Thirty – Cal
Thirty
Cal
C hoppy waves struck the retaining wall along the waterside path behind the Rhine Fieldhouse. I sat on a bench beneath a canopy of vibrant foliage, nursing a cup of coffee while reviewing Wyatt’s test results on my phone. Not the typical Thursday morning consultation Morgan probably had in mind when she booked the appointment, but Wyatt’s case demanded special attention.
“Hey, Cal.” Wyatt jogged over, wearing sunglasses and his customary gym shorts, as if his desert-born blood was impervious to the fall chill.
As much as I hated to admit it, I was envious that he still had two good knees. Jogging was out of the question for me, even on the best days.
He slowed to a stop, resting his hands on his hips as he caught his breath. His gaze followed thepath until it disappeared around the bend, where the first glimpse of downtown came into view.
“Want to walk and talk,” he asked, always a man of action, “or stay here?”
“Up to you.”
Wyatt glanced over his shoulder, tensing as a group of girls approached from behind. Despite several days on a moderate-strength scent blocker, a faint whiff of pheromones leaked out.
“Let’s walk,” he said. “Have a ton of nervous energy to burn off.”
After draining my coffee, I chucked the cup into a nearby trash can and stood, slipping my phone into my back pocket.
“Don’t worry too much,” I said, falling into step beside Wyatt as we headed east toward the far edge of campus. “I have a pretty good idea of what’s going on, but I still need to ask a few more questions. And they’re a little…different.”
Wyatt glanced up at me with a furrowed brow. “How so?”
“They’re a little more personal than you might be used to, but anything you say stays between us. I’m your designation counselor until you tell me otherwise. Okay?”
I paused, waiting to take another step until he responded. Wyatt eventually gave a reluctant nod.
“Good,” I said. “So, first question—are you still having trouble sleeping?”
“Kind of,” he admitted hesitantly. As if the dark circles beneath his eyes weren’t obvious. “Some nights are worse than others.”
“What about your appetite? Any changes there—or an increase in nausea?”
“I—I don’t think so. Never eat well in the run-up to gymnastics season.”
“What about aches and pains?”
“Back’s sore most days. Wake up with a crick in the neck, stuff like that. But I’ve had worse.”Wyatt’s gaze hardened behind his sunglasses, doubt creeping into his tone. “Still don’t get what this has to do with my pheromones going haywire.”
“Well, they’re not an isolated issue,” I explained, keeping my tone measured. “It’s a symptom of a larger problem. Our systems are interconnected. When one part gets thrown off, it can impact everything else.” My gaze drifted to the mouth of the Wittara River as it flowed into the bay. Tolliver Yards was faintly visible in the distance. “Even the smallest ripple can make waves.”
Wyatt kicked a loose rock, sending it skittering down the path. “I’m not a metaphor guy.”
“Fair enough.” I continued walking with feigned relaxation. “Have you ever encountered someone with an unusually compelling or memorable scent signature? One that you found almost irresistible?”
“No … ” The furrow between his brows deepened. “Not recently.”
“But you have in the past?” I asked, keeping my tone calm and free of judgment.
He hesitated, then balked, charging a few steps ahead, shoulders hunched around his ears. “Why does it matter?”
“Trust me, it matters. A lot.” I quickened my pace.
Wyatt’s speed was no match for the length of my stride, and I stepped in front of him before he could create too much distance .
“Be honest with me. It’s important.” Changing back to a more professional approach, careful not to push too hard, I asked, “When did it happen?”
Wyatt paused, rolling his shoulders, and forced the words through his clenched jaw with a wince. “Ten years ago.”
For once, I found no satisfaction in being right. “And you only started experiencing the pheromone spikes after you moved?”
“Yes.” His voice was quiet, almost defeated.
“Because you encountered the individual with the compatible pheromones again, didn’t you?”
The silence that followed was heavy, taut with emotion—the culmination of years of hesitation and endless regrets. But I had to press on.
“And the spikes only happen in two specific locations. First, near the Rhine Fieldhouse. And second, around Tolliver Yards. Because she also frequents those places. And no matter how desperately your alpha tries to catch her attention, pumping out more and more pheromones, she never responds. Does she?”
