Page 70 of Altius
Keeping my head down, I discreetly opened the voice memo function on my phone and hit the record button—just in case. We needed all the evidence we could get.
But that didn’t mean I needed to play nice.
“Look,” Garvey said, taking a step closer. “I think you misunderstood something, and I wanted to take the chance to—”
“Are you injured?” I asked in a disinterested tone, eyes fixed on my tablet.
“No, I’m just—”
“Is a player injured?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Is there a medical emergency in the immediate vicinity that I’m unaware of?” I asked. Garvey could only splutter. “I’ll take that as a no.”
I spared him a single withering glance.
“Then why are you talking to me?”
“Because we got off on the wrong foot. If you got to know me better, alpha to omega, then maybe we could—”
Oh, hell no. This asshole was not going to hit on me in the middle of work. I held up my phone.
“Say another word, and this recording goes to the Omega Affairs office.” A hint of frustration surfaced in my tone. Had he learned nothing? “I told you to leave me alone. Yet here you are, once again interfering with my ability to do my job.”
“Come on, sweetie, you know how much I like you.”
A terse laugh preceded a spear of overwhelming dominance, which hit Garvey square in the chest. His eyes went wide, breaking into a cold sweat as he struggled to breathe, but he couldn’t escape.
Owen wouldn’t let him.
He appeared at my side, wearing his usual black business wear, and a sinister sneer that suited his sharp features a little too well—the precursor to the kiss of death.
“Omega Affairs it is.”
The threat—no, the promise—of Owen helping to carry out swift retribution on my behalf delighted me so much that I almost couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth from lifting upwards.
But I didn’t need him to fight my battles.
“Unless Coach Garvey finally learned his lesson.” I raised a brow at Garvey, who tried desperately to nod but could only tilt his sweaty head forward half an inch.
“Hm.” Owen contemplated Garvey’s fate until a ring of sweat appeared around the neck of his sweatshirt and under his armpits. “Very well.”
His dominance receded, and Garvey collapsed against the nearest taping table, gasping for air.
“May I walk you out?” Owen asked.
His tone was so polite it was almost perfunctory—as if he hadn’t just caused Garvey’s entire life to flash before his eyes.
“Sure. Let me grab my things.” I started toward the exam room assigned to me, asking as I walked, “Why are you here?”
“Wyatt should have texted you.”
Owen watched as I packed my tablet, laptop, and other paraphernalia.
After slinging my bag over my shoulder, I scrolled back through my messages. Sure enough, there was a message from Wyatt an hour ago that had gotten buried by Jacobi’s barrage of texts.
Practice running late. Owen’s done terrorizing university prez. He’s got you.
