Page 62 of Citius

Before my wings were clipped—and my glory was severed at the neck.

“Oh. So that’s it.” Wyatt sighed, his gaze drifting across the agitatedriver, his momentary courage swept away by the current. “I—I’m sorry.”

I paused, right foot on the car’s floorboard, my work bag stretching toward the passenger seat. For a moment, I looked at the profile that had haunted me for years and wondered what he really wanted to say.

“So am I.”

We parted without another word.

Nineteen

Morgan

There was a typo on my CV—the same one I’d sent to Ballantyne and three other programs. How was that possible? I’d printed it out, scrutinized every letter, and even read it aloud twice. It was perfect—or so I thought.

When I asked my most reliable siblings to proofread my letter of intent for the Northport sports physician position, I’d included my CV for reference. Idiotic typo and all. At least Kelsey’s text was nice about it.

All good, just one tiny edit. It’s “references,” not “refences.”

Audra’s response was a gut punch by comparison. Endless edits on both documents and a demand for babysitting duty as compensation. Precisely what I deserved for asking a lawyer.

During my brief lunch break in my office at the sports medicine clinic—a windowless space far from the hustle and bustle of reception, with a hefty stash of pain meds in the top drawer—I resisted the urge to revise, forcing down a few bites of salad in the comforting shadows. The only light in he room was a frosted glass lamp I’d brought from home.

I did a deep breathing exercise every time my emotions wavered. One typo wouldn’t derail my career. Success didn’t require perfection. Neither did my recovery.

A calendar reminder buzzed on my phone. One hour until our quarterly presentation with Redwing. Time to change and meet the otherattendees in the Designation Services lobby. We were carpooling to the Redwing campus, and I’d arranged a ride with Talia, the deputy administrator.

After powering down my laptop and tucking it into my work bag, I traded my white tennis shoes for black suede slingbacks and shrugged off my lab coat, revealing a sleeveless black shift dress. Just as I reached into the closet for my blazer, the door to my office swung open.

“Sweetie,” Coach Garvey drawled, in that slithering tone of his that could almost pass for conversational.

Why was he in my office? Football coaches didn’t have security clearance for the clinic—especially not a restricted staff area.

“Just heard the funniest thing. Absolutely fucking hysterical. Sensitivity training for the entire coaching staff. What a fucking joke, right?”

He moved closer, puffing out his chest with each step, trying to inflate his presence and appear more intimidating. But his dominance was no more than a petulant flicker. Even so, I had to be careful. I was an unmated omega alone in an enclosed space with an unwelcome alpha.

“Sorry, I’m on my way out,” I said, keeping my voice steady and expression neutral as I slipped on my blazer.

“That’s not very nice, sweetie.” Garvey stopped just shy of my personal space. “Dismissing me like that. After you’ve been such a naughty girl, telling lies to your bosses.”

His smile was fake, but the barbs of anger in his barely controlled voice were very real. Garvey might be losing control of his alpha.

A spike of anxious nausea snared my gut, but I couldn’t afford to panic. I subtly shifted, aligning my stance with the security camera in the hallway. My body tensed, prepared to strike his solar plexus if he moved any closer.

“That’s why you’re going to go to McEwen and whoever else you blabbed to and tell them it’s all a misunderstanding. No one didanythingwrong.Ididn’t do anything wrong.”

I’d only told Dr. McEwen the barest bones version of the truth about Garvey’s behavior, nothing that would have prompted sensitivity training. Had Reyhan or one of the omega players reported him, too?

“I’ve beensogood to you. Complimented you, looked out for you. Treated you like a goddamn omega princess—and this is how you repay me?”

Veins bulged in his forehead, his face a furious shade of red. His fists rose higher, fingers curled with intent as if preparing to lunge at me. My work bag—and the pepper spray in the side pocket—was too far away.But I could reach a coat hanger. My reflexes were still quick enough for me to grab it and stab him in the eye before he could do much damage.

“You reported me to—”

“Garvey.”

A deep voice cut through his bluster, coiled tight and low, almost too quiet for the warning it contained. Cal stood in the doorway, clad in a navy suit, his stern expression and the unyielding set of his clean-shaven jaw a stark contrast to the affable pheromone wizard I thought I knew.

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