Page 12 of My Freshman Mate
I'm proud as fuck. I did that. I made him feel that way. My omega is satisfied, content, safe in my arms.
"You should shower," I tell him, running a hand down his sweat-slick back. "I'll make us breakfast."
He opens his eyes then, looking up at me with surprise. "You cook?"
I chuckle, the sound rumbling through my chest. "I can handle eggs and toast. I'm not completely useless off the field."
That gets a true smile from him, one that transforms his entire face. Fuck, he's beautiful when he smiles. I want to see that every day for the rest of my life.
"Okay," he agrees, sitting up with a slight wince. "A shower sounds amazing."
I watch him climb out of bed, my eyes following every movement. He's slim but not skinny, with a wiry strength that I can feel when he's under me. His ass is perfect, round and firm, marked with faint red handprints from where I gripped him.
He pauses at the bathroom door, his shoulders hunching slightly under my gaze. "What?" he asks, his cheeks flushing.
"Just looking at what's mine."
His blush deepens, but he doesn't look away. There's something new in his eyes—a confidence that wasn't there yesterday. He likes being wanted. Being seen.
"I'll be quick," he promises, then disappears into the bathroom.
I wait until I hear the shower running before I get out of bed. I pull on a pair of basketball shorts and head to the kitchen, my mind already planning the day ahead. I need to call my coach, explain the situation. I need to contact campus housing about getting Braiden's things moved here. I need to—
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, interrupting my thoughts. I grab it, expecting it to be Coach, but the name on the screen makes my blood run cold.
Nash.
The Northwood State linebacker. My rival since high school. The dirtiest player in the conference, known for late hits and "accidental" injuries. The only person who's ever come close to ending my career with a tackle that was blatantly targeting my knee.
I open the text, and everything inside me freezes.
It's a photo of Braiden from yesterday, looking lost and vulnerable, clutching his campus map. His eyes are wide, his expression uncertain. He looks small. Breakable. Alone.
The text below the photo reads:
See you brought some fresh meat to campus, Chambers. Try not to lose him before our first game.
Something shifts inside me, hard and cold and dangerous. I go from warm and satisfied to ice-cold rage in a heartbeat. My vision sharpens. My muscles lock.
This isn't just trash talk. This is a threat. To my mate. To my omega.
My fingers tighten around the phone until I hear the case crack. Part of me wants to throw it through the fucking window. Another part wants to call Nash right now and tell him exactly how I'll end him if he comes near Braiden. Instead, I force myself to set it down before I break it completely. My mind goes razor sharp, like those last seconds of a tied game when everything slows down and gets clear.
Nash saw Braiden. He noticed him. He took a fuckingpictureof him. And now he's letting me know that he knows my weakness. That he has a target.
A growl starts deep in my chest, the kind of sound I've never made before—something ancient and deadly. My need to protect him, already running hot since claiming him, goes through the roof.
I need to keep him safe. I need to keep him close. Those fishbowl dorms with their paper-thin walls and communal bathrooms, other alphas walking by his door all day, smelling him, thinking for one second they had a chance—no fucking way. Not now. Not with Nash watching. Not with this threat hanging in the air.
The shower shuts off, and I hear Braiden moving around in the bathroom. I force myself to breathe, to push down the rage enough that I won't scare him. He doesn't need to know about Nash's text. Not yet. He's got enough to adjust to without adding that fear on top of it all.
But he does need to understand that some things aren't negotiable. His safety is my priority now. My responsibility. My right.
I hear the bathroom door open, and I turn to see Braiden standing there, wrapped in one of my towels. It's too big for him, making him look even smaller, more vulnerable. His hair is damp and tousled, his skin pink from the hot water. The claiming mark on his neck stands out starkly against his pale skin, a vivid reminder of what we are to each other.
He looks so soft, so clean. And here I am thinking about ripping Nash apart with my bare hands.
He gives me a small, shy smile. "Okay, I'm ready for those eggs you promised."
