Chapter 5 Brothers And Battles
Brothers And Battles
~MABELINE~
"I'm sorry."
I pause mid-step on the pathway leading to what I assume is our dorm, tilting my head as Etienne rolls my pathetic excuse for luggage to a gentle stop.
The golden light of the setting sun catches the door's brass number plate: Pack Integration Unit 7.
Very official…and intimidating.
He turns to look at me, those storm-blue eyes clouded with genuine concern, one hand still resting on the crooked handle of my suitcase.
"About the luggage," he clarifies, gesturing at the duct-taped disaster between us. "I didn't mean to be judgmental or anything. That was rude of me to say. About the Rimowa and the... you know."
He trails off, running his free hand through his dark curls in that nervous gesture I'm beginning to recognize as distinctly him.
He is apologizing. For teasing me about my suitcase?
What alternate dimension did I stumble into where childhood bullies' pack mates apologize for luggage jokes?
I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound bubbling up easier than expected.
"No, it's okay. Really." I wave a dismissive hand, stepping closer to rescue him from his adorable spiral of guilt.
"Everyone and their auntie tells me to upgrade my luggage.
My coworkers used to leave luggage catalogs on my desk as hints.
My mother once sent me a thirty-minute voice memo about the importance of presenting oneself professionally, including one's travel accessories. "
His lips twitch at that, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
"But honestly?" I shrug, glancing at the battered suitcase with something approaching fondness.
"Why throw out something that still works, right?
Beatrice here has been with me through three apartment moves, two cross-country trips, and one disastrous attempt at a romantic getaway that we do not talk about. "
"Beatrice?" His eyebrow quirks up. "You named your suitcase?"
"I name everything. My phone is also Beatrice. Beatrice the Second, technically. It is a whole lineage. A dynasty, if you will."
Why am I sharing my weird naming habits with this man? What is wrong with me?
Probably the scent. That evergreen and old books combination is doing strange things to my brain chemistry.
"I think that's..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "Endearing."
Endearing. He thinks I am endearing.
I do not know how to process that information so I am going to file it away and panic about it later.
As if responding to my bold declaration of her continued functionality, Beatrice the Suitcase chooses that exact moment to prove me spectacularly wrong.
There is a groan of stressed metal.
A pop that sounds vaguely medical.
And then both remaining wheels detach from the frame simultaneously, rolling away down the pathway in opposite directions like they have finally had enough of my denial and are making a desperate bid for freedom.
We both gawk in stunned silence.
One wheel veers left, bouncing off the edge of a decorative bush before spinning to a wobbly stop near a garden bed. The other rolls right with surprising velocity, disappearing around the corner of the building like it has somewhere important to be.
I stare at the now completely wheel-less suitcase.
The suitcase stares back, listing pathetically to one side like a ship taking on water.
Etienne stares at both of us.
The silence stretches for a beat.
Two.
Three…
"Hmm." I cringe, feeling heat flood my cheeks. "I think... that is the universe's way of telling me my luggage is done for."
Etienne laughs.
And not just a polite chuckle or a restrained snort. A real, genuine, throw-your-head-back laugh that echoes across the evening air and does completely unfair things to my stomach.
"Yeah, fuck." He is grinning now, those storm-blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that transforms his entire face from quietly handsome to devastatingly attractive. "That is totally the universe trying to give you some signs. Very aggressive signs. Very dramatic, wheel-detaching signs."
"Maybe Beatrice has been trying to retire for years, and I just was not listening," I admit, fighting my own smile.
"I think Beatrice has been screaming into the void and you have been willfully ignoring her cries for help." He wipes his eyes, still chuckling. "Hold on. I will get them for you. Cannot have random wheels rolling around the campus causing havoc."
He jogs off down the pathway, his long legs eating up the distance as he chases after the escaped wheel components.
And I definitely do not want to watch him go.
I certainly do not notice the way his shoulders move under his hoodie, all lean muscle and athletic grace.
Or how the way his dark curls bounce slightly with each step, catching the golden light.
I’m oblivious to the way his jeans fit just right, hugging a backside that has no business being that well-shaped on someone who spends most of his time standing in a goal crease.
Okay. Fine.
