Page 62 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Thirty-Nine

Morgan

O wen stepping out to take a call from Redwing’s legal department didn’t register as anything to worry about—until he immediately sequestered himself to talk with Cal.

Even so, I tried not to worry. The situation was evolving, and we all had to be prepared to adapt.

That’s all.

I focused on answering Quinton’s questions.

Forwarded pertinent emails. Provided contact information for my superiors, Reyhan, and other witnesses.

Sent them the voice recording of my run-in with Garvey in the taping area.

Anything that would help nail his ass in the most legally excruciating way possible.

Meanwhile, I never stopped rubbing the back of Wyatt’s hand. It was an outlet for my nervous energy, which also helped keep his protective urges at bay.

I couldn’t fault the guys for their anger. I’d left for what should have been an exciting, once-in-a-lifetime work opportunity, in perfect health—well, as perfect as my health gets—and came back covered in gashes and nasty bruises.

The force of Wyatt’s embrace almost smothered me to death in bed last night. At least he was a light sleeper and eased up after I nudged him a few times.

Thankfully, Cal left me some breathing room.

Or did it only feel that way because we were no longer crammed into a queen? The ginormous bed that Kelsey and Jacobi installed during my absence deserved its own zip code. There was plenty of room for three people and two clingy cats, plus—

Nope. Not doing the math.

Because then I’d know for sure if it was a pack-sized bed, and that would lead to other troublesome thoughts.

The front door opened. Joaquin walked in, holding a stack of pizza boxes, with several plastic bags full of salad and breadsticks hanging from his forearm.

As he headed for the kitchen, Alijah rushed out of the laundry room, locking onto Joaquin’s back like a heat-seeking missile. Just as the pizza boxes hit the island, Alijah threw his arms around Joaquin’s waist and buried his face between his shoulder blades.

“It’s bad,” he mumbled. “Don’t know what they’re talking about, but the smell’s just awful.”

Joaquin rubbed Alijah’s arm and looked over his shoulder at me. “Owen and Cal?”

I nodded.

Wyatt’s grip on my hand tightened. “Knew that phone call was trouble.”

“What phone call?” Quinton asked from the other end of the line.

“Nothing,” I said. “It was from Owen’s job.”

Wyatt shook his head. “You don’t get it. He never answers his phone.”

“Not even for us,” Alijah added, still clinging to Joaquin’s back, shuffling along in tandem as Joaquin checked the contents of each box and wrote the toppings on the lid with a permanent marker.

I stared at them in surprise. “But you’re pack?”

I knew Owen wasn’t great at communication, but avoiding their calls was worse than not answering their texts.

“Hold on a sec.” Quinton’s voice was lower and rougher, no longer professional.

Great.

The last thing I needed was to deal with my alpha brother-in-law getting involved in my personal business.

“When you say he doesn’t answer calls—”

The sound of the door to the spare room opening cut him off. Every head except mine snapped toward the back hallway, displaying varying degrees of disgust.

It was obvious that their pheromones spelled trouble.

The casual, almost reluctant pace of Cal’s steps as he turned the corner—a thumb hooked in one pocket, his phone gripped tightly in his free hand, undermining the amiable smile plastered on his face—told me I needed to prepare for impact.

Was one of the players injured worse than Reyhan’s texts had indicated? Did Amir have a TBI?

My attention shifted to Owen. A tactical error of epic proportions. His gray gaze pierced through me, impaling me to the chair back, unable to move.

Dread pooled in the pit of my stomach, congealing like blood, slippery and frantic, weighing down my legs. Preventing me from escaping outright. From avoiding the truths that were about to test the limits of my emotional stability.

“Anya called,” Cal said.

That was all it took to set me off.

Why had my fellowship director called Cal instead of me?

Dating didn’t automatically make him my alpha. Even if we were mated, I wasn’t subservient to him.

To anyone.

Casting off Wyatt’s hand, I jerked away from the table and snagged my phone. “Quinton, I’ll call you back.”

“Morgan, we aren’t—”

I hung up on him, stalking toward the doors of the omega suite, determined to explode where there wouldn’t be collateral damage.

“Wait,” Owen said, compelling me to stop in my tracks.

