Page 75 of Citius

“Our neighbor, Kelsey,” I said, uncertain how to interpret his reaction. “And her brother, too. They helped me bring everything up from the car.”

Something akin to dread flashed in his eyes. “Ethan?”

“No, Rory. At least, I’m pretty sure he said his name was Rory.” Confusion gathered strength within me. “Who’s Ethan?”

“Never mind.” Wyatt snagged his bag and retreated upstairs, leaving me with more questions than answers—all of them knocked clean out of my head by a suffocating wave of sweat-soaked boxwood, now laced with an unmistakable undertone of stress.

What was wrong with him?

I tried not to gag as my phone buzzed on the coffee table. Repeated texts from Joaquin demanded attention, asking why the bond had suddenly gone haywire after several hours of domestic bliss.

Wyatt stinks.

Oh. Thought it was something serious.

It’s really, really bad this time.

Could always hang an air freshener around his neck.

I was halfway through typing a message to tell my mate off when he sent another, even crueler text.

No, wait. His neck’s too thick. Would snap right off.

That’s mean.

Want to kick him out?

Mean!

Only for you, babe.

As much as I loved Joaquin, rough edges and all, sometimes he was a little too much. Even for me.

I tossed my phone aside and grabbed the pheromone neutralizer, spraying down the entrance and living room with vigor. I nearly sprayed Owen square in the face as he unexpectedly appeared in the doorway of his suite. Had he been in there the entire afternoon without my realizing it?

“Sorry, Owen! Didn’t see you—I mean, I saw you, it’s j-just you surprised me. Didn’t know you were home, so—”

He held up a finger to silence me, cutting off my babbling midstream. “Did you get their last name?”

“W-who?”

If it was possible to sigh telepathically, Owen managed it. “The neighbors.”

“Oh.” I blinked, feeling like an idiot. “No, I didn’t think to ask. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” His mouth settled into an intimidating frown as his gaze swept across the room. “Get rid of the thing on the back of the couch. The rest can stay.”

“Oh—oh?” I turned toward the couch, wondering what he disliked about the blue faux fur blanket. Was it the color? The texture? The placement? Or something else entirely, a flaw only Owen could perceive? “S-sure, no problem. Consider it gone.”

Taking a slow deliberate breath, his frown deepened. He aimed his formidable disapproval toward the second level for a tense moment, then wordlessly withdrew into his suite, closing the double doors in my face.

Weird. That was the only word for it. My pack was weird—Wyatt included.

But they were my pack of peculiar alphas.

How did I get so lucky?

Twenty-Two

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