I am watching.
Sue me.
He bends to retrieve the first wheel from beside the bush, and I get a very educational view of his back.
The way his hoodie stretches across his shoulder blades that are broader than I initially realized.
The hint of muscle definition visible even through the fabric. The narrow waist that tapers down to...
Stop it. Stop cataloguing his physique like he is a specimen under examination.
He is your roommate.
Your roommate's pack mate.
Possibly adjacent to your childhood trauma.
This is not the time for inconvenient attractions.
But his laugh.
Fuck, his laugh is hypnotic.
It was so mellow. So genuine. So completely different from the sharp, mocking laughter that haunts my memories of sixth grade. The cruel snickers that used to follow me down hallways. The jeering chants that echoed in bathrooms where I hid to cry.
He is definitely different from the other two.
Rafe is all sharp edges and barely contained aggression, a storm wrapped in muscle and bad decisions. Cal is warmer but carries that eager-to-please energy, the follower's need for approval, and the desperation to belong.
But Etienne?
Etienne is quiet. Observant. The kind of person who watches from the edges and sees things others miss. The kind of person who offers his jersey to a slushie-covered stranger without being asked. Who creates escape routes from pushy Alphas without making a big deal of it.
Why did he join their pack if he seems so different?
What is his story?
Why do I care so much about answers I have no right to demand?
My nose wrinkles before I can pursue that thought further.
A new scent is drifting toward me from somewhere behind. Familiar, but wrong. Like a song I know being played in the wrong key. Like looking at a painting that has been slightly tilted on the wall.
Evergreens, yes. But sharper. Colder. Missing that warmth of old books and quiet safety that I have unconsciously started associating with Etienne.
Bitter notes underneath. Something acidic and aggressive that makes my Omega instincts prickle with warning.
I look up on instinct, some prey-animal part of my brain screaming alert before my conscious mind catches up.
And freeze.
Because it is like looking at an older, angrier version of Etienne.
The same dark curls, but shorter. Buzzed close on the sides in a style that screams I take myself very seriously, and I will end you if you disagree. The same pale skin and constellation of freckles across the nose. The same storm-blue eyes.
But where Etienne's eyes are soft, curious, a little uncertain...
These eyes are cold.
Hard.
The eyes of someone who has spent years cultivating anger like a prized possession and enjoys watching it grow.
Bastien Laurent.
The actual bully. The one I should have been angry at all along. The one whose cruelty I have been misattributing to his younger brother for thirteen years.
He is taller than Etienne, I realize. Broader in the shoulders.
Built like someone who has been playing varsity hockey for years and enjoys throwing his weight around both on and off the ice.
His posture radiates barely contained aggression, like a bomb with a faulty timer that could go off at any moment.
Still handsome, objectively speaking.
That seems to be a Laurent family trait.
But man.
Who pissed this guy off? Or is he just perpetually furious at the world?
He is radiating hostility like a space heater radiates warmth. His jaw is clenched. His hands are shoved in his pockets in a way that looks less casual and more like he is restraining himself from punching something.
His scent is aggressive, too. That sharp evergreen overwhelmed everything else, trying to dominate the space between us. Trying to make me feel small.
Alpha posturing at its finest. Delightful. Just what I needed to cap off this wonderful day.
"I recognized you in the cafeteria," he says, his voice a deeper, rougher version of his brother's accented French-Canadian lilt. The words carry that same musical quality, but they come out harsh instead of melodic. "Thought I was seeing things at first. Could not quite place the face."
He tilts his head, studying me like I am a specimen under a microscope. Like I am a puzzle he is trying to solve.
"But to think you are actually Nerdy MaeBell..." A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face. "That is a puzzling surprise."
The nickname hits me like a slap.
Nerdy MaeBell.
Thirteen years, and it still has the power to make my stomach clench. To make that scared little girl inside me want to curl up and hide. To make my hands tremble with remembered fear and shame.
No.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.
I roll my eyes, forcing my voice to stay steady through sheer force of will.
"What? Do I need to bring my glasses next time so you can remember what an ass you were?" I tilt my head, matching his posture. "Or did the double held-back years damage your memory along with your academic record?"
His eyebrows shoot up.