Page 38 of Citius

All for the benefit of PheroPass, of course. Morgan’s spelling was occasionally atrocious, and Owen had no patience for typos.

I didn’t care that he’d refused to read any of her emails and reports thus far. They were small fry compared to the presentation. A presentation he was going to be obsessed with.

He just didn’t know it yet.

***

A plum-red shimmer caught my eye as I stepped out of the elevator, cradling my fresh cup of coffee to avoid spilling it over my legal pad and PheroPass reports.

A few alpha girls had approached Morgan by the water fountain, unable to keep from looking starstruck as they pled their case.

“We’re only asking for a chance to test it out a few times. Even just once would be enough. Can’t you talk to him? He’ll listen to you.”

Morgan appeared relaxed yet distant, leaning her hip against the wall and idly toying with the cap of her water bottle as though the conversation had nothing to do with her.

“I understand how you feel, but I’m not here to meddle in gymnastics.”

“But you should, you totally should! We’d love that.”

The gymnasts were idol-chasing again.

“Deciding to train a new vault is between you and Coach Redmond.”Morgan straightened her glasses, the move subtle but final, shifting seamlessly back into doctor mode. “Does anyone have anything medically related to speak with me about? Otherwise, I believe Dr. Carling is waiting for me.”

The girls spooked and scattered, leaving a faint cloud of embarrassment-laden pheromones in their wake.A small smile flickered across Morgan’s face as she observed their retreat before turning and heading in my direction.

“Thought the gymnastics kids got warned off talking shop with you?” I asked as she fell in step beside me.

“They’re just anxious. It’s always hard to build trust with a new coach.” Morgan’s professional armor slipped for a moment, revealing a younger, lighter version of herself. “I’d almost forgotten how different vaults can be for alpha girls, how much extra power they have. How much higher they can fly.”

“And they wanted you to, what—cosign on some big air?”

“Sort of. They want to try a Bazarova.” Morgan’s tone held quiet respect, with a touch of skepticism. “It’s not a conventional vault by any means. The risk of injury is too high. Only its namesake ever performed it in competition, and she was the alpha vault specialist to end all alpha vaulters. I’m not sure a beta has ever attempted it. Omegas won’t touch it. We call it the guillotine.”

I let out a low whistle. “That diabolical, huh?”

“Yeah. You flip off the table and do three somersaults in the air. Mess up, and it’s literally your neck on the line.” Her expression was a perfect, gut-wrenching neutral. No one could blame her for avoiding gymnastics after her accident.

“What do the alpha girls call it?” I asked.

Sly amber eyes slid up to meet mine. Yes, I decided, her eyes were definitely amber.

“La petite mort.”

The little death. Suggestive yet brilliant. A euphoric buzz danced across my scalp.

I took a deep breath, partly to clear my mind but also to seek out her elusive pheromones. Her neck stiffened, and she picked up the pace, hurrying toward the meeting room.

No wonder she avoided me at the game. I’d been busted trying to scent her. How dreadfully unprofessional.

I followed along at a sedate pace, taking one step for every two of hers. When I entered the room, she was busy lowering the blinds. Then, she took her usual seat—three from the front, with her back facing apillar between two windows.

Since she was already irked at me, I might as well go for broke, pulling the door partially closed behind me, leaving about six inches of clearance. Proper alpha behavior dictated leaving the door ajar when meeting with an unmated omega privately.

Proper—and a touch old-fashioned. And despite my wishes to the contrary, this wasn’t private.

As I dropped into the chair across from Morgan, I savored her expression—the narrowed gaze fixed on the half-closed door, nose scrunched up ever so slightly, bowed lips pinched in the middle. She made the same adorably peevish expression every time I used a traditional alpha technique in her presence, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or annoyed when I appealed to her designation.

“We talked about this, Dr. Carling.”

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