Page 8 of Altius
But my mind wouldn’t shut off.
Rotten. My pheromones were rotten, with a metallic tang—so corrupted that Piper hadn’t even recognized my orchid scent signature.
And I’d been the last to know because of my fucking anosmia.
No wonder Garvey and his minions reacted strangely during our confrontation. Standing my ground came with a side of floral compost fumes.
Poor Chantal had been mortified. She apologized profusely for reacting as she did, dropping her tablet and dry heaving during a consultation. No amount of reassurance from Cal or me made her feel any better.
It was normal to avoid incompatible pheromones.
Unlike Cal and Wyatt, who seemed oddly possessive of my altered scent, as if it called to their primal need to protect me as an omega, to make me feel better.
And then there was Joaquin. He’d gotten two doses—once on campus, the other at the hospital—and his reaction had been anything but repulsed. Perhaps he found my scent more appealing with a rusty edge.
Too bad for him. It was only temporary and would disappear after a few more weeks on a moderate suppressant dosage.
If only I could say the same for the stench of decay…
The implications were dire.
Every introductory class to designation science included a module on mate waning syndrome. The symptoms varied from person to person, but the telltale signs were always the same: prolonged body aches and muscle pain, insomnia, elevated blood pressure, weight loss, hormonal imbalance, uncontrolled pheromone output, and scent corruption.
I hadn’t let myself overthink Wyatt’s pheromone issues. Plenty of people hated the smell of boxwood hedges. That’s why our neighbors’ claims of rotting foliage and compost fumes in the gym seemed understandable rather than hyperbolic.
Nothing Cal and a quality scent-blocker couldn’t sort out. Unless Wyatt did have waning syndrome…
Professional ethics prevented me from asking Cal for more details about Wyatt’s medical condition. The only person who could confirm receiving such a devastating diagnosis was Wyatt himself.
My scent match, whose pheromones were even more corrupt than my own.
But wasn’t the answer obvious? A single glance was enough to see how much his good looks had been eroded by illness.
“Fuck.”
If Wyatt were sick, wouldn’t it be my fault?
I slammed my fist against the mattress and rolled onto my back. Scratching at my temples, I tried to rip out the insidious band of tension tightening around my skull, threatening to cut off the blood supply to what little remained of my right mind.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
My phone vibrated again and again.
I couldn’t bring myself to care.
“Hey.” Cal stood in my bedroom doorway, wearing a chunky maroon cardigan and gray sweatpants. He’d showered and changed at some point in the past few hours. “Dinner’s ready. Want to eat in here or at the table?”
“Like my opinion matters.”
“You have to eat, Morgan.”
“Of course.” My neutral expression was too forced, contorting my mouth into something vicious. “The exact amount of food you dictate. When you tell me to. Three times a day.”
I forced myself to sit up, pretending such a simple movement wasn’t enough to wind me.
“You know what I appreciate most about Kelsey? How artfully she maintains the illusion of choice.”
“Morgan—”
