Chapter 8 Braiden
Braiden
The claiming mark on my neck is a constant, pleasant thrum of heat against my skin, a brand that announces to the world that I am his.
I walk into my first Biology lecture, and every head I pass seems to turn.
Noses twitch. Eyes drop to my neck and then widen.
Their thoughts and questions hang in the air.
They're catching the mingled scent of alpha and omega, of sweat and sex and something so uniquely us it has no name. They smell claimed.
The lecture hall is a massive, tiered cavern of faces, and my stomach clenches.
So many eyes. I slide into a seat near the back, pulling out my color-coded notebook and arranging my pens in a neat row.
The familiar ritual is a flimsy shield against the weight of a hundred stares, but it's all I have.
A whirlwind of motion drops into the seat beside me, making me jump.
"That seat taken? Great, thanks!" The words are a rapid-fire burst, leaving no room for a response.
"I'm Sam. You're new, right? I mean, obviously you're a freshman, but you're also, like, newly claimed, and wow, that's a mark, isn't it?
Sorry, I talk too much when I'm nervous, and the first day of classes always makes me nervous, even though this is my third year, and I should be used to it by now, but—"
"I'm Braiden," I cut in, blinking against the verbal onslaught. "And yes. New to both."
Sam grins, an explosive smile full of a sunshine-after-the-rain brightness. He's an omega, I can tell—his scent is a warm mix of coffee and cinnamon gum—with expressive dark eyes and an energy that makes the air around him vibrate.
"Well, Braiden-who's-new-to-both, welcome to Hell Week. That's what we call the first week of Westergaard's Bio class. He likes to weed out the weak ones early." Sam leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But don't worry. I've got notes from last year. I'll hook you up."
I wait for the questions, the prying about Wes, the gossip.
But they don't come. Instead, Sam is already showing me his note-taking system on a tablet, and a warmth unfurls in my chest. Is this what making a friend feels like?
I've been so focused on grades and plans that I forgot what it's like to just… connect with someone.
"You use a five-color system too?" My own smile feels real for the first time.
"Six, actually." Sam brandishes a neon green pen. "This one's for when Westergaard contradicts the textbook, which happens approximately every twelve minutes."
A laugh startles out of me, loud and rusty in my own ears. It feels good. Real.
"So," Sam continues, "pre-med?"
I nod. "How'd you know?"
"The haunted look in your eyes." He grins. "Plus, you've got that 'I must maintain a perfect GPA or die trying' vibe. I see it in the mirror every day."
The professor strides in, and for the next hour, I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of scribbling notes and highlighting key points.
God, this feels good—like putting on my favorite hoodie.
This is my world. This I understand. For once, I'm not feeling the weight of Wes's mark on my neck or the stares following me across campus.
I'm just me—with my color-coded highlighters and bullet-pointed notes—the same Braiden who won the state science fair with a project on cellular regeneration.
When class ends, Sam turns to me, his smile just as bright. "Library? I can show you where all the good study spots are before they get claimed by the English lit majors. Those poetry people are territorial as hell."
"That would be amazing, actually." I hear the relief flooding my voice and wince at how obvious it sounds. "I was dreading trying to find it on my own."
We head out into the September sun, Sam keeping up a steady stream of chatter about campus life. It's so… normal. For a few precious minutes, I'm just a college student, not the centerpiece of the biggest gossip storm to hit Westbridge in years.
"So," Sam says, holding the heavy library door open for me, "what's your academic nemesis situation?"
I blink. "My what?"
"Your academic nemesis! The one person in your major who's always competing with you for the top grade? The one who makes you want to set fire to the curve?" He gestures for me to follow, leading me up a flight of stairs and plunging us into a maze of towering bookshelves. "Everyone has one."
"I've been here two days," I remind him. "I haven't had time to make enemies yet."
Sam laughs. "Just you wait. Mine found me in Freshman Comp.
Devan Morse. Tall, dark, perpetually scowling.
" The way he says the name is a mix of frustration and something else I can't quite place—something that sounds a lot like reverence.
His scent, which has been a bright, bouncy mix of coffee and cinnamon, deepens for a split second, a flicker of something richer and more complex, like burnt sugar.
It's the scent of an omega reacting to an alpha, even one who isn't here. "This semester, he's going down."
