Page 106 of Citius

“I’m your doctor,” I replied firmly. “Ethically and legally bound to confidentiality. But youdounderstand what this means, don’t you?”

When he shook his head, it took every ounce of my willpower not to swear. I should have seen this coming. Despite being an alpha herself, Nadine Redmond had done a number on her sons. Wyatt didn’t even trust his instincts enough to recognize what Morgan was to him—his literal other half.

“She’s your scent match.”

“No—no.” He sliced a hand through the air, a futile gesture of desperation. But nothing could stop the machinations of primitive nature set in motion a decade ago. “There’snoway. It’s impossible.”

“Statistically improbable,” I corrected, adjusting my glasses. “But not impossible.”

“Buthow?” Disbelief dripped from his wounded voice. “It’s beentenyears. I never got sick before, never lost control of my pheromones, and I had—” His breath hitched. “I had a life.”

“A life without any serious relationships and, if I may be so bold, ruts you eventually preferred to handle solo.”

Wyatt glowered at me, neck tensed to twice its usual size, massive arms shaking despite being locked against his ribs. He was holdinghimself together by a thread, likely fighting the impulse to slam a fist into my chin.

“God damn it.”

He charged a few steps away, only to turn back and repeat the motion, pacing like a caged animal. Bitter pheromones filled the air, reeking of heartbreak, overpowering the briny salt whipping off the bay.

“Did—did I make her sick, too?”

“Waning syndrome isn’t contagious.”

He froze mid-step, tearing off his sunglasses and locking eyes with me. His trembling hand rose, pointing an accusatory finger at my chest, but he was careful not to make contact. Taking a stand without challenging me for dominance.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“You’re in the early stages of mate waning syndrome,” I said, hating how detached I sounded.

But I couldn’t yell at him for being an idiot, for leaving her alone during the darkest days of her life, when I would have given anything—done anything—to stay by her side. To spare her even an ounce of suffering. It wouldn’t be fair. I didn’t have all the facts, nor were our circumstances growing up even remotely similar.

But waning syndrome was a multi-headed beast, and it would devour them both if I didn’t get Wyatt’s symptoms under control fast. I would never allow Morgan to end up like my mother.

“The elevated counts in your blood panels, the lack of appetite, weight loss, high blood pressure, insomnia, and muscle pain… It all checks out.”

Brushing some errant hair out of my face, I delivered the final piece of bad news. “I can already tell you’ll need a stronger dose of blockers—and you’ll likely continue to need stronger doses moving forward. Because you’ve got the worst scent corruption I’ve ever seen.”

Wyatt stared at the restless waves, fingers gnarled in his long hair. “When does it get better?”

“It doesn’t. Unless you and Morgan bond. Or…”

“Fuck. Fuck!” Wyatt spun and bolted down the path, his movements frantic, running as though his life depended on it.

An apt reaction, all things considered.

The fact that he and Morgan had managed to remain apart for a decade without severe medical consequences was nothing short of a miracle. Perhaps their similarly stubborn nature had offered some protection, ensuring they prioritized everything else before themselves—helping patients, coaching athletes, attending seminars, job-hunting, andso forth.

There was no room to pine for a lost scent match when work always came first.

Her anosmia may also be something of an unsung hero in all this. It had kept her omega in a state of semi-hibernation, shielding her from all but the most intense yearning.

At the same time, her lack of response to Wyatt’s pheromones had sent his alpha into overdrive, pushing his body to produce such unhealthy levels of pheromones that it demanded medical intervention before his symptoms became debilitating.

I caught up to Wyatt at a scenic overlook at the far end of the trail, on a rocky outcrop jutting into the bay. The spot was a favorite among students for late-night parties—where Joaquin and I had gotten Owen hammered for the first time in his life many moons ago.

Back then, twenty-year-old me had no idea I was destined to change little Redmond’s life in a far less pleasant way, trading darker secrets among these same craggy rocks.

Wyatt sat atop a weathered picnic table, elbows braced against his knees and his head buried in his hands. I stopped a few feet away, my thumbs hooked in my pockets, resting my weight on my heels, and tried to enjoy the fleeting fall sunshine.

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