Wyatt took a series of deep breaths, no doubt reeling from the sting of having such a deeply held secret exposed to the cold air. “Don’t tell her.”
“I’m your doctor,” I replied firmly. “Ethically and legally bound to confidentiality. But you do understand what this means, don’t you?”
When he shook his head, it took every ounce of my willpower not to swear. I should have seen this coming. Despite being an alpha herself, Nadine Redmond had done a number on her sons. Wyatt didn’t even trust his instincts enough to recognize what Morgan was to him—his literal other half.
“She’s your scent match.”
“No— no .” He sliced a hand through the air, a futile gesture of desperation. But nothing could stop the machinations of primitive nature set in motion a decade ago. “There’s no way. It’s impossible.”
“Statistically improbable,” I corrected, adjusting my glasses. “But not impossible.”
“But how ?” Disbelief dripped from his wounded voice. “It’s been ten year s. I never got sick before, never lost control of my pheromones, and I had—” His breath hitched. “I had a life.”
“A life without any serious relationships and, if I may be so bold, ruts you eventually preferred to handle solo.”
Wyatt glowered at me, neck tensed to twice its usual size, massive arms shaking despite being locked against his ribs. He was holding himself together by a thread, likely fighting the impulse to slam a fist into my chin.
“God damn it.”
He charged a few steps away, only to turn back and repeat the motion, pacing like a caged animal. Bitter pheromones filled the air, reeking of heartbreak, overpowering the briny salt whipping off the bay.
“Did—did I make her sick, too?”
“Waning syndrome isn’t contagious.”
He froze mid-step, tearing off his sunglasses and locking eyes with me. His trembling hand rose, pointing an accusatory finger at my chest, but he was careful not to make contact. Taking a stand without challenging me for dominance.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“You’re in the early stages of mate waning syndrome,” I said, hating how detached I sounded.
But I couldn’t yell at him for being an idiot, for leaving her alone during the darkest days of her life, when I would have given anything—done anything—to stay by her side. To spare her even an ounce of suffering. It wouldn’t be fair. I didn’t have all the facts, nor were our circumstances growing up even remotely similar.
But waning syndrome was a multi-headed beast, and it would devour them both if I didn’t get Wyatt’s symptoms under control fast. I would never allow Morgan to end up like my mother.
“The elevated counts in your blood panels, the lack of appetite, weight loss, high blood pressure, insomnia, and muscle pain… It all checks out.”
Brushing some errant hair out of my face, I delivered the final piece of bad news. “I can already tell you’ll need a stronger dose of blockers—and you’ll likely continue to need stronger doses moving forward. Because you’ve got the worst scent corruption I’ve ever seen.”
Wyatt stared at the restless waves, fingers gnarled in his long hair. “When does it get better?”
“It doesn’t. Unless you and Morgan bond. Or…”
“Fuck. Fuck!” Wyatt spun and bolted down the path, his movements frantic, running as though his life depended on it.
An apt reaction, all things considered.
The fact that he and Morgan had managed to remain apart for a decade without severe medical consequences was nothing short of a miracle. Perhaps their similarly stubborn nature had offered some protection, ensuring they prioritized everything else before themselves—helping patients, coaching athletes, attending seminars, job-hunting, and so forth.
There was no room to pine for a lost scent match when work always came first.
Her anosmia may also be something of an unsung hero in all this. It had kept her omega in a state of semi-hibernation, shielding her from all but the most intense yearning.
At the same time, her lack of response to Wyatt’s pheromones had sent his alpha into overdrive, pushing his body to produce such unhealthy levels of pheromones that it demanded medical intervention before his symptoms became debilitating.
I caught up to Wyatt at a scenic overlook at the far end of the trail, on a rocky outcrop jutting into the bay. The spot was a favorite among students for late-night parties—where Joaquin and I had gotten Owen hammered for the first time in his life many moons ago.
Back then, twenty-year-old me had no idea I was destined to change little Redmond’s life in a far less pleasant way, trading darker secrets among these same craggy rocks.