He leads me to a secluded corner table by a window, bathed in golden light. "Best spot in the house," he declares, puffing out his chest.
"This is perfect," I say, a warmth spreading through my chest. "Thank you, Sam. Really."
He waves it off. "Us pre-med omegas have to stick together. The alphas in our program think they own the place." He glances at my neck, and his eyes widen in panic. "Oh shit, I didn't mean—your alpha's probably not like that. I just meant—"
"It's fine," I say, laughing. "Wes is… different." That was putting it mildly.
Sam checks his watch and yelps. "Chem lab! Professor Chen locks the door on the hour." He scribbles his number on a piece of paper. "Text me if you want to grab coffee. Or if you just want to complain about alphas."
"I will," I promise.
He vanishes into the stacks, leaving me in the peaceful quiet. I sink into a chair, feeling unexpectedly light. I made a friend. An actual friend. I pull out my textbook, the words pulling me in, and for the first time all day, I'm me again—Braiden with his highlighters and sticky notes.
My phone buzzes, ripping me from my academic bubble. It's Wes.
Practice running late. Wait at the library. I'll come get you when I'm done.
I stare at his message, irritation bubbling up.
Wait for him? Like I'm some helpless kid who can't cross campus alone?
I managed eighteen years without a Wes Chambers escort, for God's sake.
My omega side practically purrs at the thought of him coming for me, but another, older part of me bristles.
The part that fought for every A, that earned my scholarship, that built my entire life brick by careful brick.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I type back:
Don't worry about it. I'll just meet you at the apartment later. I'm fine on my own.
My finger hovers over the send button. It's just a text, but damn, it feels like planting a flag. I'm still me. I can do things on my own. I hit send.
His response is immediate:
Braiden. Wait for me.
That period at the end is a command. The low growl behind the words is a palpable threat, a warning that makes my skin prickle. But the stubborn, independent part of me digs its heels in. This is important. He needs to know I'm not just some possession to be managed.
I'll be careful. Promise. See you at home soon.
I shove my phone deep in my pocket before I can change my mind, before the alpha in him can order me again. My stomach churns, guilt and defiance wrestling inside me. This is good, I tell myself. Healthy. We need boundaries.
I try to read, but the words blur. My concentration is shot. After ten more minutes of staring at the same paragraph, I give up. I'll go home—our home—and make dinner. A peace offering. Proof that my independence doesn't threaten what we have.
I pack my things and stand, stretching. The library has emptied out, the quiet shifting from peaceful to oppressive.
I head back into the stacks, trying to retrace my steps, but the towering shelves all look the same.
One wrong turn leads to another, and soon I'm hopelessly lost in a labyrinth of books.
Great. Perfect. Lost again—the running theme of my Westbridge experience.
I turn a corner into a section on constitutional law, the air thick with the smell of old paper and dust. The lights are dimmer here, casting long, distorted shadows that play tricks on my eyes.
The hairs on my neck stand up, a primal warning screaming danger.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echo from the next aisle over. Coming my way. My heart hammers against my ribs. I turn to go back the way I came, but a figure steps out from between the stacks, blocking my path.
He's a mountain. Taller than Wes, broader, with a neck like a tree trunk and a thin white scar slicing through his left eyebrow.
A Northwood State t-shirt strains across his massive chest. The scent hits me a second later—alpha, but not like Wes's clean lightning strike.
This is aggressive, sour, a calculated invasion of my space. My body takes an involuntary step back.
"Well, well," he rumbles, his voice crawling over my skin like something with too many legs. "If it isn't Chambers' little toy."
Two more alphas appear behind him, flanking him like wolves. Same Northwood shirts. Same predatory sneers.
"Excuse me," I say, hating the tremor in my voice. "I need to get past."
The leader—Nash, I realize with a jolt of ice-cold dread—steps forward, closing the distance between us. "I don't think so. Not yet." His eyes crawl over me, lingering on the mark on my neck. "You and I need to have a little chat."
Nash. Wes's rival. The one who sent the text. The reason Wes looks at me sometimes like he's expecting me to shatter.
"I don't have anything to say to you," I say, trying to sound braver than I feel. I step back again until my shoulders hit solid wood. My heart stutters. The bookshelf. I'm trapped.
