Chapter 11 Wes
Wes
My heart fucking stops.
Braiden's voice rings through the hearing room, clear and steady, like he does this shit for a living. I'm frozen in my seat, my hand still half-raised, my whole body coiled to stand up and take the fall. But my omega—my brilliant, unexpected, magnificent omega—is already on his feet.
The board members exchange surprised glances. Nash's father leans over to whisper something in his son's ear, but Nash just smirks, like this is the most entertaining thing he's seen all day. He thinks this is going to be easy. He thinks my omega is going to crumble.
He has no idea what's coming.
"Mr. Kelly, is it?" The Dean peers at Braiden over her reading glasses. "You understand we're here to discuss the physical altercation between Mr. Chambers and Mr. Livingston?"
"Yes, ma'am." Braiden's voice doesn't waver. "And I'm here to explain why that happened."
I stare up at him, my throat tight with a mix of pride and raw terror. This is not the same kid who crashed into me clutching a campus map. This is someone else entirely—someone with steel in his spine and fire in his eyes.
"Very well." The Dean gestures for him to continue. "The board will hear your statement."
Braiden opens his laptop with steady hands. He's wearing the watch I bought him last week—a simple, elegant timepiece that looks like it was forged for his slender wrist. Seeing it there, a small piece of me on him while he goes into battle for us, grounds me.
"On September 12th at approximately 4:30 PM, I was in the northwest corner of the library's third floor.
" Braiden's voice is measured, precise. "I was cornered by Nash Livingston and two of his teammates.
Mr. Livingston physically restrained me, grabbed me by the neck, and forcibly scent-marked me against my will. "
A murmur ripples through the room. One of the board members—an omega woman with sharp eyes—visibly flinches.
"That's a lie," Nash interjects, but his father places a warning hand on his arm.
The Dean silences him with a sharp look. "Mr. Livingston, you'll have your turn. Please continue, Mr. Kelly."
Braiden doesn't even acknowledge him. He keeps going, laying out what happened with a clinical precision that somehow makes it even more horrifying.
"Mr. Livingston explicitly threatened me.
He stated that this was a 'message' for Wes, that I was 'only safe because he says so,' and that 'he can't protect me all the time.
'" Braiden's voice remains steady, but I can see the slight tremble in his hands.
I want to stand up, to go to him, to put myself between him and Nash's toxic glare, but I force myself to stay seated. This is his fight.
"This wasn't an isolated incident," Braiden continues, clicking through his laptop. "Mr. Livingston has a documented history of harassment and intimidation."
What follows is Braiden absolutely destroying Nash, piece by piece.
He presents screenshots, newspaper articles, testimonials—a fucking mountain of evidence that paints Nash as exactly what he is: a predator.
He shows the threatening text Nash sent me, the one with Braiden's picture.
He calls up Tyler's statement, detailing how Nash and his friends "hazed" him so badly he ended up in the campus clinic.
I can't take my eyes off him. The ugly fluorescent lights make his dark hair shine as he moves.
God, he looks so confident up there. He's not just reciting facts; he's building a case, brick by brick, proving Nash is a serial aggressor who targets anyone weaker than himself.
Part of me wants to roar with pride, and another part wants to shield him from ever having to be this strong.
"So when my alpha found Mr. Livingston forcibly scent-marking me—a direct violation of omega autonomy rights under this university's own code of conduct—his reaction, while physical, was entirely justified by the threat I was under.
" Braiden finally turns to look directly at Nash, his expression cool, a mask devoid of fear.
"Mr. Livingston wasn't having a friendly chat.
He was sending a message. And he's been sending similar messages to students across this campus for years without consequence. "
Nash's face has gone from smug to stone-cold fury. His father is whispering urgently in his ear, but Nash shakes him off, his eyes locked on Braiden with naked hatred.
"That's quite enough, you attention-seeking little—"
"Mr. Livingston!" The Dean's voice cracks like a whip. "You will not interrupt again, or you will be removed from these proceedings."
Braiden doesn't even flinch. He gives Nash a look of such cool, intellectual contempt that the other alpha actually recoils slightly. It's like watching a deer suddenly reveal it has fangs.
My omega is a fucking badass.
