Page 138 of Citius

Not because of nerves—but because tomorrow was the start of my second suppressant dosage reduction.

Thirty-Eight

Morgan

The camera flash sent a searing lance of pain through my skull. Hopefully, my smile didn’t come across as a grimace.

“Just one more photo,” an event organizer asked. “Do you mind?”

Oh, I minded. So did my stiff neck.

If only I’d remembered why I’d stopped attending the Belcrest Ballet’s fall galabeforethe event started. The anniversary of my accident had thrust me into the spotlight again, making me more recognizable than I’d expected. It didn’t help that they’d just watched Piper perform—and our faces were similar enough to overlap at first glance.

At least the lobby lighting offered a reprieve. A rich, moody purple bathed the space in perpetual twilight, soft enough to keep my gathering headache at bay. Thanks to Joaquin’s expert handiwork, the gold decorations and centerpieces gleamed just enough to catch the eye.

The second reduction was proving to be even more brutal than the first. I’d taken a double dose of pain pills two hours ago, before the showcase performance, and I was already desperate for more.

Do it for Piper, I reminded myself, with a polite smile firmly in place as I posed for another photo with a donor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted two alphas heading my way—one towering in a familiar blue suit, dwarfing the other in height but not muscle mass. A sense of foreboding came over me.

No, surely they wouldn’t willingly wade into a selfie swarm. Not Northport’s legendary tight end of yore and the former face of men’salpha gymnastics. Both of them were as recognizable as I was, if not more so. They wouldn’t—would they?

Gasps and camera flashes erupted as they came closer. I tried not to let my disappointment show on my face. There went my chance at a quick escape.

A look passed between them, and Cal paused, apparently choosing to sacrifice himself to the eager crowd.

Wyatt, meanwhile, plowed a path to my side with a few strategic swipes of his shoulders.

“Wondered what was taking so long. You okay?” he asked, leaning in just enough to be heard, careful to keep his chest from touching my arm.

My nod didn’t satisfy him. Wyatt stepped closer, his hand hovering just above the small of my back, radiating quiet waves of concern.

“Something’s up. You can’t fool me.”

“Not trying to,” I whispered. “Just want to go sit down.”

“Okay.” His fingers grazed my hip as he turned, trying to spot an exit route. “Why don’t we—”

“Can we take a photo with you?” Two young girls interrupted, looking at us with pleading, puppy-dog eyes.

They couldn’t have been more than five or six years old when I competed at the Olympics, yet their expressions were earnest—as if the athlete I used to be still meant something to them.

“Sure.” It was impossible for Wyatt to reject fan requests. Photos, autographs…and phone numbers from pretty women. I was used to watching him cave. But why did he have to drag me into it tonight?

And, of course, their request gave him the perfect excuse to press the muscled mass of his torso against my side.

We stood there for nine excruciating photos as fans cycled through, side by side, in our black formal wear. He wore a boxy suit while I was in the one-shouldered dress I’d worn to Audra’s mating ceremony a few years ago, which concealed the tattoo on my collarbone.

I couldn’t help but wonder if Wyatt had a matching tattoo of the Olympic rings hidden somewhere on his body. Bicep, maybe? No, I’d have seen that by now. Besides, Wyatt didn’t like to attract unnecessary attention. Even his upper back might be too exposed for his tastes. Maybe the ribcage…

What the hell was wrong with me? I shouldn’t be posing for photos with Wyatt, much less sharing the same airspace. And I shouldnotbe daydreaming about his bare, possibly tattooed skin.

I took a deliberate step away from him between photos, ignoring his questioning glance. Any answer I might offer was bound to disappoint,especially if I reminded him that these photos would end up online and potentially land us both in trouble with the university.

No, Dr. Sethi, there’s nothing personal between us. We’re only next-door neighbors who attend fundraisers together in color-coordinated outfits.

“Thanks so much, thank you.” A smiling Cal slid between us and the rest of the crowd, wielding all that delicious bulk like a human shield.

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