Nash smiles, a cold baring of teeth. "That's okay. You don't need to talk. Just listen." He's so close now I can smell the sweat on his skin, the stale coffee on his breath. "See, Chambers and I have a history. And he just took something I wanted."
"I'm not a thing," I spit out.
He laughs, a harsh, ugly sound. "Cute." He scoffs. "Everything's a game between me and Chambers. The championship last year was mine until he got lucky. And now..." His smile widens as his gaze drops to my neck. "There's you. You were supposed to be mine, too."
My stomach turns at the thought, bile rising in my throat. "What are you talking about?"
"Freshman orientation. You were lost, weren't you?" Nash's eyes glitter with malice. "I was heading your way when Chambers swooped in. Another five minutes, and it would've been my mark on your neck."
The idea is so repulsive my omega instincts recoil on a cellular level. It's a violation just to hear it. "That's not how it works," I say, my voice stronger now, fueled by a sudden surge of protective anger for what Wes and I have. "We're fated. It wouldn't have mattered if you found me first."
Something dark and ugly flashes in Nash's eyes. "Is that what he told you? That it was fate?" He leans in, his voice a poisonous whisper. "Alphas will say anything to get what they want. And Chambers wanted to piss me off."
No. The word is a silent scream in my head. A tiny, treacherous seed of doubt tries to plant itself in my brain, but I crush it.
The static, I think, clinging to Wes's confession like a lifeline. Wes said the static stopped. That wasn't a line he fed me; it was a confession ripped from his soul. I saw it in his eyes. This is real. He is real. You are the noise, Nash. You're just more static.
"I need to go," I say, my voice firm. "My alpha is expecting me."
Nash moves like a striking snake. One second he's in front of me, the next his hand is clamped on the back of my neck, his fingers digging into the pressure points there in a dominant alpha hold that locks my body in instinctive submission. My muscles freeze. My breath catches in my throat.
"Your alpha," Nash mocks. "Let's see about that."
With deliberate, brutal slowness, he forces my head to the side. His fingers dig into my scalp, twisting until my neck is exposed, the claiming mark Wes left there vulnerable in the harsh library lighting. The position is a profound violation, designed to display my submission and his dominance.
He lowers his head, his stubble scraping my jaw, his breath hot and coffee-sour against my neck.
He inhales, a wet, snuffling sound right against my ear that makes my skin try to crawl off my bones.
His breath coats my neck, a filthy layer over Wes's clean lightning-strike scent.
A sense of violation washes over me. I'm contaminated. Marked by the wrong alpha.
"Smells sweet," he sneers, his voice a low vibration against my skin. "Wonder what you'd smell like with my scent all over you instead."
Terror floods me, bone-deep and absolute, leaving a sharp, metallic taste in my mouth. This is wrong. So fundamentally, primally wrong. The place he's scenting—it's Wes's. Only Wes's. It's sacred ground. He's not just touching me; he's trying to erase Wes from my skin.
I struggle, a pathetic, jerky movement against his immovable grip. His friends laugh behind me.
"Let me go," I demand, my voice cracking. "Now."
"Or what?" Nash's mouth is so close I feel his lips move against my skin. "Your alpha isn't here to save you. And by the time he finds you, you'll be carrying my scent home to him. Wonder what he'll do when he smells another alpha all over his pretty little omega."
I try to twist away again, a sob of pure fear and rage building in my chest. I open my mouth to scream, but panic claws my throat shut.
"Don't worry," Nash murmurs, tracing the edge of my jaw with a rough thumb. "I'm not going to hurt you. Much. This is just a message for Chambers. A reminder that he can't protect you all the time."
The scream is trapped behind my teeth, a silent, desperate shriek—until the world snaps. Nash is gone, ripped away from me with a force that bends the air itself.
Wes stands there.
He's not yelling. He's not moving. He's just..
. vibrating. A statue of pure, cold, silent fury.
His shoulders are bunched, his hands curled into fists at his sides, his whole body a loaded weapon.
But his eyes—his eyes are black holes, bottomless pits of murder.
He slams Nash into the bookshelves with a feral growl that isn't human, a sound ripped from the throat of a predator whose territory has been invaded, whose mate has been threatened.