Chapter 3 Wes
Wes
I'm leaning against a pillar, scrolling through my phone.
Bored as fuck. Coach's voice is still ringing in my ears.
Show your face, Chambers. Good for team morale.
Right. Morale. The noise in my head—the constant, buzzing static that's followed me for years—won't shut up.
It's the sound of nothing meaning a goddamn thing.
Another game, another party, another empty hookup. It's all noise.
Then a scent slams into me—old books, sharp anxiety, and sweet, sweet omega—and my whole world freezes.
The buzz in my head cuts out. Dead silence.
In that split second, there's nothing. Then a roar hits me, a physical shockwave like I'm standing under a waterfall. My body wakes up at once, hungry and howling.
A kid—a skinny, dark-haired omega with wide brown eyes that look a little lost—crashes straight into my chest.
And everything fucking stops.
Papers fly everywhere. He stumbles back, stammering an apology, but the words are sounds.
I'm not listening. I'm watching the way his pulse jumps in the delicate skin of his throat, a frantic little bird beating against a cage.
I'm watching the perfect bow of his lips as they form words I can't hear over the thunder in my own blood.
"I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I—"
His voice finally registers, a soft, nervous melody that makes my skin prickle with heat. He's looking up at me—way up—and I watch the exact moment recognition dawns in those deep, mahogany-brown eyes. His pupils blow wide. His breath catches in his chest. He knows. He fucking knows.
My alpha, the part of me that's been sleeping my whole life, rears up with a single, deafening snarl that echoes in my soul.
Mine.
The word isn't a thought; it's a physical command. An ache starts low in my gut and spreads, tightening my balls, making my teeth ache with the overwhelming urge to bite down on the soft skin of his neck and leave a mark that will never fade.
My teammates are yelling something from across the quad.
Someone's calling my name. It's all a million miles away.
Meaningless. The only thing that matters is the omega right in front of me, staring up with those deer-in-headlights eyes, his scent wrapping around me, sinking into me, claiming me as much as I'm about to claim him.
"I—I'm late for my advising session," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I have to go."
A growl rumbles in my chest, low and dangerous. No. The thought is absolute. He's not going anywhere. Ever.
I don't move. I can't. Moving would mean letting him out of my sight, and the thought is more terrifying than anything I've ever known.
I stare, drinking him in. He's slender but not fragile, with a wiry strength under his rumpled button-down that I can already imagine straining under my hands.
His black hair falls across his forehead, a silky mess that makes my fingers itch to fist in it.
There's intelligence in those eyes. A fierce determination, even though he's scared shitless.
Perfect. He's so fucking perfect it hurts.
"I really need to—"
I close the distance between us in one silent step.
He flinches, a tiny, aborted movement that sends a wave of possessive heat crashing through me.
His scent spikes—books and sharp anxiety and something sweet underneath that is purely him, a scent made for me.
I tower over him, and a deep, primal satisfaction hums in my blood at the size difference.
My body could shield his entirely. Hide him from the world. Keep him safe from everyone but me.
"You smell like mine," I growl, the words ripped from somewhere deep and instinctual, a place that doesn't use manners.
His eyes widen. His breath quickens, and I can hear the frantic, uneven beat of his heart. I want to press my palm flat against his chest to feel it.
My voice drops to a low command that leaves no room for argument. "Forget the tour. You're with me now."
I reach out, my hand closing around his slender wrist. His skin is soft, warm, electric.
His pulse hammers against my thumb, a wild, frantic rhythm that matches my own.
He doesn't pull away. He can't. We both know it.
A dark, ugly part of me wants him to try, just so I can show him how pointless it is.
"But my advising session—" he tries again, his voice weaker this time, already laced with surrender.
"Later."
I bend down, my eyes never leaving his, and gather the scattered papers with my free hand. I never let go of his wrist. I stuff them into his leather satchel and sling it over my own shoulder. It feels right. Mine to carry. Mine to protect.
"What's your name?" I ask, though it doesn't really matter. He could be called anything. He's still mine.
"Braiden," his voice is small but steady. "Braiden Kelly."
Braiden. It rolls around in my head, tasting right. Smart-sounding. Precise. My Braiden.
