Page 21 of My Freshman Mate
Sam checks his watch and yelps. "Chem lab! Professor Chen locks the door on the hour." He scribbles his number on a piece of paper. "Text me if you want to grab coffee. Or if you just want to complain about alphas."
"I will," I promise.
He vanishes into the stacks, leaving me in the peaceful quiet. I sink into a chair, feeling unexpectedly light. I made a friend. An actual friend. I pull out my textbook, the words pulling me in, and for the first time all day, I'm me again—Braiden with his highlighters and sticky notes.
My phone buzzes, ripping me from my academic bubble. It's Wes.
Practice running late. Wait at the library. I'll come get you when I'm done.
I stare at his message, irritation bubbling up.Wait for him?Like I'm some helpless kid who can't cross campus alone? Imanaged eighteen years without a Wes Chambers escort, for God's sake. My omega side practically purrs at the thought of him coming for me, but another, older part of me bristles. The part that fought for every A, that earned my scholarship, that built my entire life brick by careful brick.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I type back:
Don't worry about it. I'll just meet you at the apartment later. I'm fine on my own.
My finger hovers over the send button. It's just a text, but damn, it feels like planting a flag. I'm still me. I can do things on my own. I hit send.
His response is immediate:
Braiden. Wait for me.
That period at the end is a command. The low growl behind the words is a palpable threat, a warning that makes my skin prickle. But the stubborn, independent part of me digs its heels in. This is important. He needs to know I'm not just some possession to be managed.
I'll be careful. Promise. See you at home soon.
I shove my phone deep in my pocket before I can change my mind, before the alpha in him can order me again. My stomach churns, guilt and defiance wrestling inside me. This is good, I tell myself. Healthy. We need boundaries.
I try to read, but the words blur. My concentration is shot. After ten more minutes of staring at the same paragraph, I give up. I'll go home—ourhome—and make dinner. A peace offering. Proof that my independence doesn't threaten what we have.
I pack my things and stand, stretching. The library has emptied out, the quiet shifting from peaceful to oppressive. Ihead back into the stacks, trying to retrace my steps, but the towering shelves all look the same. One wrong turn leads to another, and soon I'm hopelessly lost in a labyrinth of books.
Great. Perfect. Lost again—the running theme of my Westbridge experience.
I turn a corner into a section on constitutional law, the air thick with the smell of old paper and dust. The lights are dimmer here, casting long, distorted shadows that play tricks on my eyes.
The hairs on my neck stand up, a primal warning screamingdanger.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echo from the next aisle over. Coming my way. My heart hammers against my ribs. I turn to go back the way I came, but a figure steps out from between the stacks, blocking my path.
He's a mountain. Taller than Wes, broader, with a neck like a tree trunk and a thin white scar slicing through his left eyebrow. A Northwood State t-shirt strains across his massive chest. The scent hits me a second later—alpha, but not like Wes's clean lightning strike. This is aggressive, sour, a calculated invasion of my space. My body takes an involuntary step back.
"Well, well," he rumbles, his voice crawling over my skin like something with too many legs. "If it isn't Chambers' little toy."
Two more alphas appear behind him, flanking him like wolves. Same Northwood shirts. Same predatory sneers.
"Excuse me," I say, hating the tremor in my voice. "I need to get past."
The leader—Nash, I realize with a jolt of ice-cold dread—steps forward, closing the distance between us. "I don't think so. Not yet." His eyes crawl over me, lingering on the mark on my neck. "You and I need to have a little chat."
Nash. Wes's rival. The one who sent the text. The reason Wes looks at me sometimes like he's expecting me to shatter.
"I don't have anything to say to you," I say, trying to sound braver than I feel. I step back again until my shoulders hit solid wood. My heart stutters. The bookshelf. I'm trapped.
Nash smiles, a cold baring of teeth. "That's okay. You don't need to talk. Just listen." He's so close now I can smell the sweat on his skin, the stale coffee on his breath. "See, Chambers and I have a history. And he just took something I wanted."
"I'm not athing," I spit out.
He laughs, a harsh, ugly sound. "Cute." He scoffs. "Everything's a game between me and Chambers. The championship last year was mine until he got lucky. And now..." His smile widens as his gaze drops to my neck. "There's you. You were supposed to be mine, too."
