Page 165 of Altius
As he headed for the kitchen, Alijah rushed out of the laundry room, locking onto Joaquin’s back like a heat-seeking missile. Just as the pizza boxes hit the island, Alijah threw his arms around Joaquin’s waist and buried his face between his shoulder blades.
“It’s bad,” he mumbled. “Don’t know what they’re talking about, but the smell’s just awful.”
Joaquin rubbed Alijah’s arm and looked over his shoulder at me. “Owen and Cal?”
I nodded.
Wyatt’s grip on my hand tightened. “Knew that phone call was trouble.”
“What phone call?” Quinton asked from the other end of the line.
“Nothing,” I said. “It was from Owen’s job.”
Wyatt shook his head. “You don’t get it. He never answers his phone.”
“Not even for us,” Alijah added, still clinging to Joaquin’s back, shuffling along in tandem as Joaquin checked the contents of each box and wrote the toppings on the lid with a permanent marker.
I stared at them in surprise. “But you’re pack?”
I knew Owen wasn’t great at communication, but avoiding their calls was worse than not answering their texts.
“Hold on a sec.” Quinton’s voice was lower and rougher, no longer professional.
Great.
The last thing I needed was to deal with my alpha brother-in-law getting involved in my personal business.
“When you say he doesn’t answer calls—”
The sound of the door to the spare room opening cut him off. Every head except mine snapped toward the back hallway, displaying varying degrees of disgust.
It was obvious that their pheromones spelled trouble.
The casual, almost reluctant pace of Cal’s steps as he turned the corner—a thumb hooked in one pocket, his phone gripped tightly in his free hand, undermining the amiable smile plastered on his face—told me I needed to prepare for impact.
Was one of the players injured worse than Reyhan’s texts had indicated? Did Amir have a TBI?
My attention shifted to Owen. A tactical error of epic proportions. His gray gaze pierced through me, impaling me to the chair back, unable to move.
Dread pooled in the pit of my stomach, congealing like blood, slippery and frantic, weighing down my legs. Preventing me from escaping outright. From avoiding the truths that were about to test the limits of my emotional stability.
“Anya called,” Cal said.
That was all it took to set me off.
Why had my fellowship director called Cal instead of me?
Dating didn’t automatically make him my alpha. Even if we were mated, I wasn’t subservient to him.
To anyone.
Casting off Wyatt’s hand, I jerked away from the table and snagged my phone. “Quinton, I’ll call you back.”
“Morgan, we aren’t—”
I hung up on him, stalking toward the doors of the omega suite, determined to explode where there wouldn’t be collateral damage.
“Wait,” Owen said, compelling me to stop in my tracks.