"Wes Chambers," I say, though I'm sure he already knows.
Everyone on campus knows who I am. The star quarterback.
The campus king. It's always felt hollow before, a title for a game I didn't care about.
Now, for the first time, I want him to know exactly who's claiming him. I want my name branded on his tongue.
"I know who you are," he confirms, a slight tremble in his voice.
Good.
I slide my hand from his wrist to his lower back, my fingers splaying possessively over the curve of his hip.
I guide him firmly against my side, tucking him into my body.
The contact sends a jolt of pure lightning up my arm.
He fits perfectly against me, like a piece of myself I didn't even know was missing slotting into place.
"Where are we going?" His feet stumble a little to keep up with my longer strides.
"My place."
He makes a small, choked sound, a little gasp of air that makes my dick stir. "Your—I can't just—we just met!"
I stop walking, turning to look down at him. His face is flushed, a beautiful, high color on his cheeks. Those brown eyes are wide with panic and something else. Something deeper. The same raw, undeniable need that's clawing at my insides.
I take another step, closing the space completely. "You feel it too." It's not a question. It's a fact.
He swallows hard, and I track the movement of his throat with hungry eyes.
"That's not the point," he argues, but his voice is thin, his protest weak. "This isn't normal. You can't just—"
"This is the only way it's ever worked," I cut him off, my voice rough with impatience. "For us. The rest is just noise."
A group of freshmen passes by, their curious eyes lingering on us.
On him. On my hand gripping his hip. My arm tightens around his waist on instinct, pulling him until he's plastered to my side.
A low growl builds in my chest, a warning I don't even have to think about, and the students quickly look away, hurrying past as if they've felt the heat from a fire.
"You're scaring them," Braiden murmurs into my t-shirt.
"Good."
We start walking again, and I'm hyper-aware of everything about him.
The way his body trembles slightly against mine.
The sound of his hitched breaths. The wiry strength in his frame that feels fragile and perfect under my hand.
The campus is crawling with students, all of them moving in their own little bubbles, completely fucking oblivious that the entire universe has just shifted on its axis.
How can they not feel it? The world is different now.
Sharper. Like I've been seeing everything through dirty glass until this moment.
"Yo, Chambers!"
I glance up, my jaw tightening as I see Tommy, our wide receiver, jogging toward us.
He's grinning, that same stupid, easy grin he always has, but today it grates on my last nerve.
The scent of another alpha, even a familiar one, getting this close to Braiden makes my blood run hot.
I want to rip his fucking throat out for just looking.
"Coach said you'd be here." Tommy's grin falters as his eyes drift to Braiden, tucked against my side. His nostrils flare slightly as he catches the scent. "Oh. Shit. Is this—"
My voice is flat and cold. "Mine." It's the only word that matters.
Tommy's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, but he has the good sense to take a full step back, raising his hands in surrender. "Right. Got it. Loud and clear. I'll, uh, tell the guys you're busy."
"Do that."
Tommy retreats, already pulling out his phone. By dinner, the entire team will know. By tomorrow, the whole campus. Good. Let them all fucking know. This omega is taken. Off the market. Forever.
Braiden is quiet as we continue walking, but I can feel the tension vibrating through his body.
His scent shifts, anxiety spiking with notes of confusion and a deep, unwilling arousal that makes my cock throb.
He's fighting it. Fighting us. The stubborn set of his jaw makes something hot and possessive coil deep inside me.
I want to break that stubbornness. I want to taste his surrender.
He plants his feet, his voice suddenly stronger. "I have a plan. I can't just—this isn't—"
We reach the edge of campus. My apartment is just across the street, a luxury building my parents insisted on when I got the football scholarship.
"No son of ours is living in those glorified shoeboxes they call dorms," my dad had said.
For once, I'm glad my dad's so damn stubborn.
There's no way I'm letting my omega stay in some paper-thin dorm where any other alpha could walk by, catch his scent, and think for one fucking second he had a chance. The thought alone makes me see red.
"This is crazy," Braiden mutters, but he doesn't resist as I guide him across the street. "We don't know each other. We don't know anything about each other."