Fourteen – Morgan
Fourteen
Morgan
C al drove us to Arlotti’s, an old-school steakhouse downtown that hadn’t been renovated in decades. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling, with dim lighting and banquettes upholstered in imitation leather. The place had such a shady, underworld vibe that I wouldn’t have been surprised if it smelled like a cigar box—despite being a smoke-free establishment.
Not at all what I expected.
“Everything is good here, I promise,” Cal whispered as we followed the host, his right hand a featherlight presence on my shoulder. The low hum of conversation in hidden pockets made for a shadowy, almost secretive atmosphere. “A family friend owns the place.”
I was tempted to ask if said friend had connections to organized crime, but kept my mouth shut.
As we stepped into a secluded seating area, my attention was arrested by a man in a three-piece suit with sharp facial features and square shoulders. He sat alone at the table in the far corner, nursing a cocktail. A matching golden-brown drink was placed at the opposite seat as if anticipating a companion.
I had the oddest desire, a passing whisper of wanton stupidity, to be the person he was waiting for.
Behind wire-framed glasses, cold gray eyes gave me the most cursory of glances, sending an electric current of awareness ricocheting down my spine, crackling against the soles of my feet, desperate for a grounding influence .
My omega recognized Owen Redmond for what he was. An apex predator.
His focus shifted to Cal, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
“Why invite me out,” Owen said as he rose, “if you’re going to show up twenty minutes late?”
“Don’t act like it’s any different when you make the plans.” Cal gave his shoulder a few hearty thumps in greeting. “Allow me to introduce Morgan Van Daal.”
“Owen Redmond.” He nodded rather than offering to shake my hand.
How nice. Cal had at least one friend who shared his old-fashioned alpha sensibilities—no scent exchanges with omegas at the first meeting.
Thank goodness. I couldn’t shake hands without betraying he’d unnerved me. Owen’s dominance was potent, befitting the head alpha of a pack, and he made zero effort to rein it in. Maybe he couldn’t.
At least I’d had the foresight to slip on my emergency blazer before we left. It might be paired with a Narwhals t-shirt and jeans, but you couldn’t argue that my outfit wasn’t at least business casual.
Owen was about six feet tall with a solid build and powerful quads. I wondered what he did to keep fit—running or biking.
The only feature he seemed to share with Wyatt was a full head of black hair, cropped short on the sides, with natural waves brushed away from his face. There were a few gray strands along his temples, but they felt well-earned rather than premature—an acknowledgment of his relentless pursuit of scientific advancement.
“Pleased to meet you.” I sat down, only needing one genteel yet powerful nudge from Cal to push in my chair. “I work for Cal on PheroPass.”
“Morgan works with me.” Cal dropped into the free seat beside mine, facing Owen across the table. “She’s the brains of the operation on our end.”
Owen raised his glass with a dismissive snort. “My condolences.”
Impervious to Owen’s negativity, Cal carried on with a smile.
“Remember how we treated the kicker before he went into heat early? She’s the one who noticed his hormone spike. And she’s doing the expanded capabilities pitch at our quarterly meeting.”
“Is that a polite way of saying she’s your scapegoat?”
Cal had warned me that Owen believed PheroPass was doomed to failure, but I hadn’t expected him to be so…blunt.
“Right, right, you’ve already resigned yourself to go down with the ship, captain,” Cal teased. “It’s just that Morgan has an idea that might interest the execs, but we weren’t sure how it’d go over.” He continued to smooth the way for me, a genuine show of good faith that I couldn’t help but find endearing. “Figured it wouldn’t hurt to discuss it off the record first. You know what they want, and you won’t steer us wrong.”
The server arrived to take our drink orders. I was content with water. Cal ordered a local ale.
“You wound me,” Owen said with a subtle stab of sarcasm after the server departed. “After I went through all the trouble of ordering your favorite drink.”
“The joke wasn’t funny the first time you did it.” Cal nudged the cocktail into the table’s middle, leaving a condensation trail along the white tablecloth.
I still couldn’t tell what the contents were. “What is it?”
“A Godfather. Equal parts amaretto and scotch.” Owen drained his glass. “I’m sure you can appreciate the joke, even if it’s obvious.”
Except I couldn’t. If anything, I was even more lost. I snuck a glance at Cal. He didn’t look all that amused—until he winked at me.
Ah, the boys were playing a game.
Cal drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. “How about I deliver a dozen London Fogs to your office every day next week?”
The café at Tolliver Yards made an amazing London Fog latte—Earl Grey tea with vanilla, milk, and honey. Maybe Kelsey and I should go out for breakfast tomorrow and take advantage of the football team’s away game.
“If you have nothing better to do, be my guest.” Owen reached for the abandoned drink and raised it in Cal’s direction. “Cheers.”
Their pheromone profiles must match the drinks.
Alcohol wasn’t something I would have predicted for Cal. Comfort food, sure, like a stack of pancakes with quality maple syrup. Or a walk through the woods in autumn—evergreen boughs, allspice—something natural yet masculine. More lumberjack, less poker night.
