Chapter 5 Jionni
Jionni
Professor Albright is talking, something about contrapuntal motion, but her voice sounds distorted.
The whole classroom feels like it's underwater.
Colors are muted. Sounds are dull. Even the sunlight slanting through the big windows seems faded, like someone turned the brightness down on the world.
Everything feels muted without him. I'm staring at my notebook, but the staff paper is blank.
No notes. No melody. Nothing. Just this gnawing emptiness.
Six hours since Toby left my room. Six hours since he walked out wearing my hoodie, smelling like me. His clean, papery scent had mixed with mine, a combination that made my alpha purr with satisfaction. But now, that feeling is gone, and I'm just… hollow.
I touch my cheek absently, the spot where his scent was strongest when I buried my face between his thighs. My fingers come away with nothing but the faint smell of my own skin.
"Mr. Alarie?"
I blink. Professor Albright is staring at me, one eyebrow arched. The whole class is looking. Shit.
"Sorry, what?" I manage.
"I asked if you could identify the counterpoint technique in measure sixteen."
I glance at the empty page in front of me, then at the board. The musical notes swim, meaningless squiggles. I haven't heard a single word she's said.
"I… don't know."
She lets out a long, theatrical sigh, the kind teachers use when they've decided you're a lost cause. "Perhaps if you were paying attention instead of daydreaming, Mr. Alarie, you might have a chance at passing this course."
A few kids in the front row snicker. I don't give a shit. Their laughter is just more distortion.
Normally, I'd have a comeback. Something sarcastic and shitty that would make her regret calling me out. But I can't summon the energy. There's this hollow feeling in my chest I've never felt before. Like I'm missing a part of me I didn't even know existed until yesterday.
When the bell finally rings, I shove my empty notebook into my bag and get the hell out of there. The hallways are a nightmare, a river of bodies and noise. People bump into me, their scents all wrong—too sweet, too floral, too not him. Every accidental touch makes my skin crawl.
What the hell is happening to me?
I need coffee. A lot of it. Maybe the caffeine will burn through this fog.
The Daily Grind is a small cart near the student union, run by a gruff, bearded guy named Marcel who looks like he'd be more at home brewing moonshine. The line is short, thank god. I don't think I can handle a crowd right now.
"The usual?" Marcel asks when I get to the front, not looking up from the espresso machine.
"Yeah. Double shot."
"Rough night?" He glances at me, his eyes taking in the dark circles under mine.
I almost laugh. A rough night doesn't even begin to cover it. A life-altering, world-shattering, terrifying night.
"Something like that," I mutter.
Marcel slides the cup across the counter. "On the house. You look like you need it."
I nod my thanks, surprised. Maybe I look as wrecked as I feel.
I'm about to leave when I hear a voice that makes ice slide down my spine.
"—disruptive influences like Alarie are precisely why we need stricter enforcement of housing policies."
Henderson. That thin, dry voice is unmistakable. He's standing a few feet away, talking to some woman in a university blazer. An administrator.
"He's been written up multiple times," Henderson goes on, his bony fingers gripping a paper cup. "Music at all hours. Complete disregard for community standards. A problem resident, through and through."
The woman nods, her expression sympathetic. "Have you considered disciplinary action?"
"Oh, I'm building a case. One more violation, and I'll have grounds for immediate removal from housing."
I grip my coffee cup so hard the lid pops. Hot liquid sloshes over my fingers. I barely feel the burn.
Henderson turns at the sound. His watery eyes land on me. There's no surprise on his face, just cold, dismissive contempt.
"Mr. Alarie," he says, his thin lips pulling back in something that's supposed to be a smile. "Enjoying your day?"
A growl builds in my throat before I can stop it. My hands clench into fists, coffee forgotten.
Henderson isn't just some annoying asshole with a clipboard anymore. He's a threat. He's trying to mess with my life, my place here. Which means he's messing with my ability to protect Toby.
The woman with him takes a half-step back, her eyes wide, probably wondering if I'm about to lunge.
