Page 81 of Citius

What the hell were they thinking? Surely, Pack Redmond, of all people, had to know Wyatt was leaking compost fumes all over the building.

“The Redmonds are hosting a housewarming,” I said, not bothering to check my tone.

“What?” Kelsey plopped down on the couch beside me, helping herself to my phone to read the message. “Huh. I thought you said Owen was smart, like genius-level smart. If they think anyone—especially Piper—will want to eat fancy party food with a stressed-out alpha stinking up the corner…”

I groaned. This had the potential for unmitigated disaster. Would it be entirely unethical for me to mention Wyatt’s pheromone issues directly to Cal?

Before I could dwell on it, a separate text from Piper popped up.

We’re SO going! Can Kelsey and Rory crash?

“Oh, I doubt crashing will be necessary,” Kelsey said as she returned my phone, resting her chin on my shoulder. “This helpful neighbor fully expects to snag an invitation of her very own.”

Can we count you in, doc?

Ah, so the mystery number was Joaquin. Suddenly, the idea of unleashing my siblings on the unsuspecting Pack Redmond seemed like a fantastic idea. Too bad they hadn’t scheduled their housewarming for the weekend of the Millwright Marathon, when every Van Daal within two hundred miles would be in town.

“Are you going to tell them?” Kelsey murmured.

The neighbor debacle. Another situation I had no desire to be honestabout. But they deserved to know the truth, especially Alijah. My issues with Wyatt had nothing to do with the rest of them, and getting my heart stomped by their temporary roommate ten years ago wasn’t a valid reason to keep them in the dark. Especially since Wyatt already knew.

“I’ll figure something out.”

***

Huddled against the trunk of a maple tree, I watched as the last few disappointed volleyball game attendees shuffled off to their cars in the Rhine Fieldhouse parking lot. Today’s loss had been brutal. Our girls all but surrendered in three straight sets, with nothing to show for it but a knee sprain and a few jammed fingers.

A fresh gust of wind whipped off the bay, slicing through the cotton sleeves of my shirt and finding every gap in my fleece vest. I shivered, breaking out in goosebumps. Winter Northport gear had been on my to-do list for weeks. Maybe I could swing by the university bookstore during lunch tomorrow—fat chance. My clinic appointments never ended on time.

Crossing my arms tighter around my chest, I glanced toward the women’s gymnastics training center. It’d be warmer inside, and Wyatt would be less likely to miss me than in my shadowy hiding spot. But stepping into the brightly lit building exponentially increased the chances of us being seen together. I wasn’t in the mood for extra attention.

The last thing I needed was for one of the student gymnasts to snap a picture of us together and for social media to start claiming I was too busy to speak with journalists but not too busy to flirt with the sport’s former fairytale prince. Especially with the Garvey situation still unresolved.

As I stared at the well-lit front entrance, a solid figure darted out the side door and headed toward the parking lot, moving as fast as possible without breaking into a jog.

Poor Wyatt. The girls had really done a number on him.

“Hey,” I called out.

Wyatt pulled up short, head whipping in my direction. A boyish smile brightened his countenance, teeming with surprised delight—pure happiness—something I hadn’t felt in years. He changed course, jogging across the leaf-strewn grass toward me. His bare, muscular calves flexed with every step, and his shorts rode up just enough to expose his rock-solid quads.

And my head was screaming.

My body stood rooted on a patch of damp earth on the East Coast, surrounded by autumnal splendor and Tolliver Bay. I understood the wind off the water carried the faint tang of salt, and the leaves crunching beneath Wyatt’s feet as he approached had a crisp, earthy sweetness—even if I hadn’t been able to smell it in years.

But my inner omega was trapped, paradoxically frozen beneath the relentless Arizona sun, reliving a similar moment on another campus in what felt like a different lifetime.

A few months before my accident, Ethan and his pack chaperoned me on a week of out-of-state medical school visits. After hours of being cooped up in the rental SUV, we stopped by Wyatt’s school on a whim for lunch, heading to our next planned stop in California. I’d been curious about where Wyatt spent most of his time, about what it might be like to live there if we ever moved from endless talks to something more real.

I never expected to run into him. Hadn’t even realized we’d parked near the men’s gymnastics building until we’d finished eating. Then he burst through the doors, gloriously sweaty in a tank top and shorts, his muscular form on full display—and in a hurry. Always in a hurry. Never wanting to draw attention to himself anywhere other than on an apparatus.

I called out his name. Couldn’t help myself.

But I hadn’t applied enough scent-cancelling spray to withstand the Arizona heat.

It was the first and only time we’d encountered each other outside of a ventilated environment. And I learned exactly why alpha and omega athletes are kept so tightly suppressed and segregated.

Because at that moment—when he caught the first hint of my pheromone signature between the spiced dust and dry heat, when the icy blue of his eyes thawed and turned covetous—he ruined me.

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