Wyatt sat atop a weathered picnic table, elbows braced against his knees and his head buried in his hands. I stopped a few feet away, my thumbs hooked in my pockets, resting my weight on my heels, and tried to enjoy the fleeting fall sunshine.
There was no rush. He needed time, and I was acutely aware I’d just upended his entire life.
After several minutes, Wyatt finally sat up, ran a hand through his mussed hair, then tightly crossed his arms. I wasn’t sure whether it was an attempt at self-soothing or to ward against more uncomfortable truths.
“So… Now what?”
“While your case isn’t as cut and dry as we’d hoped, it’s early. It’s treatable. And I will tackle this with you every step of the way.”
“I don’t want her to suffer.” The threats in his red-rimmed eyes were anything but silent. “And just so we’re clear—I’m serious about her.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.” I leaned against the side of the table and bent down until our eyes were level. Unleashing just enough dominance to leave him no choice but to take me seriously, I said, “I care about you. Not just because you’re my patient or my friend’s brother. You’re important to Morgan and keeping you around is essential to her long-term happiness. So, let’s work together. To get you healthy. And secure a future with her.” I extended my hand. “Agreed?”
Wyatt’s gaze flicked between my hand and face, an internal battle playing out across his features. The ingrained Redmond instinct to act against their best interests was strong, but his desire for Morgan was stronger.
Good sense won out in the end—even though his grip was half-hearted, at best. “I’ll try.”
***
Joaquin’s favorite dive bar was perched precariously on the edge of the old fisherman’s wharf upriver, a ramshackle time capsule where neon signs jostled for elbow room with mounted fish. The residue of stale beer and a thousand bad decisions coated the walls.
My friend leaned back in the booth, one arm draped across the cracked leather, his beer held casually in the other hand.
“You’re lucky I like you,” Joaquin mused with a menacing smirk between sips of beer. “Really fucking lucky.”
He’d supposedly invited me out for drinks to clear the air, but rather than extending an olive branch, he’d been beating me with a verbal switch for half an hour. Granted, I deserved some righteous indignation for my secrecy regarding Morgan—but only a little. Not this relentless, ham-fisted bludgeoning.
“Look, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t know Morgan was so enmeshed with your pack.” I flagged down our server, ordering another round of drinks and a second basket of fried calamari, the best thing on the menu, hands down. “Genuinely thought Wyatt was the only one I had to worry about.”
“Well, that explains it.” He leaned across the table, half-snarling, lips peeled back to reveal his sharp white teeth. “You think we’re competition. That Alijah and I will get in your way.”
I fought the urge to evade his scrutiny, refusing to cede ground.
“Competition?” I kept my voice steady, shaking my head. “No—that’s not what I think. At all.”
Ignoring the feral edge to his gaze, I addressed what he was most concerned about—his mate.
“I knew Alijah was sweet on her but thought it was more of a workplace crush. If I’d known he—no, both of you—were interested in dating her, we’d have had this talk much sooner.”
“That’s why you didn’t say anything?” His beer hit the chipped tabletop with more force than necessary, drawing more than one eye in our direction. “Not buying it. You’re not a fucking Redmond, you know how to pick up a phone and say, ‘Hey, guess what, I’ve got it bad for the hot omega doctor.’ Don’t you, Charles ?”
“Phones work both ways,” I said carefully, then drained the last of my beer, the bottle clinking hollowly as I set it down. “Besides, there was nothing to say. She turned me down. Twice. We’re not together. And I can’t complain about it.” I toyed with the damp cardboard coaster. “Because it’s not my career that would suffer if we got found out. The university wouldn’t touch me because I’m a Carling, and their link to Redwing.”
Exhaling deeply, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the sticky table, and spelled everything out for Joaquin. “Wyatt also has ties to Redwing—plus he’s an alpha. They wouldn’t do more than slap him on the wrist. Alijah would probably get shuffled to a different department. But Morgan—”
“Ugh.” Joaquin tipped his head against the back of the booth. “You’re starting to sound like Owen.”
“Oh?” I blinked at him in genuine surprise. “How so?”
