Thirty-Six – Owen
Thirty-Six
Owen
P recise, robotic execution—the ideal state.
I didn’t register the blustery wind cutting across the bay as the marathon route wound through campus or the uneven gait of my nearest competitor. My course was set. Breathing synchronized with each stride, carrying me forward with purpose—a solo voyager with unmatched potential and a clear mind.
There was no time to lament falling off my training schedule or having to settle for the half-marathon distance. The peculiar tightness in my left leg didn’t matter, either. My head was devoid of distracting thoughts and mental to-do lists.
I existed to run. The road was my sole companion. No distractions. Only pure performance.
Then, an abrupt curve came. Several runners slowed, creating a minor pile-up, and the sudden shift triggered a spasm in my left calf. I should have taken Wyatt up on his offer to train together. Consistent treadmill sessions would have kept me in better shape rather than waiting for the rare days I had the luxury of running outdoors.
Regaining my alignment took longer than I cared to admit, never quite as deep in the zone as the earlier part of the race. Even so, my pace was steady, my feet sure, as Millwright Memorial Stadium came into view. The course circled the stadium’s perimeter, leading to the finish line.
Powering through the final half mile felt glorious. Packed spectator stands lined the home stretch, greeting the runners with rapturous applause. Banners displaying sponsor logos—Redwing, the Belcrest Organization, and so forth—hung in the air. Near the finish line, an energetic individual wearing a Captain Tusker costume jumped around with wild abandon.
My time could have been better. The twitch in my calf verged on becoming a cramp. But I made it.
I slowed to a brisk walk, accepting a bottle of water and a towel as I tried to ease the tightness in my leg. The crowd of exhausted runners shuffled forward, moving away from the finish line in a sluggish procession.
As I neared the vast white medical tent, a short woman wearing a Northport cap and a neon staff vest labeled Physician approached me, eyes fixed on my irksome calf.
“That could use some ice.” Her voice was clinical, almost detached—and I recognized it at once.
Morgan.
She looked up, eyes widening the merest fraction of an inch behind her sunglasses. At least the surprise was mutual. Her hair was shorter and darker than before, a deeper shade of plum that muted the burgundy undertones.
“Didn’t know you were running today.” She fell in step beside me. “Pain on a scale of one to ten?”
“Mild three,” I replied, waving away her concern. “Nothing that requires assistance. Just need to walk it off.”
“At least eat something. I have it on good authority the bananas and chocolate milk are outstanding.”
I shot her a withering glare. Morgan, unfazed, flashed a brief half-smile and nodded toward an approaching pair of women pushing a double stroller. Identical toddler girls—each wearing a sunhat and tiny sunglasses, gripping a bottle of chocolate milk—kicked their feet and called for Morgan.
“My nieces are snack connoisseurs,” she said with evident affection.
Neither woman resembled the Van Daal siblings I’d encountered thus far, but the taller of the two, wearing a runner’s bib, seemed more likely. Her dark textured curls were cropped short, highlighting the strong planes of her light brown face.
Her mate, by contrast, had a softer, more maternal warmth, with a pink-tipped ponytail and charming eyes.
“Is this him?” the taller woman asked, steering the stroller into my path and giving me a judgmental once-over. “The infamous pheromone stud.”
I stopped short, tweaking my sore calf, and turned to Morgan. Delight radiated out of every sweat-soaked pore. Cal would never live this down.
The rosy pink of Morgan’s embarrassed flush paired almost too well with her new hair color, a striking contrast to the sharpness in her amber gaze as she glared over the rims of her sunglasses.
“No, Audra, this is Owen Redmond. He’s one of my supervisors—”
“Her neighbor,” I interrupted, extending my hand.
“Audra Van Daal.”
Her grip was firm, matching mine with equal force. A clear indicator of a kindred spirit who had as little patience for nonsense as I did. Her pheromones, a blend of sensible bamboo and subtle cardamom, reinforced my positive first impression. Well worth the scent exchange.
“I’m Holly,” said her mate with a wave, sending a faint cloud of diluted violet in my direction. A beta. “And these are our girls, Liv and Cece. The rest of our pack is around here somewhere.”
“Olivia and Cecilia,” Morgan said under her breath as if apologizing for the childish pet versions of her nieces’ names.
Given the tawny hue of their complexions, Audra was the likelier candidate for biological mother.
Audra’s attention remained fixed on me. “You work for the university?”
“No, Redwing BioTech. Vice president for technology research and development.”
“I see.” Her critical gaze shifted to Morgan, both brows arching up as if demanding an explanation for why she hadn’t heard about me in advance.
Morgan side-stepped the silent question, saying, “Audra’s a pack and family law attorney—”
An ear-splitting squeal from one of the girls made Morgan wince.
A well-built man with tight coils of black hair and askin tone similar to Audra’s stepped in, scooping up the child and tossing her twice into the air before turning his piercing green eyes on me.
His scent was pervasive, yet oddly insubstantial. Sandalwood mixed with something richer and nuttier than coffee, with an off-putting caramel cream undernote. How could an alpha’s scent manage to be bland and unbalanced?
“This him—the pheromone stud?” he asked, his tone as direct as his stare.
Morgan let her head fall back as she tried to stifle a sigh. “Allow me to introduce Ethan, my older brother. You can tell he’s Audra’s twin by their matching lack of manners. ”
So, this was Ethan, the menace lurking behind Wyatt’s discord with Morgan. I was inclined to share my brother’s poor opinion of him. He projected a degree of dominance his alpha couldn’t back up.
