Page 5 of Citius

Morgan

The expressway curved around the outskirts of the University of Northport, cutting close to Millwright Memorial Stadium before merging onto the on-ramp for the Tolliver Bay bridge. Downtown Northport glimmered in the distance to my left, with the bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

Sunglasses kept the edge off during the deepening sunset, but they were nothing compared to the relief a dark room would bring. All I wanted to do was dissolve into a puddle of blankets with my cats.

As I took the exit for home, a call came in from my favorite menace, Jacobi Zeldin.

We’d been inseparable since our first day of toddler tumbling class—from kindergarten to Wakeland State University. Together, we navigated the intense world of competitive omega gymnastics, eventually earning spots on the same Olympic team.

Putting him on speaker, I asked, “How’d closing go?”

“It was so quick! A few signatures and boom. Done.” He sighed dramatically. “Alas, my poor baby.”

The baby in question was his grand piano. He had no room for it in his current rental in California. The piano was also a beast to move, requiring expensive specialist care. So, he left it behind in Massachusetts three months ago, just like his art gallery and everything else he once swore he couldn’t live without—including me, his best friend.

Why? For love, of all stupid reasons.

Not that Hugo wasn’t compelling—an older, established alpha withthe right amount of silver in his hair and enough money in his bank account to dazzle. The problem was that he already had a pack. And an omega.

“Well,” Jacobi drawled, “aren’t you curious who your new neighbors will be?”

“Not particularly.”

I lived in the penthouse loft across the hall from Jacobi’s former residence on the top floor of a converted textile mill complex clad in honeyed bronze brick. He’d named it Tolliver Yards—one of several buildings we’d redeveloped across greater Northport.

After our Olympic success, we pooled our earnings and endorsement fees into real estate. My accident settlement bolstered our budget—putting it mildly—and Jacobi made the most of it, purchasing and redeveloping all the property surrounding Tolliver Yards.

Thankfully, he’d agreed to let my family’s property management company handle the day-to-day operations, so we didn’t have to do much more than square finances with our accountant.

“Seems like a pack bought the place.” A flicker of excitement slipped into his voice. “There’s at least one alpha. Think his name’s Owen? The realtor wouldn’t let me see too much.”

“Nor should they.”

“But what if it’s a pack of hot alphas?”

My smirk was audible. “Thanks in advance for the neighbor upgrade.”

“Traitor!” His faux outrage exploded into a flurry of admonishments. “I was the perfect neighbor—you fickle woman. See, see, I knew it. You don’t miss me!”

“Correct on all accounts.”

“You’re just salty because Chantal won’t let you skip another heat,” he said with a wicked laugh. “So, when do you report to horny jail?”

“December.”

“Bet you’d be in the mood if a certain big ol’ pheromone stud volunteered his services.”

“For the last time,” I said, pulling into the Tolliver Yards’ underground parking garage. “Cal’s off-limits—and stop calling him that.”

“But he’s so—”

I disconnected the call with vengeance.

Cal Carling was the director of Designation Services for the university. His staff managed pheromone regulation and reproductive health care for alpha and omega students. Despite many notable academic and research achievements, he was still better known as an all-star tight endfor Northport during his collegiate years.

While Cal wasn’t my boss, he still held a position of authority over me. I couldn’t date him any more than I could date the head volleyball coach.

Besides, six-foot-five, buff yet bulky alphas weren’t really my type—no matter how big their brain or how impressive their CVwas. Not that I had time for alphas. Or men in general.

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