owen was the skinflint in your family,” I said, closing the door behind me.

Wyatt whipped around with a glare. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Talking,” I said flatly and leaned against the wall. His little tantrum wouldn’t work on me. I had seven inches of height on him and dominance to spare. “We can get you a proper bed, you know.”

“I need to get ready for work.”

“And I need to know why you keep turning us down. Not Owen. Us. The pack. And don’t blame it on Morgan.”

“But that’s the answer. I want to be in a pack with Morgan.”

“We all want to be in a pack with her. But do you want to be in a pack with us ?”

“I do—and I don’t.” His shoulders dropped, his chest deflating as he sank onto a chair littered with gym clothes.

“Packs have never made sense to me because I… You know how we grew up. The lights were on, but no one cared if I came home. Owen was too worried about making sure the rent got paid to give a shit about much else.”

I took a moment to absorb his words before asking carefully, “You don’t think Owen cares about you?”

“I know he does. Or at least, he tries to.” Running a hand through his sweaty hair, Wyatt slumped backward.

“He also thinks paying the mortgage early is a head alpha’s prime directive.

And yes, I know, I’m staying here rent-free, and he loaned me the down payment for my car.

All of which I am immensely thankful for.

” Wyatt fixed me with a cold stare. How very Redmond of him. “But it’s transactional, isn’t it?”

I crossed my arms. “Not sure I follow.”

“You were fine waiting for Cal’s grandfather to kick the bucket until Alijah came along.

A pack needs a minimum of three people. Who was he supposed to lord over if you decided you’d rather be mated than stick around?

So, he gave you the bare minimum. Registration paperwork and a pack residence. Nothing else changed—did it?”

Fists digging into muscular thighs, he continued.

“You do the chores he assigns. Eat together when it’s convenient for him. Decorate with things he tolerates. Serve party food with his stamp of approval. You can’t even pursue Morgan, our perfect omega, without his permission.”

“He wasn’t sure about her at first, because of business ethics. You know he changed his mind.”

At least, I thought he had, given all the paperwork shenanigans. But he hadn’t said anything definitive, which could prove problematic in the long run. I’d just assumed we were all on the same page.

Wyatt’s laugh was harsh. Dismissive.

“ His mind. Not because Alijah’s crazy about her or because you lick your chops every time she walks into the room.

Or because I’ve been in love with her for years.

” He leaned forward. “No, it’s because he finally wised up and realized Morgan’s a fucking goddess who deserves a pack of Cals, not whatever we’re pretending to be.

After seeing how she grew up, what her parents are like, and how her siblings interact with their packs, can you honestly say this is a pack? A proper, healthy pack?”

“Never said it was,” I admitted quietly. “We might not all be at Cal’s level, but this is my pack, and it has potential. We’d be stronger with you, Wyatt. You know that.”

“But that’s not good enough for me. I refuse to fuck things up with her again.” He got up, pulling his shirt off as he headed for the bathroom, leaving the stench of rotten, almost oily plant matter in his wake. “You can get out now.”

The bathroom door slammed shut. He wasted no time in starting the exhaust fan and shower.

I turned, reaching for the doorknob, when the first trickle of scalding, acerbic tea reached me.

Owen was outside the door. Eavesdropping. And livid.

“Fuck,” I muttered and turned the handle.

He stood pin-straight in the dead center of the walkway, steely eyes fixed, unseeing out the expansive double-height living room windows.

Calm, too calm, except for his right ring finger, tapping steadily against the seam of his suit pants.

After a tense moment, he said in a voice as thin as black ice and just as treacherous, “What, pray tell, constitutes a pack of Cals ?”

“Ooh, did that touch a nerve?”

Closing the door, I sauntered toward the relative privacy of the upstairs living room, trusting he would follow. I refused for our bedroom to smell like emotionally overwrought Earl Grey.