Page 156 of Citius

“Her car’s still in the lot,” I said, jogging toward the fieldhouse, fueled by dread.

“She never left?”

“Doesn’t seem like it. And she’s not answering her phone.”

I skidded to a stop at the front door, fumbling with my staff badge. Did I even have access to the fieldhouse? No clue—but there was only one way to find out. A quick swipe across the security sensor resulted in a metallic click. Bingo. I barged in, scanning the lobby for directional signs.

“She’s not replying to my texts either,” Cal said, voice rigid with tension. “What are you doing?”

“Just walked into the fieldhouse.” The sight of a medical cross icon and an arrow pointing left were all I needed. I took off down the hallway at a brisk pace. “Going to take a look around.”

The hallway hit a dead end. I hesitated, scanning left, then right, my eyes darting about for more signs. Which way should I go?

That’s when it hit. A sickly sweet tendril of overripe pheromones snaked around my ankle, pulling me to the right.

The scent was familiar, yet—wrong. Horribly wrong.

I choked on a breath tinged with heavy metal, and the air seemed to grow humid, clogging my lungs. Helpless to resist, breathing harder with every step, alien desperation writhing in my veins, I went further down the hallway until I reached a nondescript door.

My sweaty palm grappled with the handle.

“Why are you out of breath?” Cal asked.

“Because…” The answer clung to the tip of my tongue. My alpha screamed at me to admit what I was tryingso hard to deny. But I couldn’t.

The door creaked open, unleashing an oppressive wave of pheromones. Rusted metal corrupted any hint of exotic pleasure. The stench of decomposing flowers coated my skin. No, not flowers.

Just one flower.

Orchid.

Rotten orchid.

A grotesque distortion of the scent I’d been physically craving for a decade. Gone were the subtle complexities of Morgan’s lush and velvety pheromones, the hints of vanilla and star anise, leaving nothing but decay in their place.

Wrong. Something was very wrong.

I swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to vomit, and kicked the door open wider.

Morgan lay sprawled on the floor. Unconscious. Arms limp. Eyes closed. Unmoving.

Just like Montreal.

“Wyatt. Wyatt!” Cal snapped like a whip, dragging me back to the present moment. “Talk to me.”

“S-she’s passed out. On the floor. What do I do? Cal, what do I do?”

“Is she breathing?”

Terror paralyzed me. “What?”

“Check if she’s breathing. Hold your fingers under her nose.”

Too scared to think, I could only obey. Falling to my knees beside her, I held two fingers beneath her nose. “Y-yes. She’s breathing.”

“Is there a chance she hit her head?”

“I don’t know.” The floor was hard and cold—an unchecked impact could have done damage. She was too far from the desk to hit it on the way down, but the exam table…

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