"Just fine," I say through clenched teeth. "Thanks for your concern."
I force myself to turn and walk away before I do something I can't take back, like smashing Henderson's smug face into the pavement.
I push through the glass doors of the union and back out into the quad, the coffee in my hand forgotten.
I breathe in the fresh air, but it does nothing to cool the furnace in my chest.
My alpha is screaming at me, the same raw words on a loop: protect him, find him, claim him. Henderson isn't just coming for me. He's coming for what's mine. For who's mine.
I scan the quad, my eyes sweeping over the crowds of students on the grass, a blur of faces and colors. And then, I see him.
Toby.
He's crossing the lawn, heading for the library.
He's still wearing my hoodie, the dark gray fabric swallowing his lean frame.
Even from a distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's hunched over, trying to make himself invisible.
Seeing him in my clothes makes my gut clench with possessiveness, but that feeling is quickly choked by a surge of white-hot rage.
He looks haunted. Stressed. And an instinct I didn't know I had, a vicious, primal thing, screams: Protect him. The fury I felt toward Henderson suddenly has a name. It's not just anger; it's the rage of knowing a threat got too close to what's mine. To him.
I don't call out. I just follow, my eyes locked on him. He's a beacon in the crowd, pulling me forward with a tether I couldn't break if I tried.
The library is a huge stone building, all columns and grand stairs. A temple to all the rules I hate. Of course this is where he'd go. I take the steps two at a time, slipping through the heavy doors just before they swing shut behind him.
Inside, it's cool and quiet. It smells like old books and furniture polish. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust. Toby is already disappearing down a long aisle, his steps quick. I follow, keeping my distance, tracking him through the maze of shelves.
He turns into an aisle marked "Philosophy." I slow down. This section is dead, tucked away on the third floor. Perfect.
When I round the corner, he's standing with his back to me, his fingers tracing the spines of old leather-bound books. He hasn't heard me. I take a second just to watch him, to drink in the sight of him.
He's beautiful in a way I never saw before yesterday. How he stands so straight, how his hands move so carefully, the way his neck curves into the collar of my hoodie. Knowing what's under there—my marks on his skin, how he blushed when I touched him—makes my mouth go dry.
"Hiding from me?"
He jumps, spinning around. He's clutching a book to his chest like a shield. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, and for a split second, I see pure want there before he tries to hide it.
"Jionni," he says. My name on his lips makes something tight in my chest loosen. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you." I take a step forward. He takes one back.
"I told you I needed space. Time to think."
"And I'm giving you space." I take another step. He takes another, his back hitting the bookshelf. Trapped. "I'm all the way over here."
"This isn't funny," he whispers, looking nervously down the empty aisle. "Someone could see us."
"No one's here." I close the distance, planting a hand on the shelf next to his head, caging him in. "Just you and me."
He swallows hard, and I watch his throat move. "Jionni, please. I've been thinking about this all day, and I really think we need to establish some professional boundaries. What happened was… intense, but we need to be rational. My position as an RA—"
"Stop." I press my finger to his lips, cutting him off. His mouth is soft, warm. "Just stop thinking for one second."
His eyes are huge, dark pools behind the wire rims. I can see the pulse hammering in his throat. I can smell him—that sweet, anxious scent rising to meet me, calling to me.
"Found you," I say, stepping closer.
Before he can argue, I slide my hand into his hair, my fingers tangling in the soft, neat strands. I fist my hand and tug his head to the side, baring the long, pale line of his neck. He gasps, the book tumbling from his hands and landing with a soft thud on the carpet.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck and inhale, dragging his scent deep into my lungs.
It's him—clean linen and fresh paper—mixed with the faint smell of my own hoodie.
But it's not enough. It's contaminated. I can smell the dusty library, Henderson's cheap, bitter cologne, the sharp tang of his own anxiety. It's all wrong.
"You don't smell like mine anymore," I growl against his skin. "You smell like books and fear. Let's fix that."
