Page 3 of Citius

Where was Mom? I wanted my mom. I wanted—I wanted to vomit.

And then… Nothing.

Three months of nothing.

One

Morgan

10 Years Later

Most omegas could determine their attraction to another person with a single sniff. Enticing scents were a good predictor of physical attraction and genetic compatibility, the cornerstones of most successful packs. Happy olfactory bulb, happy omega.

But I was not a happy omega.

Settled on a plush chair with a cup of chamomile tea and a blanket draped across my lap, I should have been a pliable lump of pure instinct.

But no, my designation counselor, Dr. Chantal Avila, had to pull out the scent cards.

They covered every inch of her desk—crisp-edged, sleek, yet user-friendly, embossed with the Harborview Designation Services Center logo. Even the tracking barcode in the lower right corner looked inviting.

So many people dreamed of this moment, of falling under the mystical spell of scent compatibility. But for me, the scent cards were a cruel joke, little white cardboard gravestones for my sense of smell.

Near-total anosmia was a first-rate cockblock.

“What’s the going rate for a heat waiver?” I asked, adjusting my glasses. “Last time, it cost seventy-five cards.”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” Chantal said, her denial imbued with subtle steeliness. Thin metal bangles clinked on her olive-toned wrist as she took her sweet time dipping biscotti into her coffee. It was as polite of a refusal as one could expect from an alpha.

She wore a loose black velvet jacket embellished with intricate, jewel-toned embroidery. Her eclectic, upscale bohemian style was just like her precise winged eyeliner—not my taste, but still worthy of admiration.

“Surely,” I insisted, “it can wait until after my fellowship.”

“I appreciate you’re busy, Morgan. I do,” Chantal said, taking a ladylike nibble of her biscotti. “But you’re not my only client with a demanding schedule.” She flashed a pert grin. “And they’ve all had at least one heat in the past year.”

I took a deep breath, trying to keep myself centered. “You know how much of a struggle it’s been to get to this point.”

“Yes, you have worked incredibly hard. That’s not up for debate.” Chantal set the remains of her biscotti aside and dabbed her fingers with a napkin, gemstone rings catching the light. “But your last heat was three years ago. A good run, for sure, but the prescribing guidelines have caught up to you. There’s no medical reason to fight them.”

“I know.” I dragged my fingers through my hair, trying to relieve the pressure building around my temples, inadvertently messing up my plum-red bob. “My last counselor indulged me too much.”

Chantal let the blame for my current predicament, an inherited mess of epic proportions, slide without comment—gaze lingering on my hair. She wasn’t used to the color.

The dye job was a recent development. My hairdresser claimed the start of my yearlong sports medicine fellowship with the University of Northport was the perfect opportunity to create a visual calling card and that my minimalist tendencies could do with a bit of vibrant sophistication—whatever that meant.

I let her have her way. It was just a hair color.

“You can’t keep avoiding everything,” Chantal said. “Pack profiles and cocktail mixers are good for you. So are the phone numbers of nice guys who might lend you their knot on occasion.”

“Chantal,” I said, my tone veering on the edge between friendly warning and admonishment.

“Walk me through your worst-case scenario.” She leaned forward, voice low and gentle, threaded with persuasion. “What are you afraid of?”

There was no point in denying the truth—even if I wanted to. “That my hormones will suddenly go haywire. Or I’ll have a random heat spike during a football game. That I’ll be so desperate for sex that I proposition someone I shouldn’t. Someone that won’t understand. Or respect my needs.”

“I see.” She paused, carefully imbuing her next question with aninordinate amount of tact. “You’re still concerned about finding partners who can appropriately compensate for your arousal disorder?”

“Of course.”

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