Page 4 of Citius

I sucked a breath through my teeth, potent kindling for my endless resentment. Of all the things my accident and traumatic brain injury had cost me, losing my sense of smell hurt the most, second only to the abrupt end of my gymnastics career.

An omega who couldn’t smell scent signatures—even their own—was defective. Vulnerable. Something my heat partners claimed didn’t bother them, that they’d take care of me…until they realized pumping out pheromones wasn’t an adequate substitute for foreplay.

Was asking for more lube really such an affront to alpha pride?

“There can’t be a repeat of last time. Having to bail three hours in because they were too lost in the haze to listen, and it started to sting—”

“Pillow,” Chantal said, seemingly apropos of nothing.

“What?”

“Morgan,” she directed with quiet strength, “hug a pillow.”

I blinked at her a few times before leaning over and running my hand through the basket beside her desk. Black velvet soothed my unsteady nerves. The lingering insults and pain from my last heat receded.

Chantal kept a companionable silence until I regained my composure.

“Here’s our course of action. We’ll gradually decrease your suppressant dosage, nice and slow, hopefully avoiding any nasty blips. And you’ll pick a week for a chemically induced heat in December. Okay?”

“Fine,” I said, with reluctant acceptance. “My fellowship agreement includes heat leaves, so pick whatever week there’s an opening for a suite here. This should be enough notice to ensure I get the time off.”

“Fabulous.” Chantal turned to her computer and began making notes in my file. “And since you’re here… It wouldn’t hurt to try picking out a heat companion or two.”

“I can’t believe you’re still calling them that. Knotty buddy is right there.” Sarcasm was a fantastic crutch.

Chantal smiled and played along. “Administration wasn’t a fan. They even turned down my suggestion of pocket rocket.”

“So uncultured.” I picked up the first card. Nothing registered until the cardboard touched my nostrils. The alpha’s scent was faint yet sour—at least, I thought it was sour. I couldn’t be sure. The following four cards didn’t smell like anything.

“Your dosage will still be a little higher than normal after December,”Chantal said as she continued typing. “Whichmightget you through July without needing another heat.”

“That would be amazing.” The next card had an oddly fresh note. Ozone, I thought. Or canned air. Something yet absolutely nothing.

“Not making any promises. A lot of things could change between now and then, but one thing’s for sure—youmuststart having heats on a regular basis. At least once a year. You already know why, but I’ll tell you again because you need to hear it.” She stopped typing and turned to face me, fingers wrapped around the large amethyst pendant on her chest, thumb stroking the chain. “You’re on the verge of permanent damage. I don’t know if it will be your scent glands or fertility, but itwillbe something. And it might be somethingbad. We’ll only know more after your heat.”

I hated how much she cared about me. About a future I couldn’t even imagine. The only options I could fathom were to become a sports medicine physician with a permanent placement at a top-tier program—or nothing.

“How bad’s the withdrawal going to be?” I asked.

“It’s going to be rough,” she said. “Especially this first decrease. Could be a headache and some abdominal discomfort if you’re lucky. Or it might feel like the flu from hell.”

“Hurray.” Growing more desperate to escape by the minute, I cheated for the following few cards, breathing through my mouth.

I finally found an alpha that seemed natural and woody, like sawdust. It wasn’t swoon-worthy, but at least it wasn’t repulsive.

Every omega’s dream. Invite an alpha with barely tolerable pheromones to spend your chemically induced heat boning in a rented room above your designation counselor’s office. The epitome of romance.

Ironically, my real problem with the scent cards had nothing to do with my anosmia. It was that none of them were right.

None of them belonged to Wyatt Redmond. My scent match, my long-lost, unrecognized scent match.

I could still smell him.

The subtle sweetness of sun-soaked boxwoods—reminiscent of a lazy summer afternoon in a European garden. Condensation on the side of a crystal glass, fresh lime wedges glinting in the sun. Secret laughter in the long shadows.

Forever just out of reach.

Two

---