Page 7 of Altius (The Scent of Victory #2)

“I can’t smell anything, Wyatt. Not his scent, not yours, not even my own, nothing . I had no idea I’d even been emitting pheromones until you told me. I’m not afraid I’m broken. I know I am.”

“W-what?” Wyatt went sickly pale. Even worse than at the hospital.

“The accident. My sense of smell never came back.”

“You can’t—can’t smell me?” He reared back, swallowing hard, gaze unfocused behind a film of tears. “You can’t tell how much I… Don’t know that I—I… Fucking hell.”

“No.” The acknowledgment left me hollow. Desensitized just enough to share another fact. “It’s the real reason I stopped having heats. Alphas couldn’t understand that I needed more than their pheromones to get aroused.”

“Did they hurt you?” Shallow breaths barely shifted his muscled chest.

I couldn’t answer him. At least not out loud.

Didn’t want to relive that humiliating moment when my request for lube was ridiculed. How they took advantage of my consent to push me to the point of pain. When I decided it would be better to ride things out with meds and sex toys.

Why I dreaded my upcoming heat in December.

But some tiny tic, a micro expression only Wyatt would have noticed, gave me away.

“Worthless fucks.” He slammed a fist into the mat. “I’m glad you suppressed your pheromones. Because it’s kept you safe.”

I nodded. “You’re the only one who’s ever… Who knows what I smelled like before.” Eyes fixed on the laces of my sneakers, I forced myself to ask, “How bad is it?”

Wyatt rubbed a sleeve across his face, then cleared his throat. “Better controlled than mine. A lot less gross, too. The rusty smell weirdly helps. And now and then, when you’re sleeping or less agitated, when you forget to think, you come through. Just like I remember.”

Wyatt placed a tentative hand on my knee.

“I told you before—it never stopped for me.” He continued at a rapid-fire pace, not giving me a chance to object. “But I know we’re not there. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Can’t talk like we used to.”

His pleading touch burned my skin.

“Please, Morgan, let me help you through these next few weeks. I won’t push you. And you won’t ask me to step back. Okay?”

“But the university—”

“Cal can help me draft an email to our bosses. I’m an old friend helping until you’re cleared to drive again. Give them a doctor’s note. Offer to sign a form if they want. We’re both professionals.”

Wyatt gave my knee a lingering squeeze, then got to his feet.

“And while I respect the shit out of you, if I have any reason to talk to a doctor during a gymnastics meet, I’ve got bigger problems to worry about than your designation.” He offered me a hand. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I said as he helped me up.

“So,” he asked with a weak but boyish smile. “Truce?”

“Truce,” I agreed.

As we walked toward the door, I cemented our agreement by briefly pressing our shoulders together before slipping past.

Turning the corner, I found Cal sitting at the kitchen island, his hair still damp from the shower, wearing a black sweater.

An extra-large mug of coffee was within easy reach.

He added freshly hole-punched printouts to the binder housing my hard copy medical record between sips—taking yet another labor of love off Kelsey’s plate.

I sidled up and gave Cal’s cheek an appreciative nuzzle. “Going to take a shower.”

“Sounds good.” Cal kissed me good morning, unbothered by Wyatt’s presence or the healthy dose of his pheromones on my clothes. “What do you want for breakfast?”

I was about to say I didn’t care, so long as it was food, but then I thought of all Cal’s forgiven but not forgotten infractions at the hospital.

“Eggs Benedict, rye toast, pomegranate chia pudding, and an iced London Fog latte.”

A frown pinched his brows together, but he still tried to bluster through. “Uh, sure. I need to check if we’ve got the ingredients for…all that. And, um, look up some recipes.”

Wyatt’s chuckle echoed my amusement. “Two choices, man. Give her two sensible choices when it comes to food, or default to something you know she likes. Oatmeal with fruit. Scrambled eggs with hot sauce.” His hand trailed along the small of my back as he slipped behind me to sit next to Cal. “Right?”

“Wise words indeed.” I poked Cal in the extra flesh at his waist, taking a little too much pleasure in watching him squirm. Anything to ignore the tingles Wyatt’s touch sent through me. “And Wyatt has a favor to ask.”

As I stepped into the bathroom, I felt the pull of the maroon cardigan Cal had left unguarded on the bench by the soaker tub.

I snagged it, rubbing the silky soft wool against my cheek as I slipped through the hidden pocket door into my nest, placing the cardigan beside the cream sweater he’d already given me—another sacrifice on the altar of untouched tributes from my boyfriend and almost-boyfriend.

