CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Reese
The concealer isn't working.
I dab another layer over Jackson's bite mark, wincing at the tender skin. Four days since he claimed me in that tangle of limbs and heat with Eli. Four days since Gray discovered it and our carefully constructed team dynamic shattered like glass.
My phone buzzes with another message in the group chat. I've been watching them pile up all morning while getting ready for class.
Zane: anyone seen Reese? she missed breakfast
Bo: Give her space, Z
Beckett: she's probably just avoiding the testosterone parade
Tyler: At this rate, we'll be lucky if we can even field a boat by Saturday
Eli: Not helpful, Ty
Jackson: She's fine. Saw her heading to the library last night
Cameron: anyone else notice Gray hasn't said shit in here for days?
Zane: yeah that's not ominous at all
Gray's silence speaks louder than any of their messages. The captain who orchestrates every detail of our lives has gone radio silent since Sunday's confrontation. After Jackson claimed me. After everything fell apart.
I adjust my scarf higher, checking my reflection one more time.
The mark throbs beneath the makeup, a constant reminder of how monumentally we've screwed up.
Not that I regret it—God, I can still feel Jackson's teeth sinking into my neck, Eli's hands on my skin, that moment of perfect rightness before reality crashed back in.
But Gray's fury, the team fracturing, the way they can barely look at each other now...
My phone buzzes again. A DM this time.
Bo: You okay, sugar? Haven't seen you since Sunday. Getting worried.
I type back quickly: Fine. Just need space to think. See you at practice.
Another buzz.
Jackson: Stop hiding. It's done. Can't change it now.
Typical Jackson. Blunt and unapologetic. Three days ago I'd have been annoyed. Now, claimed by him, I feel the pull even through a text. My body responds to just seeing his name on my screen, warmth spreading through my chest.
I grab my bag and head out, grateful for the early morning quiet in the dorms. Most students are either in class or still sleeping off their Tuesday night adventures. Less chance of running into—
"Reese!"
Quinton Whitmore's voice carries across the quad, warm and friendly. I slow, actually grateful for a distraction from my spiraling thoughts. He jogs to catch up, flashing that easy smile that probably works on everyone.
"Missed you in study group yesterday," he says, falling into step beside me. "Professor Hawthorne actually made a joke about his star student playing hooky. I think he might have a crush."
Despite everything, I find myself almost smiling. "Professor Hawthorne is seventy-three."
"Age is just a number," Quinton grins. "Besides, have you seen how his face lights up when you answer questions? It's adorable."
"Had some team stuff to deal with." The words come out easier than expected. Something about Quinton's casual humor feels like a break from the intensity of the past few days.
"Yeah, rowing season's brutal." He shifts his backpack, genuinely sympathetic. "My lacrosse coach is basically a drill sergeant with mommy issues. Yesterday he made us run suicides until someone puked. Guess who won that honor?"
"You?"
"My rookie defender. Kid turned green like a cartoon character." His laugh is infectious. "But hey, at least your sport has the dignity of boats. We're just running around with sticks like overgrown children."
I actually laugh—small, but real. When was the last time I did that?
"There we go," Quinton says, pleased. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten how to do that."
“What? Smile?”
“Relax.”
"I should get to class." Though honestly, talking to him has been the first normal moment I've had in days.
"Business Strategy started ten minutes ago," he points out with a theatrical wince. "We're both already late. Hawthorne is probably devastated. Might as well walk together and share the shame."
He's right, and somehow his self-deprecating humor makes it easier to nod.
We walk toward the business building, Quinton filling the silence with a story about his roommate's failed attempt to impress a girl by cooking ("Dude set off three smoke alarms making pasta. PASTA, Reese. It was already cooked.")
"You know," Quinton says as we near the building, "I'm glad we're partners on this project. You're the only person in that class who doesn't think 'innovation' means adding an app to something."
"Thanks," I say, and surprisingly, it's only half a lie. Working with someone outside the team drama has been exactly what I needed.
Professor Hawthorne barely glances up when we slip into the lecture hall. The class is discussing supply chain optimization, and for once, I try to focus on something other than pack dynamics and claiming bites.
Halfway through class, Quinton shifts in his seat, casually draping his arm across the back of my chair. It's such a typical college guy move that I almost laugh. Then his fingers accidentally brush my shoulder.
Every claimed instinct screams at the contact. Wrong Alpha. Not pack. Not Jackson. My skin crawls with a biological revulsion that has nothing to do with Quinton himself and everything to do with the mark hidden beneath my scarf.
"You okay?" he whispers, immediately pulling his arm back. "Sorry, didn't mean to crowd you. My last girlfriend said I have no concept of personal space."
"It's fine." The word comes out strangled. I grip my pen harder, trying to focus on the slides.
"No, it's not." He scoots his chair slightly away, giving me more room. "You've been tense all morning. Whatever's going on with your team, it's really messing with you, isn't it?"
The class drags on interminably. Every second of his casual touch feels like betrayal to the mark on my neck, to Jackson who claimed me, to the pack bonds forming despite our best efforts to resist. By the time Professor Hawthorne dismisses us, I'm practically vibrating with the need to escape.
I shoot up from my seat, but Quinton rises with me, his hand finding the small of my back to guide me toward the door. Another casual touch that makes my claimed body want to recoil.
"There's something different about you," he murmurs as we exit into the hallway. "Can't quite put my finger on it."
We step outside, and I immediately see them.
Photos.
Everywhere.
Plastered on the bulletin board by the business building entrance. Taped to the lamp post. Scattered on the ground like confetti.
