Page 45 of Altius
Wyatt’s gymnastics talent was learned through unforgiving repetition rather than an inherent gift. He just wanted a safe space to be an alpha, where his strength and power would be celebrated, and his short stature wouldn’t be a detriment, allowing him to win medals and make his mother proud.
But she never cared.
I was one of the trusted few who knew Tabitha paid for his gymnastics lessons and arranged a top-tier coach for him. He wouldn’t have been recruited on his merits alone, having started gymnastics a little too late, never quite flexible or consistent enough, and lacking natural finesse.
But he pushed through because, unlike his studies, Wyatt had physical potential.
So, he trained and trained, specializing in events that required upper body strength—still rings and parallel bars, but he was especially glorious on the horizontal bar—until his scores were so good on his specialty apparatuses that the national team had no choice but to promote him over some flashier all-around contenders.
I’d fantasized about kissing him a thousand times in random hotel stairwells, or sneaking him into my room to make out in the bathroom with the exhaust fan on.
There’d been plenty of prolonged daydreams about twining our bodies together beneath the Arizona sun, which had gradually taken on a pink glow in my imagination, a complete divorce from reality.
Not that my recent intrusive daydreams about pushing him down on the round ottoman in the lobby of my suite, or cornering him in a locker room somewhere on campus, were any more realistic.
But I’d never conceived of this moment—discovering that his full lower lip was even more pillowy than I’d imagined as our mouths melded together—while his beta almost-packmate, who had feelings for me, puttered in the kitchen, mumbling about the exorbitant price of takeout.
Furthermore, my boyfriend was in the next room, dealing with a legitimate pheromone crisis. So was Wyatt’s perfectionist older brother, who would resent us for tainting his expensive new sofa with our corrupted scent signatures—slippery, wet boxwood and rusty orchid—a bouquet of decay, befitting our withered affection.
Except there was nothing half-hearted about Wyatt’s kiss.
The lips moving across mine were hot and pleading, determined to make me understand, to believe that he’d never stopped wanting me.
All it took was a tentative press of my lips, returning the merest fraction of his earnestness, to confirm that somehow, despite being separated by thousands of miles and a vast chasm of mutual regret, the spark of attraction we’d so carefully nurtured, long before we scented each other, had survived.
It was a tiny, flickering flame, sparkling like a precious jewel embedded in the depths of my heart—but it was there.
Wyatt was there. Now, still, always.
Just as the barest hint of unchecked thirst bled through, Wyatt pulled back, looking dazed.
His mouth hung open as he took deep, shuddering breaths—but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his red, slightly swollen lips.
It wasn’t enough. I hadn’t tastedhim. His pheromones. I’d expected to get drunk off them the first time we kissed.
If two kisses were enough for Cal—
No. Never compare partners, a myriad of voices echoed through my head: sex ed teachers, designation counselors, my parents, and even a few of Jacobi’s preferred advice blogs.
Packs don’t survive if you pit members against each other. Unintentionally or otherwise.
Pack. Did I want a pack—but more importantly, did Cal?
“Screw it, I’m ordering pizza,” Alijah proclaimed with the slam of a drawer… Or what would have been a slam if Jacobi hadn’t sprung for soft-close drawer slides.
His quick steps echoed across the dining room,
Wyatt flashed a parting wink before hightailing it toward the staircase.
Poor Alijah. He walked straight into a solid wall of our combined pheromones.
“What—oh, ugh.” His expression crumpled into one of distaste, trying to spit our corrupted scents out of his mouth, shooting daggers as he looked between the two of us. “On the new couch, are you fucking kidding me!”
Frozen halfway up the stairs, Wyatt’s head dropped between his shoulders. “Sorry, it—it just happened.”
“Oh, hush. I don’t want to hear excuses.” Alijah crossed to the entrance closet and pulled out a bottle of scent-canceling spray. “You’re responsible for cleaning up after yourself.”
He tossed the bottle to Wyatt, then turned to me, straightened the collar of his shirt, placed his hands on his hips, and exhaled, his ire inexplicably replaced by a hospitable smile.