Earl Grey made an odd amount of sense for Owen, though—strong first impression, not to everyone’s taste.
I could see Owen and Joaquin having a similar sense of humor. Heavy on the satire, a touch manipulative.
But Earl Grey also had an elusive hint of sweetness under the more robust flavors, and Wyatt’s so-called dictator brother must have a heart. Or at least a decent facsimile of one. Otherwise, he wouldn’t let Wyatt crash with him for an unspecified amount of time.
Plus, Alijah trusted him. That had to qualify him for a few bonus points. Unredeemable and useless bonus points, but bonus points, nonetheless.
I stole a few more glances at Owen while reading the entrée list.
If Wyatt’s brand of handsomeness was akin to a fairytale prince, then Owen’s knife-like features were more suited to be the king’s advisor—a formidable Grand Duke, the power behind the throne. A man who knows where all the secret passages are and where all the bodies are buried. Rather attractive if you liked the ruthless type.
But it wasn’t his intelligence or appearance that gave Owen the potential to be even more devastating than his brother. It was his relentless, cryptic strength. He was the most dominant presence in the entire restaurant.
By the time the server returned with Cal’s ale and a carafe of water for the table, we were ready to order. The gents hadn’t even bothered with the menus, both ordering a dry-aged ribeye steak with a side of twice-baked mashed potatoes. They must eat here often.
I decided to live dangerously and ordered the stuffed peppers. Why bother avoiding trigger foods when I already have a headache?
“I trust you’re prepared,” Owen said without preamble.
Despite his lack of knowledge of my proposal, Cal flashed me a reassuring grin. At least it wasn’t a thumbs-up.
“There’s a finding in your paper about bond stability during deployment that I can’t stop thinking about. How there’s no acceptable proxy for a mate bond. Which means there’s no effective treatment method for waning syndrome.”
Mate waning syndrome was an umbrella term for various symptoms associated with an unhealthy or severed bond affecting one or more mates. No one knew precisely what prompted its onset, and potential causes were still an ongoing area of research.
Some cases, such as an alpha rapidly developing insomnia and losing control of their pheromones during a prolonged military deployment, had a simple solution. Reunite the alpha with their mate or pack.
Other cases were harder to treat, while some proved impossible. A pack mated for six decades may never recover from the death of a member. Unmated alphas and omegas might also develop it when separated from their scent match, their most biologically compatible partner.
In rare cases, a person faded away for no definitive reason, despite the best efforts of their pack to care for them.
Waning syndrome impacted far more alphas and omegas than betas. However, it was betas who suffered worse outcomes, almost twice as likely to die than other designations. Another ongoing medical mystery.
Owen’s flat stare betrayed his disappointment with my opening salvo. I respected that he hadn’t bothered to affix a polite listening expression. Then again, I thought, taking a quick sip of water, maybe such dominant alphas don’t need one.
“When Cal asked me to consider new possibilities for PheroPass,” I said as I set down my glass, “the first thing I did was review every data set. I wanted to understand how they were being used and ensure that every measurement had a purpose.”
“I’m sure you found plenty of neglected data,” Cal said.
“Yes. Several dozen categories, but the most surprising was vocalization.”
“You’re keeping tabs on that?” Cal raised a brow at Owen.
“Yes, for the sake of completion and potential future development.” Owen took an unhurried sip of the watered-down Godfather. “Such as this conversation.”
That was my cue to continue. “I downloaded a random sample of alpha vocalization data to understand what it included and cross-referenced notable changes with game footage. It was what you’d expect. Lower frequencies during moments of frustration, such as failing to score a touchdown—growls. Higher frequencies when injured—whining.”
“Interesting but hardly innovative.” Owen exerted silent pressure, wanting me to get to the point. But I wasn’t there yet.
“Once I was sure the frequency information was reliable, I began looking at periods with prolonged, repetitive vibrations.”
“Purrs.” Excitement sparked in Cal’s gaze, broad shoulders leaning toward me. His fingers found my knee beneath the table.
“Yes, purring.”
Another sip of water gave me a moment to gather my scattered thoughts. My concentration could have withstood either Cal’s infectious enthusiasm or his touch. But not both.
“I started with a sample of twenty players, about a third of the alphas on the team, and found something interesting. Most purrs fall into five general frequency values.”
“Did you expand the sample?” Owen asked.
“Yes. I repeated the analysis with every alpha on the team. The results were similar. Five main frequencies, possibly six. While it’s a small data pool, it suggests the possibility of universal frequencies. PheroPass could be the cornerstone of a wider study to confirm their existence and what situations typically prompt them. It could also test their efficacy as a treatment method for various ailments, including waning syndrome. ”
Owen sat back and rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepling his elegant fingers as he continued to listen, eyes fixed on the melting ice in his glass.