“Asked for permission to court her.” He methodically cracked his knuckles one by one. “Said no, obviously, even though I did get him to admit she’s pretty much his perfect woman. But yeah, said if any of us made a move before her fellowship ends, she’d be out on her ass.”
“More or less,” I said, nodding in agreement as I dug a nail into the side of the coaster, peeling off the sodden top layer to obscure the bar’s logo. “They wouldn’t terminate her fellowship, but they’d definitely find a dark, quiet basement office somewhere—far away from all of us—where she’d do nothing more than copy The Ladylike Omega’s Guide to Grace and Etiquette until the end of July.”
“Bullshit,” Joaquin spat, his disgust evident. “I mean the book title, not that they wouldn’t do it.”
“Oh, it’s totally real.” As the server returned with our drinks, I pulled out my phone, did a quick search, and turned the screen to him, revealing a prissy pink cover adorned with lace detailing. “My sisters read it to me when I was a kid.”
Morgan had pegged me correctly. I was the lone baby boy after four girls, three of whom were omegas. But unlike Heather, my other omega half-sisters weren't biologically related to Chaz. They also had the good sense to mate well and put our family behind them.
Joaquin sneered at the screen. “Thank fuck, my family never had the money to torture my sisters the way yours did.” He returned my phone with a dismissive flick, the sarcasm in his voice biting, and reached for his fresh beer. “And Chaz wonders why they’ve all gone low contact, even though he treats the one daughter desperate for his approval like trash.”
I set my phone down on the table and met his gaze, deciding it was time to come clean about the pall my family still cast over my personal life. “Heather’s the other reason I’ve never mentioned Morgan. I trust you guys—implicitly. But Anya got on Morgan’s case already, and that was just for having a business dinner with Owen.”
Yeah, dinner and a searing kiss, followed by swift rejection. But we could omit that for the time being.
“The last thing Morgan needs,” I continued, “is for Heather to approach her in a parking lot. Like she did to Talia after her promotion. Unfounded rumors ruin omegas.”
Thankfully, my deputy administrator was a badass beta with a sense of humor—and a pair of hulking twin alpha hockey players for mates. She shut Heather down with one sentence. Even Owen needed two to tell her where to shove it.
If only Heather didn’t have great kids and a decent pack, I wouldn’t hesitate to cut ties for good.
Joaquin shoved his shaggy hair out of his face, visibly irritated—not at me this time, but on my behalf. Still, that didn’t mean I was out of his crosshairs.
“You should’ve followed the original plan and joined the pack when Spencer turned twenty-one.”
“I probably should have, but I still don’t want to make waves until after Grandfather passes.”
Joaquin’s laugh was dark, tinged with morbid amusement. “You sure y’all are paying for the best cardiologists? They gave him months to live, what, eight or nine years ago?” He took a sip and flashed a wicked yet oddly understanding grin. “But I get where you’re coming from. If you showed up to Thanksgiving with a top-tier omega like Morgan on your arm, the shock might just kill the old bastard.”
“I won’t drink to that... But I will admit you have a point.”
We shared a good laugh, which worked like a pressure valve, allowing Joaquin to mellow out. The acrid spice in his peppery scent eased, but not enough to erase the lingering hint of disappointment.
“Have you gone off the thought of joining us and just don’t want to admit it?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual despite the caginess in his eyes.
“I don’t know.” I focused on the ruined coaster, peeling away another strip of cardboard rather than meet his gaze. “I’m not sure Morgan’s interested in a pack, Joaquin. Asked her about it once. Didn’t seem sold on the idea.”
He snickered into his drink, shaking his head. “Nah, she’s too much of a family-friendly babe not to want one. I think she’s just resistant to wants.”
Joaquin was insightful, but I hadn’t expected him to have such a clear read on Morgan. I was curious if our observations aligned.
“What makes you say that?”
“You don’t develop a game face like hers because you don’t care. It’s because you care too much but don’t want other people to know.” Joaquin let out a raspy chuckle. “She wanted to win every time she competed—but she could never let on. Heaven forbid an omega admit to being a competitive little demon hungry for more gold medals.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Can you imagine having to triage every single word that comes out of your mouth for designation-correctness? That’s gotta get old.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“But it’s this.” He tapped the corner of his eye. “Her gaze gives her away. It’s too focused sometimes. Too fiery. Almost spiteful. There’s a lot that woman doesn’t say. Probably even more that she doesn’t do. Her self-control is frankly terrifying.”
