Page 139 of Altius
You’re a jerk, you know that?
I’d be willing to overlook your stunted communication skills if you gave one single shit about your packmates. But you don’t. You smother people with what you think they want until they forgive you.
I bet you only filed pack registration paperwork because Joaquin was two weeks away from leaving.
Sprung for a fancy-ass loft because you thought it’d shut Alijah up. Maybe it did.
The tactic worked on me with research papers. Once. But I’m not biting again.
I don’t trust you. Cal might. Joaquin might. But I don’t. Does Wyatt? I’ll have to ask. There must be some reason he’s resisted falling in line for so many years.
Tossing my phone into the cupholder, I increased the speed, trying to outrun my gathering rage.
I had no reason to be this upset.
Alijah and I weren’t dating, nor was I responsible for bridging the divide between Wyatt and his brother.
Pack Redmond wasn’t mine. We weren’t romantically involved. At best, they were casual flings. And that’s how I wanted it to stay.
How itneededto stay.
Cal was a reliable risk, and Wyatt an irresistible one. I trusted they wouldn’t sink my fellowship. At least, not on purpose.
To be fair, I could say the same for Alijah and Joaquin.
But Owen… Had just fucking texted me back.
Not a morning person. Noted.
Tamping down a snarl, I killed the treadmill and grabbed my phone, rapidly typing out a reply.
You got swindled.
How so?
Trading common sense for bioengineering genius. Not a smart move. It’s rendered you incapable of making anything other than incorrect assumptions outside of a sterile lab environment.
I stand corrected. You abhor mornings entirely.
A stream of mental curses powered me to the elevator at an aggressive clip. Hitting the up button with my elbow, I sent a pointed response.
Alijah—status?
Adequate smothering is an art form. It can’t be rushed.
I entered and deleted the middle finger emoji six times before the elevator arrived.
Lucky bastard.
I took a calming breath, stepped inside, scanned my card, and punched my floor.
Another infuriating text arrived from Owen.
Since you’re suddenly so opposed to my tactics, I don’t need to list you as a contributor to our follow-up study on waning syndrome, do I?
“Asshole, asshole, asshole,” I mumbled, hurrying down the hallway, desperate for the privacy of my room. My temper was about to get the better of me.
It took three shaky swipes before the access card finally worked. Diving onto the bed, I found blessed, pillowy relief—and screamed like a banshee until my voice gave out.
