Page 6 of My Defiant Mate
I pull the comforter over his bare shoulder. I stare at the sleeping omega in my bed as a single thought cuts through the haze of sex and instinct.
For the first time in my life, the constant, angry noise in my head is quiet. There's just him, just us, and the absolute, terrifying certainty that everything has changed forever.
Toby
My first thought is that the bed is all wrong.
Too soft. The sheets are tangled around my legs, and the pillow under my head smells like… not my detergent.
It smells like coffee and something darker, something that makes my stomach flip with recognition.
My eyes snap open and the world lurches into focus, my stomach churning with it. This isn't my room, with its neat stacks of books and color-coded schedule pinned to the wall. This is a den of chaos. Band posters peeling at the edges. Clothes piled on a chair. A guitar leaning against a desk buried under sheet music and what looks like a half-empty ashtray.
An arm is draped over my waist. A heavy, muscular, tattooed arm, holding me possessively even in sleep.
Oh god. Oh no.
The memory hits me. Not a slow trickle, but a flood, demolishing the last shreds of sleep. The noise complaint. The door swinging open. The scent—that impossible, undeniable scent that hijacked my brain and body.
Mate.
I shift, just a fraction of an inch, and a deep, pleasant soreness pulses from between my legs, a dull ache in my muscles that's both memory and warning. I feel the evidence of what happened—what Ilethappen—in every nerve ending.
What have I done?
Jionni makes a low sound behind me, a contented rumble in his chest. His arm tightens, pulling me flush against his warm, solid body. His scent is everywhere, a thick, comforting blanket that my omega instincts want to sink into and never leave.
Safe. Home. Mine.
No. This isn't safe. This is a five-alarm fire, and I'm standing at ground zero holding the match. This is my job, my scholarship—everything I've worked for. And I threw it away for one night.
I have to get out of here. Now.
Carefully, I slide my leg out from under his, my movements slow and deliberate. I lift his heavy arm, my fingers brushing over the inked lines of a raven in flight, and gently place it on the mattress. The cool air of the room hits my bare skin, raising a thousand tiny goosebumps. I stand beside the bed, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs, and watch him.
He doesn't stir. He just rolls onto his back with a soft sigh, his dark curls a wild mess against the pillow, his face relaxed in sleep. He looks younger like this. Less like a storm and more like the quiet that comes after.
I have to look away. I scan the floor for my clothes. My khakis are a crumpled heap by the door. My boxers are tangled in the sheets. And my shirt…
My button-down is torn to shreds, buttons scattered across the floorboards. I pick it up, the ripped fabric a limp, pathetic thing in my hands. It's ruined. It's just a shirt. But looking at it, ripped apart like that…
I catch my reflection in the dusty mirror on his closet door and almost choke.
I look… branded. Wrecked. My hair, usually so neat, is a tangled mess. My lips are swollen. And my neck—dark, possessive marks cover my neck, an obvious, unmistakable proof that I belong to someone. The worst is the one at the base, where my neck meets my shoulder. A perfect, bruising bite mark.
Evidence.
I touch it, wincing. This isn't just breaking a rule—it's wearing the evidence for everyone to see. Head Resident Henderson would only need one look.
Henderson. I shiver at the name. I can see his face, that satisfied smirk he'd have while destroying everything I've worked for. He'd enjoy it. I can hear his voice, dry as dead leaves.Relationships between RAs and residents are strictly prohibited, Mr. Song-Gi. I expected better from you.
And then what? The call home. The shame. My father's quiet resignation, the way he'd nod and say it was okay even when it wasn't. My mother's tears, the ones she'd try to hide.
All because I couldn't keep it together when a shirtless alpha opened his door. Five minutes. That's all it took to wreck everything.
My hands are shaking as I pull on my khakis. The rough fabric scrapes against skin that feels overly sensitized, and a strange pang of loss hits me so hard it makes me pause. I'm putting on my armor, my uniform of responsibility. I'm erasing him. A part of me, a deep, instinctual part I didn't know existed until last night, rebels against the act. It feels wrong to cover the marks, to hide the scent, to pretend that the man in that bed isn't the center of my new universe.
I need to get out. I need to think, to plan, to figure out how to fix this.