I turned on them—all of them—unable to keep from seething.

The lone omega in a room full of people who would never understand the realities of my designation, no matter how much they cared about me.

“Why? If it wasn’t important enough for my boss to call me herself, to bother the hysterical little omega while she’s recuperating, it’s a done deal. Garvey’s getting away with it—right?”

Cal started talking in an even, almost entreating tone. A colossal waste of breath.

NDA breach. Garvey fired. Settlement.

That’s all that registered over the acidic fury pumping through my veins. Every word only made me angrier.

I reveled in the feeling, fanning the flames until they were strong enough to break the restraint of Owen’s command.

My retreat was anything but graceful.

“Morgan,” Alijah called after me, “there’s got to be—”

“Give me twenty minutes,” I said, inadvertently slamming the door behind me.

Rushing into the nest, I reached for the closest breakable object, a picture frame or a vase, only for my fingertips to collide with unyielding metal.

A computer rack.

I realized with a sobering jolt that this wasn’t my nest.

Nor was it Jacobi’s maximalist haven.

It was Owen’s server room.

God fucking damn it.

I’d gotten so used to having these five men in my personal space that I’d charged into an alpha’s private domain without a single inkling that I wasn’t in my own home.

All I wanted was to vent this loathsome feeling without making anyone worry.

Well, so much for that idea.

Now, I had to go explain that I’d just dissociated so hard that I’d lost my bearings.

Was it too late to grab Joaquin for a quick Sunday afternoon jaunt to the wreck room?

No, I should go back across the hall, text an apology to Quinton, and run myself to exhaustion on the treadmill. That might quell my anger for the time being.

Thankfully, I wasn’t in my nest, or I might have been tempted to ruin the precious jewel box Kelsey had painstakingly rebuilt.

No, never again, I promised, reaching for the door handle. No more detonations.

I wouldn’t rip the covers off the bed where I’d gotten drunk on Wyatt’s pheromones and all but devoured him.

Ruin the mattress where I’d asked Cal to move in with me because I loved him too much to be apart.

Or harm the precious nest where I’d spent the first pleasurable heat of my entire life.

Retreating into the foyer, shutting the panel behind me, I turned—and found myself face to face with an impassive Owen.

“Sorry,” I said, trying to sidestep him. “It won’t happen again.”

Owen blocked my path with a single purposeful stride.

I glared at him over the tops of my glasses. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Neither am I.”

The long, shapely fingers of his right hand circled the base of my throat, cold fingertips digging into the junction of my neck and shoulder—the traditional location for a mating bite—subduing me in an instant.

But that didn’t mean I’d surrender willingly. Struggling against his hold, I tried to break free. “What the hell?”

“Repeat what Cal said.” Dominance frosted his words, but it wasn’t an outright command.

I regurgitated what little I’d absorbed, prompting Owen’s mouth to flatten with disapproval.

“Now isn’t the time for selective listening. You have decisions to make. And that requires facts.”

“You want facts?”

His eyes widened an eighth of an inch as I stepped closer, breaching his personal space. Tilting my head back, I stared into his flinty gaze and vented.

“Garvey could have caused permanent damage to Amir. To a twenty-year-old kid who had no idea how much danger he was in. That he’d been at risk for most of the season. And the university’s willful disregard for the football team’s safety should be publicly exposed. Those are the facts.”

“I agree,” Owen said. “That’s why Redwing is insisting that we continue our investigation. But that doesn’t concern you.”

“Yes, it does!”

“Be serious, Morgan.”

A languid vibration brushed against the pulse at the base of my throat, as clear and crystalline as a singing bowl.

Cal’s purr was an ardent rumble dedicated to my pleasure, and Wyatt’s was a joyful echo from the depths of his still-healing heart.

But Owen’s…

It was nothing short of hypnotic.

Vibrations sank into each and every nerve ending, rewiring me from the inside out, tethering me to the enigmatic alpha.

Leaving me entirely at his mercy.

“What do you want?” he quietly compelled.

