Page 35 of Citius

Men were of no use to me. They never helped me stick a landing or win a medal. Didn’t help power me through the most challenging days of my recovery, pass my medical boards, or navigate my residency-induced burnout. I did it. My determination got me here. Men wouldn’t jeopardize my fellowship, that’s for damn sure.

But what aboutthesemen—these alphas, this beta?

I didn’t have any justification to hate them. We didn’t know each other. I barely even knew Wyatt at this point. Couldn’t even bring myself to dislike them, not really. Didn’t want to avoid them, either, darting to the elevator every morning, too paranoid to walk around the parking garage.

So, I had to suck it up and play nice, no matter how much I resented the circumstances. And stick to taking the stairs in the morning. The elevator was too risky. I could afford to be caught off-guard once, but not regularly. It was imperative for my well-being that I maintain control.

Seeing patients at the sports medicine clinic, guidance appointments with Dr. Sethi, lectures, rotations, PheroPass data review, case records, assigned reading, covering football and volleyball games, training room hours, my job search, interviews, going to my own medical appointments, plus my damned heat in December…

I was doing so much, on the verge of too much.

But I was going to succeed—the same way I made it through medical school and my residency—with single-minded determination and a tonof pills.

A trio of texts from Kelsey drained what little fight I had left.

Status check.

Status check.

Five-minute warning.

I owed her an explanation, which meant I had to tell her about Owen. All of it. His relationship with Wyatt. The newly discovered professional link to Cal and PheroPass. And the identities of our two other new, very mated neighbors.

A dry run for blowing Jacobi’s ever-loving mind.

Eleven

Cal

Why was my lab director asking for a six hundred percent increase in training funds?

I circled the offending item on their budget proposal, added a bold red question mark, and wrote denied. That’s what happens when you don’t provide any supporting documentation.

Turning to the next page, I reached for my coffee. The only way to survive the budget proposal cycle was to stay caffeinated.

After several futile sips, I realized my cup was empty—again. I’d only been at it for two hours and had yet to make a dent in my to-review pile.

What a pain in the neckandass.

My passion stemmed from helping others, but no good deed goes unfunded. If I wanted to get to the fun stuff—you know, actual designation science—it meant slogging through mountains of paperwork and endless cycles of financial planning.

Speaking of fun…

I checked the clock. Our weekly PheroPass planning meeting was scheduled to start in half an hour.

“Think she’ll keep avoiding me like the plague?” I asked the Captain Tusker bobblehead on my desk and flicked the tip of his horn with my pen.

The anthropomorphic narwhal mocked me with his rictus grin, each enthusiastic jiggle of his head a reminder that Morgan had the right idea. Maintaining distance was supposed to be our default.

I shouldn’t have texted her after the game on Saturday. For a pseudo-supervisor, such behavior teetered on the edge of unacceptable. But I couldn’t ignore how disconnected she’d been—pale, uneasy, and inattentive at times—pushing herself to be amicable with the players and medical staff.

While I didn’t know the finer details of her medical history, I’d observed Morgan long enough to feel confident my concerns about her health were justified.

It was understandable that an unmated omega of a certain age, working around a literal team of horny young men, primarily alphas, may want to dampen their pheromone signature. But Morgan’s scent went far beyond dull.

It was nonexistent.

I didn’t notice right away. During meetings and other indoor encounters, I assumed the university’s industrial-strength air purifying treatments were doing their job. But at the team’s first home game, after several hours under the blazing August sun, there should have been something, at least a slight undernote. Any other omega would have sweated through their blockers or scent-canceling spray—any other healthy omega, that is.

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