Chapter 9 Wes
Wes
Aferal growl rips from my throat as my fist connects with the shelf, an inch from Nash's head.
The wood splinters, the sound sharp and violent in the quiet library.
I feel a sharp pain in my knuckles, but it's a distant thing, drowned out by the white-hot rage roaring through my veins.
It narrows my vision until Nash's smirking face is all I can see, all that exists.
His scent is all over Braiden—coffee-sour and wrong, a filthy layer of contamination on what is sacred, what is mine.
"You're dead," I snarl, my voice a low, guttural thing I don't recognize. "You're fucking dead."
For a split second, Nash's eyes widen. It's a flash of genuine fear, a primal recognition of a predator about to strike. Then the smug mask slides back into place. "Temper, temper, Chambers. Just getting acquainted with your little—"
I don't let him finish. I don't give a shit what he has to say. My hand shoots out, wrapping around his thick throat, squeezing enough to cut off his words and his air. His pulse hammers against my palm, a frantic, panicked beat. Good. He should be afraid. He should be terrified.
"Touch him again," I snarl, leaning in so my voice is a poison just for him, "and I will end you. Not your career. Not your reputation. You."
Nash's backup—two meatheads in matching Northwood shirts—take a hesitant step forward, but Nash waves them off with a weak gesture. Smart. They can't help him now. This is between us.
"Wes."
Braiden's voice cuts through the red haze of my fury. It's small and shaky, and it's the only thing that keeps me from crushing Nash's windpipe right here among the law books.
"Wes, please. Let's just go."
I don't look at him. I can't. If I see his face right now, see the terror Nash put there, I'll actually kill him. And Braiden doesn't need to see this side of me. The animal. The monster that lives under my skin, the one that's been pacing and waiting for a reason to come out.
"Security's coming," one of Nash's cronies warns, his eyes darting toward the end of the stacks where footsteps are getting louder.
I release Nash's throat with a vicious shove that sends him stumbling back into the shelves again. Books rain down around him, a small avalanche of legal texts. He rights himself, straightening his shirt with an exaggerated care. I want to rip it right off his body.
Nash straightens his shirt, a deliberate motion of calm that makes me want to rip it off his body. "This isn't over, Chambers." His voice is rough from my grip, but the infuriating calm is back.
"You're goddamn right it's not."
Two campus security guards round the corner, out of breath and wide-eyed. "What's going on here?" the taller one demands, his gaze sweeping over the scene—the fallen books, the angry red marks on Nash's throat, my bleeding knuckles.
Nash flashes a charming smile that makes me want to knock his teeth down his throat. "Just a misunderstanding. Old rivals catching up."
"He was assaulting my omega," I spit out, my body still coiled tight, ready to spring at him again.
The guards exchange a look. It's the kind of look that says they've seen this a thousand times. Alpha pissing contests. One of them steps between Nash and me, a human barrier that does nothing to diminish the rage still boiling in my blood.
"We're going to need all of you to come with us." The guard's voice leaves no room for argument.
Nash dusts a piece of lint off his shoulder, the picture of wounded innocence. "Of course, officer. Happy to clear this up." He dabs at his nose, and I notice with grim satisfaction that it's bleeding. I must have caught him when I first grabbed him. Good.
The security guard reaches for my arm, and I jerk away, a warning vibration starting deep in my chest. "Don't touch me," I snap. "I'm taking my mate home."
The guard's hand moves to the radio on his belt. "Sir, I need you to calm down and come with us."
Another guard appears, and suddenly there are three of them, all focused on me. On me. Like I'm the threat. Like I'm the one who cornered someone else's mate in a deserted corner of the library. The predator.
Two of them grab my arms, their grips firm, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to throw them off. The only thing stopping me is Braiden's face—pale, terrified, his eyes huge and dark in his white face. He looks like he's about to shatter.
"He's the victim here," I grit out as the third guard takes a step toward Braiden. "Ask him what happened."
"Just taking statements, sir," the guard says, but he wisely keeps his distance from my omega.
Nash is already being escorted down the aisle, flanked by his friends. He turns back, catching my eye over the guard's shoulder. He touches his bloody nose, then smiles, a cold, calculating twist of his lips.
"See you on the field, Chambers," he calls, the taunt a clear, ringing threat.
