Chapter 4 Toby
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 I let happen—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.
I don't bother with my boxers. I just need to get back to my room, hide, hope no one sees me—
"Where are you going?"
The voice is low and gravelly with sleep. I freeze, the ruined shirt clutched to my chest like a shield. I turn.
Jionni is propped on one elbow, his hooded eyes watching me.
The sheet has slipped to his waist, revealing the intricate ink on his torso, the lean lines of his stomach.
His gaze is still soft with sleep, but it sharpens as he takes in my stance, my clothes, the panic I know is written all over my face.
"I have to go. This was a—"
I can't say it. Mistake. My body says it wasn't a mistake. I'm still buzzing with how good it felt.
"A what?" He sits up, the sheet pooling at his hips. He's completely unashamed of his nakedness. "A regret?"
"A violation," I force out. "Of university policy. My job. My—"
"What feels right?" he cuts me off. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. "Because it felt right, Toby. Don't you dare stand there and tell me it didn't."
He starts walking toward me, and I should back up. I should turn and run. But my feet are glued to the floor. My body betrays me, leaning toward him, craving his heat, his scent.
"That's not the point," I whisper, hating how weak I sound. "The point is, I'm your RA. I'm supposed to—"
"Enforce rules that don't mean a damn thing compared to this?" He's in front of me now, so close I have to crane my neck to look up at him.
His expression softens, and it's worse than the anger. He reaches out and gently takes the ruined shirt from my hands, tossing it onto the chair.
"I get it," he says. "You're scared. But running away won't change anything."
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek.
The touch is so gentle it makes me want to cry.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my neck.
His thumb brushes over the bite mark, and I can't stop the full-body shiver that goes through me.
"Sorry I marked you up," he says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all. "But you're too perfect not to."
I should pull away. I should tell him this is over before it even begins. But then his lips replace his thumb, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to the bruised skin, and my resolve shatters into a million pieces.
"Jionni," I breathe, a plea and a protest all in one.
"Let me," he whispers against my skin, his breath warm. "Just let me show you."
His mouth is hot, his tongue a soothing balm as it traces the marks he left.
It's a deliberate, possessive claiming, a reassertion of the ownership he took last night.
His hands slide down to my waist, holding me steady as he slowly sinks to his knees in front of me, his eyes never leaving mine.
The grace in the movement makes my breath catch.
"My perfect omega," he murmurs, his lips brushing against the waistband of my khakis. "So good for me."
His fingers find the button, the zipper, and I know I should stop him. We need to talk. We need a plan. But his mouth is so close, and my cock is already hard, already aching.
My brain is screaming a thousand warnings. But my body, my traitorous omega body, is only screaming one word: More.
"We shouldn't," I manage, but my hands are already in his hair, my fingers curling into the soft, dark strands.
He looks up at me, his gray eyes dark with a desire so potent it feels like a physical force. "Tell me to stop, Toby. Say the word, and I will."
I can't. The word is lodged in my throat. As terrified as I am, the thought of him stopping is infinitely worse.
A slow, knowing smile touches his lips. "That's what I thought."
He tugs my khakis down my legs, and I step out of them without thinking, leaving me naked and exposed in the gray morning light slanting through his blinds.
"Look at you." His hand wraps around the base of my cock, his thumb stroking the sensitive underside. I gasp, my hips twitching forward. "So responsive."
Then his mouth is on me, and thought becomes impossible.
The heat of his mouth is a shock against my skin, wet and impossibly soft. A low sound escapes my throat, half-moan, half-sob, and my head thunks back against the cool, unforgiving wall. My hands, acting on their own, fist in his hair, holding on for dear life.
This isn't like last night. Last night was a storm, a primal claiming born of shock and instinct.
This is worship. He's slow, methodical, learning my body with his mouth.
His tongue traces the length of me, a lazy, deliberate lap that makes my hips jerk.
He hums against me, a low, pleased rumble that vibrates straight up my spine, and he takes me deeper.
His hands aren't idle; they slide to my ass, fingers digging into the flesh, lifting me, tilting me to give him better access.
He owns me in this moment, and I am terrifyingly okay with it.
He licks and sucks with a focused intensity that makes me feel like I'm the only thing that exists in his world.
He finds the sensitive vein along the underside, worrying it with his teeth just enough to make me gasp his name.
He swirls his tongue around the head, slick and rough at once, and a pathetic whimper escapes my lips.
"So good," he murmurs against my skin. "You taste like you were made for me, Toby. Sweet and perfect."