Two images, printed dozens of times:
The first—me kissing my last boyfriend at Westlake, his hand tangled in my hair, bodies pressed together in obvious intimacy. A photo from before everything went wrong, when I still believed he saw me as more than just another Omega conquest.
The second—me and Gray from that Sunday after Riverside. The photo that someone had left outside my dorm for Jackson to find. The one that came with the note with “YOU’RE MINE” scrawled across the back. The one that clearly showed that me and Gray were something much more than just teammates.
Blood drains from my face. Students are already gathering, picking up photos, whispering behind their hands.
Someone takes a picture with their phone.
This'll be all over campus social media within minutes.
Without context, the pictures paint a very ugly picture of me that gossip channels will salivate over.
"What the hell?" Quinton's voice cracks with genuine shock. He immediately starts ripping photos down, his usual composure completely shattered. "This is—who would—this is so fucked up, Reese."
But I can't move. Can't breathe. It’s a violation, my private moments weaponized for public humiliation. The girl who can't keep her hands off Alphas. The Omega who spreads it around.
"Reese." Quinton's in front of me suddenly, blocking my view of the growing crowd. His hands hover near my face, not quite touching, remembering my flinch from earlier. "Hey, look at me. We need to get you out of here. Now."
He's already steering me away without touching, his body shielding me from curious stares. We cut across the quad, Quinton tearing down every photo we pass with genuine anger. His usual smooth charm is completely gone, replaced by protective fury.
"This is harassment," he says, voice shaking with outrage. "This is—God, Reese, I'm so sorry. This is horrible. We need to report this to campus security."
"No." The word comes out too fast, too desperate. The last thing I need is an official investigation that might uncover everything else—my designation, the team dynamics, Jackson's claim.
"Okay, okay." He guides me toward the lacrosse field, empty at this hour. "No security. But we need to get you somewhere away from all this. Somewhere you can breathe."
We slip under the bleachers into relative privacy, the morning sun casting barred shadows across the grass. Quinton's pacing, running his hands through his usually perfect dark hair, genuinely distressed.
"Who would do this?" He's still clutching the crumpled photos he collected. "This is sick. These are private moments, and someone's been—God, they've been stalking you."
"I don't know." But I have suspicions. Kinsley, who's been escalating her harassment. Andrea from Westlake, who helped orchestrate my downfall there. Or someone else entirely, someone who's been watching longer than I realized.
"The one with that guy..." Quinton looks at the first photo, confused. "That looks old. Like, not from here."
"It's from Westlake. Before I transferred."
"Someone saved a photo of you from another school?" His voice rises. "That's beyond creepy, Reese. That's obsessive."
"And this one with Gray..." He holds up the second photo carefully, like it might hurt me. "This is recent, right?"
"Sunday after Riverside. Someone's been watching us." My voice sounds hollow. "Following the team."
"Following you," he corrects gently. "Reese, this is serious. Someone's obsessed enough to surveil you, to save old photos, to publicly humiliate you. You need help dealing with this."
"I have the team—"
"The team that's obviously going through something major?
" He stops pacing, facing me with genuine concern.
"Reese, I heard your phone blowing up during class. And let me guess–Gray is conspicuously quiet. That guy never shuts up about crew stuff, trying to control every factor around him, until that control starts to fracture. He’s nothing if not predictable.
Whatever's happening with you guys, you're all stressed and distracted. "
The words sting because they're true. The team is barely holding together. Gray won't speak to Jackson. Everyone's choosing sides. And I'm in the middle, claimed by one Alpha while connected to all eight, trying to keep us from completely imploding.
"Look, I can help," Quinton says, sitting down on the grass a respectful distance away. "My dad knows people in campus security. I can make sure they take this seriously but keep it quiet. No deep investigation, just enough to maybe catch whoever's doing this."
"Why would you do that?"
He looks genuinely surprised by the question. "Because we're friends? Or at least, I thought we were becoming friends. And friends don't let friends deal with stalkers alone."
Despite everything, I almost smile at that.
"Just think about it," he says, pulling out his phone. "In the meantime, I'm texting my buddy in buildings and grounds. He'll get these photos cleaned up before noon. Quietly. No questions asked."
As he texts, focused on his phone, I check mine. The team chat has exploded once again.
Zane: WHAT THE FUCK
Zane: WHO DID THIS
Bo: Where's Reese? Someone find her NOW
Tyler: Photos are spreading online. Three Instagram accounts already
Beckett: I'm ripping down every one I find
Cameron: Someone's about to learn what happens when you come for our cox
Eli: Jackson and I are heading to campus security
Jackson: Already here. They want to talk to Reese.
Still nothing from Gray.
"Security wants to see you," Quinton says, looking up from his phone. "But I convinced them to give you an hour. Told them you needed time to process. They agreed to keep it low-key for now."
"Thank you." And I mean it. His help feels genuine, uncomplicated.
"Reese." His voice is gentle but serious. "I know we're not close friends or anything. But watching someone go through this alone would be fucked up. So whatever you need—a distraction, someone to vent to who's not wrapped up in team drama, whatever—I'm here."
"I appreciate that."
"Good." He stands, brushing grass off his jeans. "Come on. Let's get you some decent coffee and figure out next steps. You can stay outside and I’ll grab it. My treat."
As we walk, I catch sight of more photos being torn down by strangers, by teammates, by people I don't even know. My humiliation turned into public spectacle, my private moments transformed into weapons.
Someone wants to destroy me.
The question is whether they'll take down my entire team in the process.