Page 53 of Citius

“Funnily enough, so is Owen.” An ornate incense burner sat too close to the edge, a frequent Tenny landing zone, so I shifted it back a few inches to safety. “Want to go out for breakfast tomorrow? Need to pick up my car.”

“Sure, but can we make it lunch?” She gestured to the myriad items still waiting for their turn in the spotlight. “I’m going to be up late.”

“No problem.”

The timing of the meal didn’t matter. It was a rare Saturday with nothing on my schedule, and I could take a solo trip to the café in the morning to get my London Fog fix.

I picked up the open box of chocolates. “Thought you gave up on selling snacks. Are these from a new local chocolatier or something?”

Kelsey’s eyes went wide, and she clamped the corners of her mouth down, doing her best not to show one ounce of outward amusement. I’d seen this reaction before.

“…it’s soap, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sorry,” she said, green eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter.

A second look at the table confirmed the presence of more candy-shaped soaps. The loft probably smelled like a sudsy sugar coma, and I hadn’t the faintest clue. As per usual—and I’d never get used to it.

After talking to Kelsey for a few more minutes, I retreated to the library nest, Kip weaving between my ankles the entire way. Tenny ambled along in our wake.

A text from Cal arrived half an hour later, when I should have been editing my presentation for Redwing.

Instead, I was slumped against the reading wedge, wondering if driving an ice pick into my eye would hurt less than my resurgent migraine—and reading everything I could find about Pack Carling online.

Nine. Cal had nine parents. Ten, including his late mother. Mostly men, who either worked for Chaz Carling or were respected figures in other high-profile professions—an oncologist, a copyright lawyer. Dr. Sethi was an internist. Jorge Campos-Carling was a big name in nanorobotics.

Maybe theirs was a true old-fashioned high-society pack, a vehicle to amass wealth and accolades, more committed to their ambitions than each other.

But none of the parental pack members generated as many results as Cal’s half-sister, Heather Carling. She bore a strong resemblance to her mother, though she had a taller, fuller figure. Business articles frequently credited her with saving Verray millions through data-driven operational changes.

Yet, she was only a mid-level manager. Several gossipy articles claimed she’d been overlooked in favor of male alpha relatives. I didn’t want to believe it, but…

Something was amiss with the women of Pack Carling.

Clicking to another tab, I studied the adorably chubby face of a much younger Cal, maybe four years old, posing for a formal portrait with Chaz and a beautiful woman with generous curves and compassionate hazel eyes. His mother, Laurel Carling.

The founder of Brizo House, one of the largest omega non-profits in the Northport metro area. It offered emergency shelter to at-risk omegas and domestic violence resources, healthcare, childcare, preschool, and career counseling.

It was best known for its mating bond dissolution program, providing pro-bono legal aid and transitional housing to anyone, regardless of their designation. A vital service, a light in the dark for those most in need.

But bond dissolution was expensive.

My older sister, Audra, practiced pack and family law, so I knew how much it cost to dissolve a bond, especially under contentious circumstances. That’s why Brizo House was one of my largest annual donations.

Cal and I had been linked by our mutual desire to help people for much longer than we’d realized.

I pondered his text, uncertain if I should reply. Not wanting to lead him on.

Home. Thanks again for taking a chance.

I had gone way out of my comfort zone, hadn’t I? Pitching an untested proposition to a tech executive over dinner. Kissing a colleague on a city street, where anyone could have seen us. Ignoring that both he and his pack mother could tank my fellowship.

All very normal behavior with no potential negative repercussions. And I was more than content to maintain my delusion for the rest of the evening.

Cal’s next text was a baffling non-sequitur.

Are you more of a burrito or pizza kind of girl?

Does it matter?

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