Page 98 of Citius

“Don’t keep things to yourself, no matter how much you think it might upset me. Like Wyatt’s history with Morgan.”

“Okay. We’ll both try to do better with our bond and with honesty.” He sealed our agreement with a languid kiss, undermined by an amused sneer. “As a show of good faith, I’ll even go first—I have no plans to stop roasting little Redmond.”

“Babe,” I asked with an exasperated sigh, “why?”

“Because he’s anidiot. He missed out on a good thing with Morgan and has no one to blame but himself.” Joaquin started bunching up my shirt, his touch growing needier the more skin he revealed. “Now praise me for realizing I couldn’t live without you and locking you down at the first opportunity. Hurry up.”

He eased down, his playful teeth nipping at my flesh.

“Tell me you love me. Stroke my ego, babe.” A lean arm hooked beneath my knee, creating more room for him as he shifted lower, fingers toying with the waistband of my pajama pants. “I need it.”

I loved him, even when he was being ridiculous—so much I couldn’t stand it sometimes. “Touch me, alpha. It’s your reward for decent behavior.”

“Hey,” he growled, greedy tongue licking a line along my ribcage, “I’ve been an absolute angel.”

“Don’t push it.”

And then Joaquin reminded me, in no uncertain terms, why I was so taken with his naughty side. Over and over—until my panic attack at the stadium was just a distant memory, and the dream of being with Morgan didn’t seem so far-fetched.

But that’s all it was. A dream.

Twenty-Eight

Morgan

I’d just finished a check-up with a running back recovering from a pulled hamstring when Dr. McEwen knocked on the exam room doorway. His face had a touch more color than last week. Probably took his boat out for a foliage tour.

“Van Daal, got a minute?”

“Of course.”

Time for yet another conversation about Coach Garvey. I’d spoken to HR three times in the past two weeks and had individual meetings with Dr. Flemming and Dr. Sethi. What’s one more?

I followed him across the taping area and down the hall, through a security door, into a warren of staff offices. His was sparse. Anatomical models lined the windowsill, a vintage nervous system diagram hung on the wall, and a modest ship in a bottle sat on his desk.

Dr. Flemming was waiting in one of the utilitarian guest chairs, wearing a friendly smile. His favorite pug-print bowtie put me at ease. This might not be a pleasant conversation, but at least I wasn’t in trouble.

“Hi, Morgan,” he said, gesturing for me to sit. “Thanks for joining us.”

I closed the door and sat down. “Of course.”

“You know what this is about,” Dr. McEwen began, settling into a severe-looking ergonomic black mesh and chrome chair. “So, I won’t waste your time. Garvey’s been written up for verbal harassment and minor omega rights infractions. We couldn’t prove anything beyond that, but he’s on the thinnest of ice moving forward.”

“He’s also on leave for the remainder of the week,” Dr. Flemming added. “And will be required to complete additional workplace dynamics training.”

Dr. McEwen let out a disapproving huff. “The fool didn’t stop to think that every university employee has to take annual harassment training—and then ran off to bark at you. Well, he showed his ass all right.”

“I know it’s not the resolution you were probably hoping for,” Dr. Flemming said kindly, “but—”

“No,” I cut in with what I hoped was a reassuring wave, not wanting either of them to think they’d failed me somehow. “It’s way more than I expected. Thank you.”

The outcome was surprising—not just because the hard evidence was limited to an indirect surveillance video—but because the cause of Garvey’s tirade was even more troubling than I’d anticipated.

It had nothing to do with me. No perceived slights or pointed words. He lost control because he’d misinterpreted a standard mandatory training notice. If that was enough to unleash his pheromones on an omega in an enclosed space, what might he do next time, especially with a chip on his shoulder?

“This wasn’t an isolated incident.” Dr. McEwen leaned forward, the solid weight of his body pressing against the desk, trying to reassure me without exerting any alpha pressure. “If he does anything—and I meananything—that gives you, Parsha, or any of the players even a moment’s pause, report it. I’ve got zero tolerance for this kind of shit, and Carling has even less.”

I glanced at Dr. Flemming, who was patting his mustache with satisfaction.

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