The guards tighten their grip, bracing for me to lunge. But Nash's words cut through my rage like ice water. This isn't over. He's not done. And he knows exactly where to hit me where it hurts.
The field.
My future. My career. Everything I've worked for.
But as I look at Braiden, still shaking, still reeking of another alpha's touch, I realize none of it matters. Not a single fucking bit of it. Not compared to him.
"I'm taking him home," I tell the guards, forcing my voice into something that sounds almost reasonable. "He needs me right now."
"We still need statements—"
"Later," I cut him off. "You can find us at my apartment. But right now, my mate needs me."
Something in my tone—or maybe the pure murder in my eyes—makes the guard step back. He nods once, reluctantly. "We'll be by in an hour. And don't leave campus."
The moment they release my arms, I'm moving. Not toward Nash—though every cell in my body screams to finish what I started—but to Braiden. I grab his arm, my grip firm but not rough, anchoring him to me. His skin is ice-cold under my touch.
"We're leaving." The words are clipped, hard-edged.
He doesn't argue. Doesn't say anything. Just lets me pull him through the library, past the staring students, out into the cool evening air. My grip never loosens. I can't let go. If I let go, someone might take him again. Touch him again. Hurt him again.
The walk back to our apartment is a blur. Rage, fear, and a choking need to possess him tear through me. Braiden stumbles once, and I pull him closer, my arm wrapping around his waist now. Supporting him. Claiming him with every step.
"Wes," he tries, his voice small. "I'm sorry. I should have waited like you said. I should have—"
"Don't," I cut him off, my voice harsher than I mean it to be. I can't hear his apologies right now. I can't process anything but the screaming need to get him home, get him safe, get him clean.
We reach the apartment, and I fumble with the keys, my hands shaking with adrenaline and barely contained violence. I ram the door open and push him inside. It slams behind us with a bang that makes the walls shake. The apartment is dark and quiet except for our ragged breathing.
For a moment, we just stand there in the dimly lit entryway, the silence thick enough to choke on. Braiden's back is to the door, his eyes wide and uncertain. I can still smell Nash on him—that wrong, sour scent clinging to his skin, his clothes, his hair.
It's a desecration. A violation. And it makes me fucking sick.
"Did he hurt you?" The words are a low, dangerous growl, torn from a place deep in my chest.
Braiden shakes his head, a jerky little movement. "No, he just—he grabbed my neck and he didn't let go, I tried to—"
His words are gasoline on the fire. I don't let him finish. I'm across the room in a single stride, slamming him back against the door. The wood shudders from the impact. I cage him in, my hands framing his head, my body pressing him into the solid oak.
"He touched you," I snarl, my voice raw. "He put his hands on you. His scent is all over you."
"I'm sorry," Braiden whispers, his eyes flooding with tears that spill over and track down his temples. "I tried to get away, I swear, but he was too strong, and—"
"Not your fault, baby," my voice cracks with the effort to be gentle. My thumbs brush away his tears, but my touch is anything but soft. "Never your fault. But I'm gonna fix this. I'm gonna fix this right fucking now."
I bury my face in the curve of his neck, right where that bastard's mouth was, and I inhale deep.
The wrongness of it—sour coffee and cheap cologne—makes me want to gag.
It's a layer of filth on something sacred.
My snarl vibrates against his skin, a promise of violence.
I lick a hot, rough stripe up the column of his throat, tasting salt and fear and the sour taint of another alpha.
"Gonna fuck his stink right out of you," I mutter, my hands already working at his clothes, rough and impatient.
I don't bother with buttons. My fist closes in the fabric of his shirt and I rip.
The sound of tearing cotton is sharp and satisfying, buttons scattering across the floor.
I don't care. I'll buy him a hundred new shirts.
Right now, all I care about is getting to his skin, reclaiming every inch that Nash contaminated.
"Wes," Braiden gasps as my teeth scrape over his collarbone, hard enough to leave a bright red mark. "It's okay. I'm okay. He didn't—"
"He touched what's mine." My own words slice through his. "He put his scent on my claiming mark."
I drag my tongue over the bite I left on his neck, scrubbing at the wrongness there, the violation.
I rub my own scent glands on my wrists against the mark, overwriting, erasing.
My hands are everywhere—tangling in his hair to yank his head back, giving me better access to his throat, then sliding down his back to grip his ass, pulling him flush against the rigid length of my erection.