Page 63 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

Forty

Morgan

A panel of three middle-aged men, all alphas as far as I could tell based on their builds and demeanors, took turns asking me softball questions from a curated list for thirty minutes. They smiled and nodded nonstop, taking a minimal amount of notes, not even bothering to glance at my CV.

My answers were polished yet impersonal. Like well-rehearsed lines on the closing night of a mediocre play. At least I was doing my part to maintain this farce of an interview. I’d even worn my fanciest outfit, my black shift dress and blazer combo.

They weren’t going through the motions to say they interviewed the difficult omega and could now add me to the top of the reject pile with a clear conscience.

Oh, no. They were afraid of me.

Of how easily I could turn the still-raging PR maelstrom about the football team’s violent finish to the season into a Category Five hurricane.

Even if I couldn’t talk about PheroPass or the pheromone bomber because of my NDA, I could still file a public complaint against the university for omega rights violations and physical assault.

University PR had done everything in its power to downplay the players’ injuries and keep what happened to Reyhan, Amir, and me a secret, while the administration pleaded and apologized to us in private, bartering to buy our silence.

But they couldn’t bury everything.

Rory sent me a screenshot whenever a new conspiracy theory popped up online. Even Jenna was alarmed enough by the news coverage to call and make sure I was all right.

Some of the rumors were tame, such as claiming every alpha on the team’s rut cycle had synchronized.

Others were more damaging, like alleging the coaches physically abused the players if they didn’t get the results they wanted, or that Redwing was using them as guinea pigs for performance-enhancing drugs.

More fatty meat for Redwing’s legal team to feast on while Owen applied pressure, demanding the university turn over security footage and access logs.

It had been quite a busy week for my inner circle. Especially Quinton. He’d gone multiple rounds with the university, refusing to agree to their initial lowball offers.

I stayed out of it as much as possible, doing as Owen instructed—and taking my own advice for once—focusing on what I could control.

Which included interviewing at Garroway Forest on Tuesday. It had been a successful trip, full of spirited discussion, proving the school more than deserved its omega-friendly reputation and planting a real seed of potential in my mind.

The only downside was Kelsey insisting on chauffeuring me, given my bruised ribs and shoulder.

Things were still stony between us, but at least she had fun visiting a few vintage boutiques and specialty stores during my interview.

She even made a few new potential business connections for Beaufeather’s.

I might be less sore today, but this interview was turning into a real pain in the ass. Why couldn’t they wrap it up already?

The first man on the panel blanched when he reached the next question on the list.

“Um.” He glanced nervously between the paper and me a few times—including the bandages on the side of my hand—before asking in a small voice, “How do you approach aggressive patients or family members?”

The man in the middle started making stress doodles on the corner of my CV.

At the same time, the third alpha looked out the window with a peculiar tilt to his head, as if contemplating whether he could successfully hurl himself through the plate glass and escape the mortification.

I wanted to work with a group of people like Dr. Flemming and Reyhan, who had drive and passion. Not this spineless lot.

A polite smile masked my hardening resolve that I would never, ever be a permanent staff member at the University of Northport.

They could offer me the job on a silver platter and pay me ten times the market rate, and I’d still turn them down.

I deserved better.

But I answered the question like the goddamn professional I was—and left with my head held high.

***

Using the spare security fob Cal had given me, I pulled into the underground parking lot of his high-rise condo building and parked in the extra spot beside his silver pickup truck.

Grabbing my work bag, a tote full of weekend essentials, and the two large orders of pho I’d just picked up, I made my way to the elevator, using the fob to access his floor.

Wyatt was out of town with the gymnastics team for another away meet, and Alijah had picked Wednesdays as our standing weekly date night, meaning I had an entire weekend to catch up with my pheromone stud.

I got a thrill every time I let myself into my boyfriend’s place unannounced. It was like playing house in some respects—a preview for our shared life, which I hoped would start sometime this summer.

Cal was sitting at the kitchen island, frowning at his laptop and making notes on a legal pad when I opened the door. The sleeves of his sweater were bunched up to his elbows, tufts of sandy hair standing out at odd angles.