His hands come up to my chest, pushing weakly. "Jionni, someone could come—"
"Let them." I drag my nose along the column of his throat, a rough, desperate scrape of skin against skin.
I'm not just smelling him; I'm erasing everything else, scrubbing away the scent of this building and Henderson's bullshit with my own.
I need him to smell right again. "Let them see who you belong to. "
"We can't—I have responsibilities—Henderson said—"
I shut him up with my mouth, swallowing his protests.
I pour all my frustration, all my rage at Henderson, all my desperate need for him into the kiss, biting his bottom lip just to feel him gasp.
I use the opening to slide my tongue inside, tasting him.
He tastes like coffee and fear and the sweetest surrender.
Mine. The word isn't just a thought anymore; it's a physical need, a command my body has to obey.
For a second, he stays rigid, fighting it. Then, with a soft whimper that goes straight to my dick, he melts. His hands, which had been pushing me away, fist in the front of my shirt, clinging to me.
I press him harder against the books, my body molding to his. My hand stays tangled in his hair, holding his head right where I want it. My other hand slides down his chest and presses flat over his heart. It's hammering like a trapped bird.
When I finally pull back for air, we're both breathing hard. His glasses are crooked, his lips are swollen and red. He looks completely wrecked. Completely claimed. My alpha purrs.
"Tell me you don't want this," I challenge him, my voice rough. "Tell me you want me to walk away and leave you alone."
He closes his eyes, a pained look on his face. "I can't."
"Can't what?" I press. I need to hear it.
"I can't stop thinking about you." He admits it like it hurts to say, raw and honest. "I've tried. All day. I can't focus. I can't think straight. It's like you're under my skin."
Victory is hot and sweet in my veins. "That's because I am. And you're under mine."
I lean in again, softer this time, pressing my forehead against his. "I don't know what this is either, Toby. I've spent my whole life running from this shit. My parents—" I stop. "But I'm not running from you. This is the only thing that's ever felt real."
"It's not that simple," he whispers, but his voice is shaky, losing its conviction. "My job—"
"We'll figure it out," I growl.
Voices echo from the end of the aisle. Toby stiffens, his eyes flying wide with panic.
"I have to go," he whispers, shoving at my chest again.
I want to hold him here. I want to take him against these philosophy books until he forgets all about Henderson and his stupid rules. But the fear in his eyes is real, and I won't be the one to get him fired.
Not yet.
I step back, putting a few feet of space between us just as two girls round the corner, talking about some psych class. They barely look at us before moving on.
Toby lets out a shaky breath. He bends down to pick up the book he dropped, his hands trembling. "This is exactly what I'm talking about," he hisses when they're gone. "We can't—it's too risky."
I watch him straighten his glasses, smooth down my hoodie, trying to put his armor back on. But he can't hide the flush on his cheeks or the way his pupils are still blown wide.
He's mine. He just needs to accept it.
"I have to go," he says again, clutching the book to his chest. "I have a floor meeting at seven, and then rounds, and—"
"And after that?" I interrupt.
He blinks. "What?"
"After your rounds. After you've checked all the boxes and followed all the rules. Where will you go?"
He hesitates. In that small pause, I see the truth. He wants to come back to me. He's just too scared to say it.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my dorm key.
"I'll be waiting," I say, holding it out to him.
He just stares at the key like it's a snake. "Jionni…"
"Take it."
For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, slowly, he reaches out. His fingers brush against mine as he takes the key. The brief touch is electric, a jolt that reminds me of how it felt to have those fingers digging into my skin, tangled in my hair.
"This doesn't mean—" he starts.
"It means exactly what we both know it means," I cut him off, my voice low and certain. "Keep telling yourself this is about rules, Toby. We both know you'll be back."
He doesn't deny it. He can't. His fingers close around the key, hiding it in his fist.
I lean in one last time, my mouth brushing against his ear. "Come to me tonight," I whisper, the words a promise and a command. "We're not done."