Page 35 of Altius
“All of us,” Joaquin said, running his hand along Alijah’s side.
“Yes—us—but Wyatt in particular.” Alijah narrowed his eyes at me. “Why are you being so helpful all of a sudden?”
“You already know the answer to that question,” Owen said. “Pheromone compatibility.”
Joaquin fixed me with a devilish leer. “Are theyjustcompatible, though?”
“What do you mean?” Alijah looked between us in confusion.
“There’s a reason you never got over Morgan,” Joaquin said. Hitting too close to the truth. “It’s the same reason your pheromones went haywire. Right?”
“I’m fine now.”
“Fine doesn’t mean better, though—does it?” Alijah fidgeted with the leather cuff on Joaquin’s wrist. “You’re on a pretty high dose of blockers.”
“Answer honestly,” Owen said. “Do you have a pheromone disorder?”
“Yes,” I said, hoping that would satisfy him. It was technically the truth. Kind of. “Cal’s got me all sorted out.”
“Bullshit.” Joaquin leaned forward, flashing a toothy smile that highlighted the wicked intentions in his gaze.
He knew something. Something I wanted to keep hidden. But I didn’t have enough time to brace for impact.
“Cal can’t cure you. Only the legendary Miss Montreal can do that—because she’s your goddamn scent match.”
“Wyatt.” Even a monosyllabic word from Owen could suffocate you to death when he was in a foul mood. “Is she?”
I coughed, trying to fend off the acidic sting of his pheromones. They only became heavier, more unbearable.
“Stop it,” I wheezed.
Owen’s head tilted slightly to one side. He tapped his right pointer finger on the arm of the chair once. Twice…
Three times.
Fucking hell. He was furious. Which meant I was toast.
Removing his glasses, the unchecked dominance in his cold gaze was almost strong enough to knock me to the floor. All I could do was repeatedly slam my hand against the back of the couch to signal my surrender.
His pheromones retreated enough for me to breathe, but not enough to stop being a threat.
“Yes,” I forced out between ragged breaths. “She’s my scent match. And seeing her again threw me out of whack.”
Owen dug his nails into the arms of the leather chair, pheromones gathering strength once more—not to attack me, but rather to punish himself.
“Mate waning syndrome,” he said, voice hollow. “And I missed it.”
Alijah let out a horrified gasp. He struggled against Joaquin’s hold, breaking free this time, and hurried over to me. “Are you okay? What do you need? Is there anything we can do?”
“The only cure is for them to bond,” Joaquin said, stretching his arms along the back of the couch. His blasé attitude toward my condition was infuriating. “Which means we’re working on a deadline, boys. We’ve got to woo the good doctor before Wyatt croaks.”
Alijah chucked a throw pillow right at his mate’s face. “Don’t talk like that.”
“His word choice might be crude,” Owen said, “but it is accurate. Especially if Morgan is also afflicted.”
“See—see.” Alijah turned on Joaquin, pelting him with another pillow. “I told you she was sick!”
Joaquin grabbed the pillow, then threw it across the room. It landed at the bottom of the stairs. “Morgan’s pheromones are off, but that doesn’t mean she’s got waning syndrome, too.”
