Chapter 5 Kit
KIT
The silence after "make me" lasts four seconds.
I know because I count them, each one stretching long enough for Easton to watch the hunger drain out of my expression and the horror flood in behind it.
My face is doing something I didn't authorize and I can feel the heat of it burning across my cheeks, my neck, and the tips of my ears where the blush always goes last and stays longest.
He saw it. He saw the whole thing, and now he's sitting three feet away from me with his elbows on the table and his eyes locked on mine and I need to do something before this moment calcifies into something he can use against me in every hallway for the rest of the semester.
I pull every scrap of composure I have left and when I open my mouth, what comes out is cold and clipped and nothing like the sound I almost made five seconds ago.
"Get me a coffee. Black, no sugar. And whatever the most expensive pastry is.
" The word ‘please’ sits on the edge of my tongue but I swallow it back. This evening is about making my bully do whatever I tell him until I’m ready to go to bed.
Easton holds my gaze for a beat, then settles back in his chair with his legs stretched out beneath the table, one arm draped over the back of the empty chair beside him. "Please," he says.
"Excuse me?"
"You forgot to say please. Didn't your mother teach you manners, Kit?"
This is the kind of banter I’m used to with Easton and I grab onto it with both hands.
"My mother taught me not to waste thirty-five hundred dollars on lost causes, and yet here I am.
Get the coffee. Now." Part of the Omega in me bristles at the command, my body trying to relent and submit to the Alpha in front of me but I shoved that down so I can see this play out.
He stands, the motion slow enough to be insulting. I have to tip my head back to follow his face and the size difference registers in my body before my brain can intercept it, heat pooling in my stomach as I cross my legs tighter.
"Black, no sugar," he repeats, looking down at me. "Most expensive pastry. Anything else?"
"Your dignity, if you can find it."
The corner of his mouth twitches before he turns toward the cafe counter.
The barista straightens up when Easton approaches, their expression shifting from half-asleep to fully alert, the movement so immediate it's almost funny.
Almost. It would be funnier if I didn't do the exact same thing every time he walks into a room.
He takes his time, leaning against the counter while waiting for the order, saying something to the barista that makes them laugh, and I sit here watching him charm a stranger while I'm supposed to be the one in control of this evening.
My revenge plan has a timeline and a structure and itemized tasks, and Easton is treating the whole thing like a coffee date he showed up to voluntarily.
He comes back with two cups and a slice of chocolate cake that looks like it costs more than my weekly grocery budget.
He sets the coffee in front of me and his fingers brush the back of my hand as he pulls away.
The contact lasts maybe a quarter of a second but my skin lights up and I yank my hand into my lap before the rest of me can respond.
"You got yourself one too," I observe, staring at his cup.
"You said for me to use my money. I figured I'd get my money's worth.
" He drops into the chair directly to my left instead of the one across from me, angling his body so his knee almost touches mine beneath the table.
By the time I register that the distance between us has halved, protesting would make it obvious that the proximity bothers me.
"What's next on the list? You mentioned carrying your bag. I'm assuming that's metaphorical."
"It's literal. My backpack is in the coat check at the gym. You're going to go get it, carry it across campus, and bring it to my dorm."
"Okay."
The lack of resistance throws me. I had scripts prepared for this, retorts for every argument he might make, escalation plans for every refusal. Easton just sips his coffee and watches me with those dark eyes behind his gold frames, giving me absolutely nothing to push against.
He's supposed to snap back so I can snap forward and we can do the thing we always do. Without it, I'm just a person sitting next to another person, and that’s not what I paid for.
"You're supposed to be annoyed," I tell him before I can stop myself.
"Am I?" He sets his cup down and leans forward, which brings his face closer to mine than the seating arrangement already demanded.
His scent thickens in the space between us, bourbon and cedar curling through my lungs until my Omega purrs so loud I'm surprised he can't hear it.
"Is that what this is about? You wanted to piss me off? "
"I wanted to humiliate you." The honesty slips out, my voice a little hoarse as I clench my fists in my lap. "The way you humiliate me. Every day, in front of everyone. I wanted you to know what it feels like to be at someone else's mercy while they smile about it."
Easton goes quiet. His jaw works once, the muscle jumping beneath his beard, before his fingers tighten around his coffee cup and then relaxing. "And is it working?" he asks, his voice lower than before. "Do I look humiliated to you?"
He looks like a man sitting in a chair, drinking coffee, and watching me come apart with him having to do absolutely nothing. "You look like you think this is a joke," I tell him, hating how thin my voice sounds.
"I don't think any of this is a joke, Kit.
" He says it stripped of the smirk and the performance I've come to associate with Easton Cole in front of an audience.
His eyes hold mine and I realize with a lurch that there is no audience.
His teammates aren't flanking him. My friends aren't beside me.
It's just us in a mostly empty building at a corner table that suddenly feels very small.
"I think you spent three thousand five hundred dollars to sit in a room with me and I think you should ask yourself why. "
"Because I hate you."
"That's a lot of money for hate."
"Spite is an investment."
"Spite doesn't make you blush." His gaze drops to my neck, where the pink has been creeping since he sat down next to me. "Spite doesn't change your scent when I get close. And it doesn't make your hands shake when I touch them."
The sharp clever thing that I always have locked and loaded is jammed somewhere between my brain and my mouth.
"Why did you really bid on me?" he asks, quiet enough that the ambient music from the cafe speakers almost swallows it.
"I told you. To make your night miserable."
"Is my night miserable?"
I look at him, walking through all of his features, the laugh still beneath the tight smile, and the sincerity behind his eyes that I’ve never seen up this close. "No," I admit. "Mine is, though."
His expression softens, Easton reaching across the space between us, his hand settling on my knee.
Every rational part of my brain is screaming to slap his hand away, say something vicious, stand up, grab my cake, and walk out.
I’ll just add tonight to the long list of reasons Easton Cole deserves my contempt.
But the less rational part of me has me staying put, Easton’s thumb slowly stroking along the inside of my knee, my entire body going still.
All the chaos in my head silences, everything I've been holding clenched since the hallway this afternoon loosens all at once, a full-body exhale I didn't give permission for.
One look at Easton and he knows exactly what is going through my brain. If my scent wasn’t giving me away, the small gasp that falls through my lips when he squeezes my knee does. Oh god, it does.