While revenge may be a dish best served cold, Cal’s payback came best in cashmere.

***

“What do you do for fun around here?” Joaquin asked late Sunday afternoon, sprawled across the living room couch while Tenny slept on his chest. Kip sat perched above his head, tapping his tail against Joaquin’s shoulder.

I wasn’t surprised the man was a secret cat whisperer. Like recognizes like, even among domesticated wild creatures.

I eyed him from the cozy confines of my blanket cocoon on the loveseat, where I’d napped intermittently throughout the day. “Exercise. Read.”

“Read what—mystery, literary fiction, manga?”

“Fantasy,” Wyatt said from the reading chair, reviewing gymnastics practice footage on his phone.

While I appreciated the effort, I still corrected him. “Medical research. White papers.”

Joaquin shuddered and rubbed Tenny’s ear. “Tell your human those are tasks, not hobbies.”

“Don’t apply your personal definitions to the interests of others,” Owen interjected from the dining table, where he was working on his laptop. “It’s rude.”

“No, rude is commandeering the dining room all damn day.” Joaquin gestured toward the front door. “Slink back from whence you came, and stop being such a buzzkill.”

“Play nice, babe,” Alijah called from the kitchen, deftly slicing tomatoes for the taco bar he and Cal were putting together for dinner.

My boyfriend was browning a second batch of seasoned ground beef on the stove. The amount of food required to feed four male alphas was almost nauseating.

Owen drew my attention with a discreet cough, then held up a white paper dotted with several dozen sticky flags. One of the many I’d left littered around the loft in the past few days.

My attention span was still lagging. I’d read a page and forget the content immediately—something the guys picked up on, leading to a long-overdue conversation about my short-term memory issues over lunch.

Alijah had tried his best not to look horrified, but it was Wyatt white-knuckling his fork that echoed in my head.

Now he knew all my shameful secrets. All the ways I was no longer the Morgan he once knew. How different my accident had made me. And he hadn’t walked away.

“Have you read Morton’s subsequent work on vocalization mechanics?” Owen asked.

“No, it’s not in any portals I can access.”

“I’ll email it to you.” He returned his attention to his computer screen, fingers flying across the keyboard. “And some other things you might find interesting.”

“That would be amazing. Thank you.”

“Quick question.” Wyatt crouched beside the loveseat, holding his phone at the perfect height for me to watch a vault practice video without moving my head.

The teenage alpha gymnast had good speed and decent form, but she didn’t place both hands on the table for an appropriate amount of time.

“She had a torn rotator cuff earlier this year,” he said, “so I can forgive a bit of guarding, but she’s heading for deduction city at this rate. Any advice?”

“Hard to say without knowing her rehab protocol, but I’d incorporate fascia scraping to break up scar tissue if she’s not having it done already.”

He sat on the edge of the coffee table. “At the sports medicine clinic?”

“There are a few physical therapists I can recommend there, but the one Piper goes to downtown is better. Grab my phone. I’ll send you his contact info.”

“Wait, I’ve got it,” Joaquin said, shifting his hips to grab his phone from his back pocket, keeping a steady hand on Tenny’s back. “I go there, too. Stops my neck from solidifying into one giant knot.”

He pulled up the contact and handed his phone to Wyatt.

Cal approached the dining table, drying his hands with one of Kelsey’s fall-themed dish towels. “Think it’d do anything for my knees?”

“Just bite the bullet, man, and get them replaced already,” Joaquin said with a sneer full of hot air.

He was right to be concerned. I was, too. Cal’s knees were worse than he cared to let on. Football had done a lot of permanent damage to his body.

Owen’s typing speed slowed, but he didn’t look at his two old friends, pretending that the current topic didn’t interest him.

I wondered if his left calf had recovered from the Millwright Marathon a few weeks ago.

“Have you ever had fascia scraping done?” Wyatt asked me after he returned Joaquin’s phone.

“Think it’d be easier to list what I haven’t tried.”

Wiggling one arm out of my blanket, I tucked my hair behind my left ear to show off the daith piercing on the innermost cartilage fold.

“Got this because it was supposed to help with migraines. Had phases where I was really into cupping, traction, hot yoga—you name it.”

And that’s how Kelsey found us when she walked in with her suitcase: detailing our various injuries and how we managed them, with Alijah humming to himself as he happily grated cheese in the background.