“Justice. For every staff member Garvey slighted or woman he harassed. I want the coaches to be punished. All of them. For the head of athletics to be replaced. I want the university president to be forced to resign in shame. Even if it means burning the entire athletics department to the ground. Starting with the fucking Belcrest Football Operations Center.”

Owen bent forward, still purring. His gaze was as steady as the hand around my neck. “What else?”

“For the student-athletes to be healthy. To be safe. Always.”

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“No. There’s more. Isn’t there?” A flash of quicksilver surfaced in his eyes, followed by a faint, wolfish smile. “What do you want, deep down? Those furious impulses with nowhere to go. Your fears. Doubts. Greed.”

Owen’s cool breath brushed against my lips.

“Give them to me.”

“Owen, I…”

His fingers shifted upward with surgical precision, sending vibrations straight into my brain, snapping the last thread of my resistance.

Owen’s purr deepened—sonorous and expansive. “Tell me, omega.”

His purr seemed to have exposed all the moth-eaten patches in my soul. As I exhaled, it pulled on the loose threads, unraveling my control even further. My head drifted to the left, baring the side of my throat.

“I want revenge. To make Garvey suffer as I have suffered. For anyone who risked the players’ safety to never know another day’s peace.

Only constant, bone-deep pain.” A film of tears obscured my vision, but Owen’s gaze still held me transfixed.

“To live half a life, sucking the joy and vibrancy out of everyone that loves them. To be a burden.”

My breath hitched, turning my voice brittle.

“I want to break them.”

Owen’s head dipped lower, pressing his cheek against my throat, and he whispered, “Good girl.”

The slow drag of his smooth jaw along the bare expanse of my neck made me tremble.

My logical mind wanted to rebel, to question what he was doing—but my omega was in control, responding to a powerful alpha that could crush our enemies with a single flick of an elegant finger.

Pulling back, Owen looked a touch dazed, as if he was as unnerved by the instinctual pull between us as I was.

He cleared his throat, and the pressure of his grip receded, becoming more of a reassuring presence than a display of dominance.

“Anya said the university is willing to compensate you handsomely. Your brother-in-law handled your gymnastics settlement?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suggest you tell him to extort Northport for all it’s worth.”

Dazed, I blindly reached for something to steady myself, my fingers latching onto the smooth leather of his belt. “I hate money. It doesn’t fix anything.”

“True. But it does buy you buildings with outstanding neighbors,” Owen teased—actually teased. “And you’ve used your settlement to better the lives of countless numbers of people.”

Inspiration hit all at once, knocking my head back onto its proper axis. Fisting Owen’s shirt with both hands, I let excitement wash away my lingering anger.

“You know what? You’re right. And I just had a great idea.”

The settlement money would go to Brizo House, with a sizeable chunk earmarked to benefit children in foster care. I couldn’t wait to pick Alijah’s brain for ideas—during a dinner date?

That could be our weekly ritual.

Nice, slow, and delicious, leaving plenty of time for Joaquin and the others.

“Good,” Owen said. “Let Quinton bleed them dry while Cal and I handle the bureaucratic nonsense. You focus on being your typical brilliant self, Dr. Van Daal.”

His hand fell away, leaving me unmoored.

I tipped forward, causing the side of his mouth to accidentally brush mine. The contact was so fleeting, it didn’t qualify as a kiss—but it still happened.

Owen took a large step back. His sharp gaze was equally bewildered and offended, which he tried to hide by straightening his glasses.

I’d unsettled Owen Redmond—and I liked it.

The temptation to pull him back down to finish the job was strong, but the vibration of my phone interrupted the moment.

Quinton was calling.

“Sorry about that,” I said as I answered. “Just needed a minute to process.”

“How do you want to proceed?” Quinton asked.

Holding Owen’s gaze, he gave me a slight nod of encouragement.

“Do your worst.”

We talked for a few more minutes, during which Owen’s expression grew increasingly smug. I refused to admit how much I liked the idea of draining the university dry—or how reassured I felt by Owen’s ruthless encouragement.

After I hung up, I gave Owen a small smile. “Thanks for talking me off the ledge. And sorry, again, for intruding.”

“I don’t recall saying you weren’t welcome here,” he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the door. “Now come eat. We need to celebrate phase one of your revenge.”