Braiden turns back to the board. "In conclusion, I ask that you consider the full context of this situation.
Wes Chambers was responding to a direct threat against his claimed mate—a threat that was part of a documented pattern of behavior by Mr. Livingston.
" He closes his laptop with a soft click that sounds like a gavel. "Thank you for your time."
He sits down beside me, and under the table, I immediately reach for his hand. It's ice-cold but steady. I squeeze it hard, trying to pour everything I'm feeling into that simple touch. Pride. Awe. Fucking worship.
Nash's defense is pathetic. His father does most of the talking, trying to paint it as a misunderstanding, a rivalry that got out of hand. But the board's expressions have changed. They're not buying it anymore.
"The board will deliberate," the Dean announces. "Please wait outside."
The moment we're in the hallway, I pull Braiden away from the others, around a corner where we can have a moment of privacy.
I press him against the wall and bury my face in his neck, breathing him in.
He still smells nervous, but there's something else too—determination and something new.
Confidence. My omega is finding his strength.
"Whatever happens," I growl against his skin, "I'm so fucking proud of you. You were magnificent."
His arms come up around my neck, holding me close. "I was terrified," he admits, his voice small but steady. "But I couldn't let him win. Not after everything."
I pull back to look at him, burning this moment into my brain. His eyes are bright with unshed tears, but there's a strength in them that knocks the air from my lungs.
"I love you," I murmur, the words simple and true. "God, Braiden, I love you so much."
A smile breaks across his face that still winds me, and he pulls me down for a kiss that tastes like salt from his tears and something sweeter. Something that is a brand. "I love you too."
We're called back in fifteen minutes later. It feels like a fucking eternity.
The Dean's face is unreadable as we take our seats. Nash and his father look tense. Good.
"After reviewing the evidence and testimonies," the Dean begins, "the board has reached a decision.
Before we proceed, I want to make one thing clear for the record.
" She looks directly at Nash's father. "Mr. Livingston, your generous donations to the alumni fund are appreciated, but they buy you no influence in this room.
This board's decision is based solely on the student code of conduct and the evidence presented. "
Nash's father's jaw tightens, a flicker of outrage in his eyes. Good.
My hand finds Braiden's again, gripping it like a lifeline.
"Mr. Livingston," the Dean continues, her gaze shifting to Nash, "the board finds substantial evidence of harassment, intimidation, and a gross violation of omega autonomy rights. You are hereby suspended for the remainder of the academic year, effective immediately."
Nash's face goes white, then red with fury. His father puts a restraining hand on his shoulder. The Dean isn't finished.
"Mr. Chambers, while the board acknowledges the extreme provocation, physical violence is never an acceptable response on university grounds. You are placed on probation for the remainder of the semester. Any further incidents will result in immediate suspension."
Probation. Not suspension. I can still play. I can still graduate. My future.
Holy shit. We won. I barely hear the rest. My chest actually hurts from the relief. Braiden's hand is still in mine—warm, real, steady.
We walk out into the bright afternoon sun, and I swear everything looks different.
Better. Clearer. Like I'm seeing the world for the first time.
I stop in the middle of the quad, dropping his hand to grab him by the waist. I lift him clear off the ground, burying my face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in—his scent, clean and sharp under the cold sun.
He's safe. He's mine. We're safe. The relief is so profound it feels like I can finally breathe again.
"You saved my life," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Everything I've worked for. Everything we are."
He pulls back just enough, his hands cradling my jaw. His eyes are shining with a new, unshakeable confidence.
"No," he shakes his head, his voice firm and clear. "We saved ours."
***
Three Months Later
"Chambers, eyes on the field!" Coach barks, but there's no real heat in it. He knows exactly where my eyes are—in the stands, locked on the dark-haired omega bundled up in my away-game jacket, his cheeks flushed pink from the December chill.
Braiden waves, a small, private gesture just for me. Three months, and I still get that same jolt when I see him. Stronger, even. Like he's wired directly to my heart.
I refocus on the play, calling the signals with a confidence that feels unshakeable. The ball snaps into my hands, solid and real. I drop back, scan the field, find my receiver breaking free. The pass is perfect, a tight spiral that hits him right in the numbers. Touchdown.