Page 45 of Citius

“People did that—to you?”

“Sometimes it’s obvious you never competed against alphas.” Cal didn’t need to scent me to sense my displeasure. He flashed a self-conscious smile. “I have my blind spots, too. Individual sports are a mystery to me. That’s why I initially didn’t understand your push for reproductive cycle monitoring—despite my professional background.”

“I know what you mean. When I was competing, my heat schedule dictated my entire season. It took ages to finalize. But trying to scale that same level of obsessive detail for a hundred players? Pure insanity.”

“When I played, we kept it simple and took enough meds to delay ruts and heats until the off-season. Not a great idea.” Cal ran a hand through his sandy hair. “It’s better now, but still not good enough.”

We resumed reviewing the presentation. Cal picked apart more than a few ideas, every sentence insightful, pointing out weaknesses the Redwing execs might take issue with that had never occurred to me.

I liked him this way, channeling his inner designation nerd.

We didn’t reach the final page until an hour past our scheduled end time.

“What’s this?” Cal asked, tapping his pen against a sticky note with agiant asterisk.

“An idea—maybe. I’m not sure yet. And I don’t think we have enough time for it today.”

It was already after six. The sun would set soon, and I didn’t like driving after dark.

“Speaking of ideas… I have one of my own.” He nonchalantly adjusted his glasses. “Are you free for dinner?”

Our gazes locked. A restless nerve spasmed in my chest. Cal made me want things. An impulse I could not afford to trust.

“Do you think that’s wise, Dr. Carling?”

“Our contact from Redwing—Owen—will be there.” Cal quickly pivoted, making it a group event rather than a potential date, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. “Pitch it to both of us.”

Networking was not one of my strong suits, and I tried to avoid the drain of socializing as much as possible. But…

Maybe I could suffer through one meal—for Jacobi’s sake.

I still owed him a proper Owen update, after all.

Fourteen

Morgan

Cal drove us to Arlotti’s, an old-school steakhouse downtown that hadn’t been renovated in decades. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling, with dim lighting and banquettes upholstered in imitation leather. The place had such a shady, underworld vibe that I wouldn’t have been surprised if it smelled like a cigar box—despite being a smoke-free establishment.

Not at all what I expected.

“Everything is good here, I promise,” Cal whispered as we followed the host, his right hand a featherlight presence on my shoulder. The low hum of conversation in hidden pockets made for a shadowy, almost secretive atmosphere. “A family friend owns the place.”

I was tempted to ask if said friend had connections to organized crime, but kept my mouth shut.

As we stepped into a secluded seating area, my attention was arrested by a man in a three-piece suit with sharp facial features and square shoulders. He sat alone at the table in the far corner, nursing a cocktail. A matching golden-brown drink was placed at the opposite seat as if anticipating a companion.

I had the oddest desire, a passing whisper of wanton stupidity, to be the person he was waiting for.

Behind wire-framed glasses, cold gray eyes gave me the most cursory of glances, sending an electric current of awareness ricocheting down my spine, crackling against the soles of my feet, desperate for a grounding influence.

My omega recognized Owen Redmond for what he was. An apex predator.

His focus shifted to Cal, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“Why invite me out,” Owen said as he rose, “if you’re going to show up twenty minutes late?”

“Don’t act like it’s any different when you make the plans.” Cal gave his shoulder a few hearty thumps in greeting. “Allow me to introduce Morgan Van Daal.”

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