Ethan looked at Audra, still swinging the little girl about. “So, it’s not him?”
“Apparently not,” Audra replied.
“Excuse us.” Morgan pinched the corner of my runner’s bib and gave it a firm tug, guiding me around the stroller and away from her siblings. “Go finish your cool down. Eat something. Ice when you get home. Let me know if—”
“Tell me,” I cut in, “what’s the latest update from your pheromone stud ?”
Morgan pursed her lips and took a sharp breath through her nose. A delightful crack in her polished facade. She could endure hours of executive-level interrogation without flinching. Yet, a few teasing remarks about Cal ignited her inner spitfire.
“Still at the hospital,” Morgan said.
“But they’ve stabilized Charles?” His grandfather suffered a cardiac event late last night.
“Yes, for the time being.”
I glanced over my shoulder, unsurprised that the Van Daal twins were still surveilling me. “You told your family about Cal?”
“No.” Morgan channeled her irritation into fussing with her hat and tucking her windswept hair behind her ears. “They already knew about him from work. My siblings like to gossip. The fact that we’re dating is a secret from everyone he doesn’t trust, which is basically your pack—and Kelsey.”
I nodded, though I couldn’t help but remain skeptical of their relationship. The timing, at the very least, was problematic. Nor could I comprehend being so enamored with another person that it overruled common sense and made the risk seem justifiable.
No. That wasn’t the entire truth.
It was hard not to appreciate Morgan. She had charged into near-freezing rain to rescue Alijah without a second thought for her own well-being, then pulled him back together with even more skill than Joaquin.
She also held her own against my aunt during a forty-five-minute interrogation disguised as a conversation.
And she’d already booked an appointment for Wyatt with Cal before I could even think of requesting a house call—though I suspected Wyatt was so enthralled with her that it had manifested as a pheromone disorder.
Not that Wyatt would ever answer a direct question about what his bloodwork had revealed. At least his condition had improved of late.
Yes, Morgan had a perplexing ability to disrupt my pack by being herself. A stoic yet persistent force who refused to back down from even the most daunting challenges, who gradually enticed you to accept that her perspective wasn’t just valid, it was the only logical way to think.
Even I wasn’t immune.
After all, Morgan’s tenacious arguments had breathed new life into PheroPass. With every email and well-cited rebuttal, she reminded me why I wanted to work for Redwing in the first place. Thoughtful innovation could change lives—but only if you fought for it.
I’d forgotten that. My need for results and promotions had dulled my idealism. Now that we’d filed the pack registration and secured a permanent residence, I could afford to ease up. To reevaluate my priorities.
But did said priorities include courting an omega?
While Joaquin’s hypothesis about Morgan’s suitability for our pack wasn’t as meritless as I’d first thought, we had nothing material to offer her.
And that’s what I found most unsettling about Morgan Van Daal—she already had everything.
A coveted spot in the state’s best medical fellowship program, financial stability, a supportive family, an enduring athletic legacy, understated fame, and undeniable beauty.
What could a pack offer her by way of enticement?
Her health was the only facet of her life that could be described as lacking. But even then, she had the resources to afford the best care. If her condition ever deteriorated, I doubted she’d have any trouble maintaining her current standard of living. After all, her income wasn’t tied solely to her medical career.
Wiping the sweat off my forehead with the Redwing-branded towel, I realized something. She had a second vulnerability: professional stability.
That was something I could remedy—but would she consider giving up sports medicine for designation bioscience?
The thought of working alongside Morgan, day in and day out, challenging each other, pushing each other to excel, striving for the same goal—to help others—scratched an unexpected, almost desirous part of my brain. One I hadn’t even known existed.
“If you’re planning to back out of the ballet gala,” she said as we walked, redirecting my errant thoughts, “can you not wait until the last minute? ”
“I don’t follow,” I said, taking a sip of water.
“Why am I not surprised?” Morgan rolled her eyes and let out a belabored sigh. “Ask Joaquin. He’s the brains behind this misadventure—and the one who signed you up for it.”
The sour aftertaste in my mouth had nothing to do with the water. “Is my presence unwelcome?”
“Quite the opposite. The table cost ten thousand dollars, so I want to make sure there’s a body in every seat.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That seems…excessive.”
“It’s the cheapest package,” she said, in a matter-of-fact way that belied how often she spent thousands of dollars rather than tens or hundreds. “And the only one where the MC doesn’t thank you by name, hence the appeal.”
She pulled out her phone to check the time, then glanced over her shoulder, gauging how far she’d strayed from the medical tent. Morgan paused, angling the brim of her hat to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun with her hand as she looked up at me.
“Let me know if you change your mind. And ice your calf.”
“Yes.” I hesitated for half a beat, wondering why I hadn’t refused her invitation outright. Perhaps I was too taken with the confidence woven into her skin—or distracted by the idea rapidly taking shape inside my head. “Yes, I will.”
If the key to locking Morgan in my professional sphere was to keep her busy with PheroPass, then it made perfect sense to propose the women’s gymnastics program for our second round of data collection.
And even if we couldn’t present Morgan with a formal courting offer until July, nothing prohibited me from making her a more lucrative offer in the interim. Adding the role of Special Consultant to Redwing BioTech to her CV should bolster her job prospects.
A call to Aunt Tabitha was in order—as soon as I dealt with this cramp.