Page 69 of Citius

My temper flared, so close to tearing through my restraints. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“Well, you’re clearly fine with the smell of mint and brownies.”

Why was he bringing up Kelsey’s and Rory’s scent signatures? I glared at him. “Of course, I’m okay with my family’s pheromones.”

Cal held my gaze. Perfectly calm and open, as if he wasn’t testing me. “What did the hallway smell like to you earlier?”

Had he discovered my anosmia? No, he couldn’t have. I swallowed my urge to deflect, ignoring the worried sparks threatening to ignite a full blaze in my gut.

For once, I didn’t have to lie—entirely. “Boxwoods.”

“What else?”

“Tea.”

“And?”

A gentle push was still a push—a challenge. My chest tightened. A restless nerve in my right eye twitched.

There was only so much I could take.

I shot off the loveseat and strode into the dining room, yanking Cal’s jacket from the back of a chair.

“You should go.” I held the jacket toward the door, my grip firm, tone razor-sharp—even sharper than I’d intended. Not that I minded. Hopefully, I’d cut him to the quick, and he’d drop this line of questioning.

He eased onto one knee, a quiet pop betraying that football had damaged more than just his nose. Cal rose to his feet with deliberate slowness, thumbs hooked in his pants pockets as he padded over, trying to pass off restraint for ease.

“Morgan—”

“Please leave.”

“Youstillsmell like him.”

Even my control wasn’t strong enough to withstand a revelation of that magnitude. My head snapped up, revulsion on full display.

“I thought your office was on fire,” Cal said, his voice rough, layered with gravel as he fought to contain his own carefully controlled emotions. “That’s how thick the sulfur stench was in the hallway.” Tendons flexed in his neck, tension roiling beneath his skin. “Had to sit in that meeting room, all fucking afternoon, watching you be brilliant—winning those money-grubbing assholes over—smellinglike another man. Not me.”

His hand rose, fingers hovering just shy of my cheek. Haunting me with the ghost of his touch.

“Why can’t it be me, Morgan?”

“You—” My resistance faltered.

Closing my eyes, I froze, holding myself perfectly still. Terrified that if I moved my broken head too far in any single direction, my perspective would shift—and his presumptuous actions would become protection, his tactile sweaters a haven for my touch-starved omega, and his lapses in professionalism the first stirrings of real feelings.

I steeled myself, forcing my eyes open, meeting his wounded hazel gaze. “Youknowwhy.”

His fingers crumpled into a fist, as if to eliminate my objection, to leave no obstacle between us. An impossible notion.

“I’d never do anything to jeopardize your work. Or mine. But I’m interested in you. Can’t stop thinking about you. To the point of stupidity—obviously. You saw the list.”

“Pardon me if I value my career more than a few threatening scribbles.”

“I could make it happen, you know. All of it. Everything on that list. One word from you, and I’ll turn Garvey’s life into a living hell.”

“No.” I didn’t hesitate to reject the offer. “Let the university handle it.”

Unable to withstand the weight of his earnest intensity, my gaze broke away, seeking refuge in the towering shadow along the fireplace. Forcing myself to breathe. “And find someone else.”

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