He jerked upright as I walked in, shutting the laptop before turning to me with a tight smile. “Hi. You’re early. Thought they’d grill you for ages.”

“Nope,” I said, setting my bags down on the island. “Barely lasted thirty minutes. They treated me like I was made of glass.”

Cal cursed under his breath and pulled off his glasses, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “You should ask Quinton to add another ten thousand to your settlement request.”

“I could,” I said, shifting a stack of papers away from the edge of the island—all of which had Wyatt’s name on them—and then hopped up on the counter, giving me a better vantage point from which to smooth out his hair. “Or you could tell me what’s bothering you.”

Cal glanced at me, the bags beneath his eyes even more obvious from above. “Can we eat first?”

“If you want,” I said, trailing my fingers through his hair, zeroing in on the tense spots at the base of his neck.

“Unless you’re still upset about the Garvey recordings.

I didn’t tell you because of what was going on with your grandfather.

Plus, I kind of forgot about Joaquin’s video after my seizure. ”

Cal leaned into my touch, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“I know. Not going to lie, I was mad at first. Guess I liked thinking that I was your de facto problem solver, that my protection would be enough to keep you safe. But knowing the others were there for you when I couldn’t be…

I’m relieved that you weren’t alone, but not without a sting of jealousy.

” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Maybe I’ve got more to learn about being a good packmate than I realized. ”

“Should I make suitor boot camp one of my courting conditions?” I teased, leaning closer to gaze into his hazel eyes. “Send you off into the woods with my dads for a week, for lots of s’mores and talks about your manly feelings?”

He rubbed our noses together with a laugh. “While you stay behind, reading white papers and drinking tea with a cat on your lap?”

“Mhm.” After claiming a brief kiss, I sat back and crossed my arms, gloating with exaggerated pride. “I’m a master of multi-partner wrangling.”

Cal let out a mellow chuckle. “You’ve had three boyfriends for a week.”

“Eight days, to be exact. Zero complaints. A flawless record.”

Cal’s brows pressed together as he reached for his glasses, his expression somber by the time he resettled them on his crooked nose.

“About that…” His hand slid along my thigh, reaching for the top paper on the stack behind me. “Have you noticed anything off about Wyatt when you two are apart for more than a day?”

“He’s a bit clingy. You saw what he was like when I got back from San Diego.”

“Yes,” he said, mouth puckered in distaste as he handed me the report. “Not only did I watch him turn into a stage-five clinger, I had to smell it, up close and personal. His pheromones are still all over the place—and his hormones are, too.”

The page in my hand was a hormone tracking report. I recognized the formatting.

“You got him a Redwing tracking implant?”

“Yes. Along with the PheroPass sensor that you suggested. Should have done it a lot sooner, in retrospect.”

I studied the tracking report. His hormones increased each morning, peaking at an unsafe level around midday, then mellowed out in the evening, about the same time I got home from work. His overnight readings were normal.

But starting Thursday, after I dropped him at the airport, his readings abruptly rose and became erratic.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Shouldn’t he… I thought getting together, being together, would fix this?”

A large hand settled on my knee. “Intimate contact isn’t a magic cure, Morgan. Not for waning syndrome.”

“But why are his readings so off when mine—”

I froze, looking at Cal with fresh understanding. He wouldn’t worry about Wyatt to the degree he’d lose sleep or yank at his hair.

He’d only do that for me.

“I stopped looking at my readings after the doctor cleared me to drive. Am I like this, too?”

“Close, but not quite,” he said, opening the laptop to show a monthly summary of my hormone data. “The heat did reset your system, but the effects were temporary.”

He zeroed in on the date of Wyatt’s first away meet.

“You spiked here.” Clicking on the current date, my readings were almost identical. “And you’re doing it again right now.”

“But I feel fine.”

“Your version of fine would be misery for most people, Morgan. It was one thing while you were still on the maximum dose of suppressants and Wyatt hadn’t come back into your life, but now…

Things are different. I’m afraid the two of you can’t be apart for more than twelve hours without negative consequences. ”

I shook my head. “There’s got to be a workaround. He’s too good of a coach for pheromone bullshit to derail his career.”