Page 71 of Citius

Last week, he suggested we switch to generic paper products to save money, and he only bought boxers in bulkandon sale. I was still recovering from the shock of him buying the loft after being perfectly content sleeping in a windowless office nook without a closet for almost a decade.

Being entrusted with a pack credit card meant I’d have to watch our collective pennies.

And then Owen surprised me again.

“Any info about the neighbors?”

The words were too stiff to be spontaneous. Since when did Owen Redmond bother caring about strangers?

“I haven’t seen anyone,” I said, breaking off a piece of muffin. “But Joaquin says he saw a blonde woman getting in the elevator the other day. What about you? Did you meet them?”

Owen shook his head. “No.”

Before I could press further, the front door opened, and Wyatt walked in, dripping with sweat after his morning workout and reeking of slippery, wet shrubbery. The other frequent oddity of late.

“Morning,” he mumbled, already heading for the stairs.

“Hey—wait a second!” I called after him. “Have you met theneighbors?”

Wyatt froze mid-step, shoulders hunching in a way that made my curiosity spike. “Uh… Why?”

“Just wondering,” I said with a shrug, trying to play it cool. Not an easy feat with Owen leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table, studying his brother with unchecked intensity.

Wyatt ran a hand through his sweaty hair and looked out the windows—an evasive action that didn’t match his detailed response. “It’s a pair of sisters. The one with reddish hair leaves for work about the same time I get back from the gym every morning, and the blonde’s a night owl who works from home and keeps odd hours.”

“Scent signatures?” Owen asked.

“Mint for the blonde.” Wyatt rubbed the back of his neck just as his pheromones reached the dining room, adding a discordant note of bitter sap to the lingering taste of chocolate on my tongue. “The other’s floral. A really nice one.”

Owen looked skeptical. “Are you sure?”

“Hey, you asked.” Wyatt jogged up the stairs, vanishing into a cloud of bitter boxwood.

Owen observed his brother intensely, like Wyatt was an abnormal lab specimen prone to mutation.

Not that my expression was any better. Mornings were hell—boxwood-scented hell.

The thought prompted an immediate pang of guilt. Wyatt had been under a lot of stress lately, moving across the country on short notice and starting a demanding but fantastic position. Something I’d never be brave enough to do.

Joaquin had assured me it was normal for alphas to have the occasional pheromone hiccup. Wyatt wasn’t choosing to be a noxious cloud. He couldn’t help it.

“I bought him a fresh bottle of scent-canceling spray,” I said quietly. “But he’s already using one. He keeps saying he isn’t anywhere near going into rut. Do you think that’s true? I mean, Wyatt knows his own cycle, but I’m worried. Should we have him talk to Cal?”

Owen tapped a finger against the side of his plate—once, twice. Good. He agreed with the idea.

“I’ll see if he can make a house call.”

“Thanks. I’d hate for Wyatt to get in trouble at work.”

A third tap of his finger gave me pause. Was that a singular tap, which indicated Owen was considering something—or the dreaded third tap, meaning duck and take cover?

“About the housewarming.” Owen stood, straightened his glasses, and then brazenly contradicted himself. “Pick up whatever we need. Extra glasses. Throw pillows. The finishing touches.”

What was going on with Owen? It was almost like he’d suddenly decided we needed to impress someone during the housewarming party. But who—Tabitha?

Before I could ask, Owen left the room with his dishes.

Still wondering what Owen considered “finishing touches” and feeling cautiously hopeful on Wyatt’s behalf, I headed upstairs to get ready for the day. A rare Saturday free of football or work obligations—a day just for me to head out and play. With a pack credit card.

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