Our server returned with the calamari. The aroma was impossible to resist. Indulging in a few piping hot pieces of greasy octopi goodness, I digested his words—and the thrill they sent through me.
Joaquin was serious about Morgan.
“You honestly do like her. And not just because Alijah does.”
“Is it really so hard to believe?” His smile was a masterpiece of predatory triumph. “My babe’s the best, and he only gets the best. It should go without saying that Morgan is also the best. Of course, I like her.” Shifting closer, he lowered his voice. His dark gaze was as intense as it was scheming. “And I want her—for us. All of us. The dream team: you, me, Alijah, Wyatt, and Owen.”
“I said something similar to Wyatt.” My voice came out quieter than I’d expected, almost breathless, as a disarmingly clear vision of the future knocked me sideways—the future I wanted desperately.
The six of us, together. Gathered in her living room after a football game, the crackling fireplace and easy laughter warming the air. Alijah perched on the arm of the couch, excitedly showing off his photos of the winning touchdown while Joaquin lounged nearby, showering him with praise while absentmindedly teasing the cats. Owen sitting in the reading chair, sharing an intriguing insight from PheroPass. My fingers caressed Morgan’s knee, a quiet claim, while Wyatt’s strong hands worked the tension from her shoulders.
And Morgan, at the heart of it all, her amber eyes glowing with adoration as she looked at each of us in turn, her unguarded smile full of contentment.
Joaquin took a long swig of beer, then planted his elbows on the table and unleashed an almost alarming amount of devilish determination.
“So, let’s do it—get our girl, and nail down this pack. Starting at the housewarming.” He ticked off each point on his tattooed fingers. “Make sure she always has a drink. One of us is always by her side, dazzling her with our wits, charms, and all the seductive trimmings. And you and I? We’re getting cleaned up.” He gestured to our respective unkempt heads of hair. “And after that, be helpful neighbors. Kiss-up to Kelsey, take out their trash, walk her to her car in the morning. Hell, I bet you and Alijah can find a ton of ways to slip her snacks or drinks at work.”
He angled the neck of his beer bottle toward me, eyes rank with mischief.
“A full-court press, or whatever the football term is.”
I chuckled, raising my bottle to clink against his. “That’s basketball.”
He delivered a swift kick to my shin under the table.
“I received a summons to family dinner the night of your housewarming,” I said, laughing as I discreetly rubbed my leg. “Can you hold down the fort until nine or so?”
Joaquin bristled, raising a hand to his chest in exaggerated offense. “Are you doubting my prowess?”
“No,” I said, trying my best not to smile. “But between Alijah, Tabitha, her pack, the guests—”
“No need to worry.” Joaquin popped a piece of fried calamari into his mouth. “Wyatt will help, too.”
I raised a brow, unable to hide my surprise. “Not Alijah?”
“He’s…” Joaquin scratched his head, searching for the right words. His hesitation only deepened my confusion. Alijah had always been so awestruck by Morgan. How could there possibly be problems between them? “There’s a lot on his plate right now. And he’s still processing the news that Morgan’s, uh, kind of a real estate mogul. And don’t tell me you already knew.”
“Well,” I drawled, shoving my glasses up my nose with a smug flourish, unable to hide my glee at knowing Morgan better than my friends—and future fellow paramours. “There is a sign in the lobby—”
“Shut up about the fucking lobby.” Pepper burned my nostrils as Joaquin’s earlier ill-will flared back to life. “Don’t forget, I’m still pissed at you and Wyatt for keeping secrets. ”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I said, casually dipping a piece of calamari into marinara sauce. “You old nag.”
Joaquin raised his brows in mock challenge, his toothsome smile razor-sharp. “Keep it up, tubby.”
And with that, we slid into the more enjoyable portion of the evening—tipsy bickering, punctuated with playful insults and plenty of plotting about our favorite omega.