Page 29 of My Freshman Mate
I smile against his warm skin. "I'm not brave. I'm just… organized."
His chest rumbles with a low laugh.
***
Friday morning is cold and bright. We walk across campus hand-in-hand, a united front. Wes is in a dark navy suit that makes him look older, more serious than I’ve ever seen him. I’m in my best slacks and a button-down, my laptop bag slung over my shoulder, full of our ammunition. We look serious. Ready. Like we're in this together.
"Nervous?" Wes asks, his hand a warm weight around mine.
"Terrified," I admit. "But ready."
He squeezes my fingers. "Me too."
Nash and his father are waiting on the steps of the administration building, their expensive suits and smug expressions a clear sign they think this is already over. Nash’s eyes find mine, and a slow, cruel smile spreads across his face. He thinks he’s already won.
We'll see about that.
The hearing room is intimidating, set up like a small courtroom. A long table for the disciplinary board faces two smaller tables—one for us, one for them. The board files in, five faculty members led by the Dean of Students, a woman with steel-gray hair and eyes that don’t miss a thing.
"Let's begin," she says, her voice sharp and clear. "We're here to address a serious violation of the student code of conduct regarding an incident of physical violence in the university library." She looks from our table to Nash's. "Who would like to speak first?"
I feel Wes’s whole body tense beside me, ready to stand up, ready to take the fall just like he promised his coach. Before he can open his mouth, before he can sacrifice himself, I stand up, my grip tightening on his hand under the table.
"I will," I say, my voice ringing out, steady and clear, despite the frantic triple-time rhythm of my heart.
Wes
My heart fucking stops.
Braiden's voice rings through the hearing room, clear and steady, like he does this shit for a living. I'm frozen in my seat, my hand still half-raised, my whole body coiled to stand up and take the fall. But my omega—my brilliant, unexpected, magnificent omega—is already on his feet.
The board members exchange surprised glances. Nash's father leans over to whisper something in his son's ear, but Nash just smirks, like this is the most entertaining thing he's seen all day. He thinks this is going to be easy. He thinks my omega is going to crumble.
He has no idea what's coming.
"Mr. Kelly, is it?" The Dean peers at Braiden over her reading glasses. "You understand we're here to discuss the physical altercation between Mr. Chambers and Mr. Livingston?"
"Yes, ma'am." Braiden's voice doesn't waver. "And I'm here to explain why that happened."
I stare up at him, my throat tight with a mix of pride and raw terror. This is not the same kid who crashed into me clutching acampus map. This is someone else entirely—someone with steel in his spine and fire in his eyes.
"Very well." The Dean gestures for him to continue. "The board will hear your statement."
Braiden opens his laptop with steady hands. He's wearing the watch I bought him last week—a simple, elegant timepiece that looks like it was forged for his slender wrist. Seeing it there, a small piece of me on him while he goes into battle for us, grounds me.
"On September 12th at approximately 4:30 PM, I was in the northwest corner of the library's third floor." Braiden's voice is measured, precise. "I was cornered by Nash Livingston and two of his teammates. Mr. Livingston physically restrained me, grabbed me by the neck, and forcibly scent-marked me against my will."
A murmur ripples through the room. One of the board members—an omega woman with sharp eyes—visibly flinches.
"That's a lie," Nash interjects, but his father places a warning hand on his arm.
The Dean silences him with a sharp look. "Mr. Livingston, you'll have your turn. Please continue, Mr. Kelly."
Braiden doesn't even acknowledge him. He keeps going, laying out what happened with a clinical precision that somehow makes it even more horrifying.
"Mr. Livingston explicitly threatened me. He stated that this was a 'message' for Wes, that I was 'only safe because he says so,' and that 'he can't protect me all the time.'" Braiden's voice remains steady, but I can see the slight tremble in his hands. I want to stand up, to go to him, to put myself between him and Nash's toxic glare, but I force myself to stay seated. This is his fight.
"This wasn't an isolated incident," Braiden continues, clicking through his laptop. "Mr. Livingston has a documented history of harassment and intimidation."