A proud smile flickered across Cal’s face, and he gave my knee a light squeeze before letting go. It seemed like an encouraging sign, so I continued.
“The current purr simulator market is a pseudo-scientific nightmare, overrun with expensive placebos. Redwing could introduce a portable device, pre-programmed with precise frequencies backed up by legitimate research and clinical trials, and dominate the market.”
The inspiration came to me a few nights ago. Curled up in the library nest, lights turned down, desperate for relief as I waited for the good pain meds to kick in, Tenny pressed against my chest, doing his best to purr away my pain.
“A legit portable purr machine, for lack of a better term, would solve some of the issues identified in our deployment study,” Cal said, making a steady stream of notes on his phone.
Owen took a long sip of his drink, then tapped a fingertip against the rim of his cocktail glass twice. No more, no less.
“The concept of universal vibration frequencies is worth considering, but the amount of testing required would be substantial, both from a time and investment perspective.”
“Spoken like a true browbeaten executive. This is more than worth pursuing,” Cal said as he continued to type. “Just imagine—Redwing introduces customized purr therapy units, which you can pay a fee to have set to your partner’s exact frequencies. Don’t even want to imagine the markup on a pack unit.”
Owen turned to look at me, and the center of gravity shifted along with him. Experiencing his full, undivided attention was like nothing I’d ever felt. Power, so much power, acerbic and unforgiving, debrided my skin.
“What other conditions have you considered?”
How could this human scalpel be related to athleisure-loving Wyatt in any way?
No, this was business—important business—and I needed to focus.
“Well, there’s a wide variety of sports applications. Muscle strains, ligament tears, surgical incisions, and so forth—and substantial testing would be required. I can’t deny the development costs would likely—”
“More pie in the sky, please, less realism.” Cal typed even faster. “You don’t need to worry about financial trolls.”
Owen shot a withering glare over the rim of his glasses. “Might I remind you this is my product?”
“Which your bosses think can’t turn a profit, and Morgan’s setting off financial fireworks right now, so let her finish.” His foot nudged mine beneath the table.
Was Cal committed to breaking every taboo in his code of proper alpha behavior tonight?
“What’s next?”
“Reproductive health. Which, if handled appropriately, has the potential to generate the largest user base. Current units are largely marketed for period cramps. Really basic stuff. I think more specific uses are possible, such as helping C-section incisions heal faster and relieving endometriosis.”
Owen nodded in agreement. “Vibration therapy has long been considered a viable nonsurgical option for endometriosis and a handful of other conditions, but the technology hasn’t caught up to ambition. Yet.”
“Miscarriage is another area where this could be beneficial, especially since—”
Cal’s typing came to an abrupt halt. His head dropped, hair falling forward, but not fast enough to mask the force with which he swallowed back an unidentifiable emotion.
“Keep going,” he said in a low, tight voice, enunciating the words with great care, the tendons in his neck taut yet brittle.
Half-sibling, I remembered with sudden clarity. The superficial glibness in Cal’s voice that afternoon outside the football stadium. He’d only mentioned his pack mother, Anya. Not a biological mother. Had something happened to her, something related to childbirth?
I’d hurt someone—hurt Cal. Without meaning to. Again.
Would I never break this curse?
“What about omega-specific conditions?” Owen’s question diverted my troubled thoughts.
“Pre-heat cramps and pain, of course. It might also be a good source of comfort if someone is riding out a heat solo and physical intimacy is lacking. Empty nest syndrome, so to speak.”
“Isn’t that term more commonly applied following the departure of offspring?” Owen asked.
Cal gave a hoarse grunt. “Why not both?”
I stepped in before Owen could reply, not wanting Cal’s mood to worsen, steering the conversation away from children altogether.
“I also think it might be useful for panic attacks or situations with high stress—like playoff games. Or surviving the in-laws.”
Owen’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “I don’t see the relevance.”
“There isn’t any,” I said with forced lightness. “But it’d be nice to have something to help my omega father chill out other than wine. He doesn’t get along with one of my grandmothers. It just so happens she’s the one whose pack lives closest.”
Cal looked up—at last—offering me a sweet but unsteady grin. “Seven grandkids to keep up with, and she still finds time to fuss with your dad?”
“Omegas are territorial,” I said with a shrug, unable to resist returning his smile. “And they both consider the kitchen to be their territory. Thanksgiving is fine. The real bloodbaths happen during birthdays. And sporting events. Can’t believe we made it through the year with quarterly seven-layer dip standoffs.”
“I would have loved that. Seven-layer dip is a weakness of mine.” Cal spotted the server heading our way and moved his phone to the side in anticipation, the tip of his left ring finger resting against my pinky for three whole heartbeats.
“Who was the ultimate victor?” Owen asked, unfurling his napkin with a quick flick of his wrist.
“I’m an impartial judge.”
“Which means it’s your grandma.” Cal beamed at me, fisting his knife and fork like an excited child, more than ready to dig into his food. “Good to know—for future reference.”