Chapter 3 Sam
Sam
Irearrange my color-coded pens for the fourth time. Blue, black, red, green. No, that's wrong. It should be black, blue, green, red. Order of utility. Or maybe alphabetical?
My hands won't stop shaking.
I stare at my fingers, watching the slight tremor in my pinky.
"Stop it," I hiss at myself, shoving my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie.
It's the pink one. Well, it started life as red, but I washed it with my white sheets freshman year like an idiot and now it's this aggressive salmon color that Braiden says makes me look like "a shrimp with anxiety. "
He's not wrong.
I wore it on purpose. When you wear something this loud, people look at the clothes, not the guy inside them who's about two seconds away from hyperventilating.
I pull my phone out. Eight minutes early.
Me: I think I'm going to throw up.
Three dots bubble up immediately. God bless Braiden and his obsessive need to be near a phone at all times.
Braiden: Don't puke in the library. The carpet is disgusting enough. Is he there yet?
Me: No. I'm early. B, I'm literally vibrating. Make it stop.
Braiden: It's just Morse. You argue with him every day. You thrive on conflict.
Me: I thrive on winning. He makes me feel like I'm losing even when I'm right.
Braiden: That's called sexual tension babe
Me: I HATE YOU
Me: Also I haven't eaten since like 11 and I had three espresso shots and I think I can hear colors.
Braiden: omg eat something
Braiden: There's a granola bar in my desk if you die
Me: If I die you can have my Nintendo switch
Braiden: Already assumed that was the arrangement
I drop the phone onto the table and lean my forehead against the cool laminate.
Braiden doesn't get it. Nobody does. They think it's funny, a spectator sport. And yeah, part of me loves it. When I'm going toe-to-toe with Devan, when those eyes lock onto mine and he dissects my arguments, I feel... real.
That sounds dramatic. I know it sounds dramatic. I sound like those posts on the Westbridge confessions page that everyone screenshots and makes fun of. "To the mysterious alpha in my Thursday seminar, I think about you every time I see a thunderstorm." That kind of cringe.
But it's TRUE, okay?
That's the dirty little secret I keep tucked under my ribs.
Westbridge is full of geniuses. Legitimate, effortless geniuses.
Kids who got perfect SAT scores without studying.
Kids whose parents are on the board. Kids who casually mention their "summer home in the Hamptons" like that's a normal thing to have.
And then there's me: Sam Sharma, whose dad drives a Honda Civic with 200,000 miles on it and whose mom still clips coupons even though I'm on a full scholarship. Whose parents are legends in their fields.
But Devan is the smartest person I've ever met. Scary smart. And when he looks at me, even when it's like I'm a particularly annoying bug, he sees me. He treats me like a threat. Like an equal.
If Devan thinks I'm worth the fight, maybe I actually belong here.
I sit up, smoothing the front of my hoodie. My heart is doing this weird flutter-thump thing. It's the coffee. Definitely the coffee. Three espresso shots on an empty stomach was a choice. A bad choice.
Or maybe my suppressants are wearing off. I've been on the heavy-duty blockers since freshman year because I cannot focus on Econ 201 if I'm swooning every time a cute alpha walks by.
Usually, the campus smells like a muddled mix of cheap body spray and anxiety. But today... today my skin feels too tight. My senses are dialed up to eleven. I can smell the whiteboard markers. The dust in the vents. The leftover Thai food someone microwaved three floors up.
That's... that's not normal, right? That's a lot.
The door handle turns.
My breath hitches. I plaster on my patented "I am totally chill and definitely not hyperventilating" smile. Spin my chair around.
Devan walks in.
Seeing him in a lecture hall is one thing. Seeing him walk into a ten-by-ten soundproof study room is... a lot.
He takes up so much space. He's not just tall; he's dense. Like a black hole He's wearing black, of course. A sweater that fits too well across those broad shoulders, dark jeans, boots. His hair falls into his eyes, and he looks...
He looks wrecked.
"Showed up to your 8 a.m. still drunk from last night" wrecked, but make it fashion.
He stops just inside the door. Doesn't speak. Doesn't sit. Just stands there, hand white-knuckling the doorframe.
"You're early," I say. My voice is too high. I clear my throat, grasping for sass. "Trying to catch me unprepared, Morse? Rookie move. I've already outlined the introduction and three potential thesis statements."
That's a lie. I have half an outline and a bunch of question marks. But he doesn't need to know that.
Devan doesn't answer.
He pushes the door shut.
Click.
Then it hits me.
A deep pine forest after a storm.
My mouth goes dry. My stomach drops, not in fear, but in a sudden, dizzying swoon that leaves me gripping the edge of the table.
Oh god oh god oh god—
"Devan?" I squeak.
He turns the lock.
My heart is trying to punch its way out of my chest. This isn't normal. This isn't rivalry. I can taste him on the back of my tongue.
Is he going to murder me? That seems dramatic but also he looks kind of unhinged right now and I definitely haven't updated my will since I promised Braiden my Switch—
He turns slowly. Those eyes, usually so cold, are blown wide. His pupils have swallowed the iris. He looks feral. Like he hasn't eaten in a week and I'm the only thing on the menu.
"I..." I try to stand, but my knees are water. I lean back against the whiteboard. "I was thinking we could focus on the behavioral economics. You know, since you love pretending emotions don't exist, it'd be a good, uh, challenge for you to—"
"Quiet."
The word is a low rumble, barely a whisper, but it vibrates right through me.
I snap my mouth shut. I have never, in two years, listened to Devan Morse. I live to annoy him. But that voice? That wasn't a suggestion. That was a command.
And my whole body just... obeyed. Without asking my brain first.
He takes a step toward me.
"Devan, seriously, you're freaking me out," I say, though my voice has no bite. "If you're trying to scare me out of the internship, it's not gonna work."
"You don't know anything," he rasps. He takes another step. He's halfway across the room now. The scent is getting stronger. It's making my head swim. My omega is waking up, stretching, purring in the back of my mind. Here. Him. Finally.
Wait. What? FINALLY? What do you mean FINALLY? We hate this guy!
...Do we hate this guy?
"I know plenty," I argue, but I'm backing up. I hit the bookshelf. There's nowhere left to go. "I know you think you're the smartest guy in the room. I know you think I'm just some loud distraction. But I'm going to beat you. I'm going to—"
He closes the distance in a blur. One second he's there, the next he's here. A wall of heat and muscle crashing into my space. He slams a hand against the wall next to my head. I gasp, pressing back. He looms over me, blocking out the overhead lights.
"This rivalry is over," he growls.
The words don't make sense. Is he quitting? Forfeiting?
Then he leans in and inhales. A long, shuddering drag of breath right against the curve of my neck.
My knees give out. If he wasn't crowding me against the wall, I'd be on the floor.
Holy shit. Devan Morse is smelling me. In a library. On a Tuesday.
"Devan," I whisper.
"Yellow. Neon green. Pink," he mutters, voice thick. His hand fists in the front of my hoodie. "You're always wearing these bright fucking colors. Like a beacon. Like you're trying to kill me."
"It's... just a color," I stammer. "It's not even pink, it's like, salmon, it used to be red but I—"
"It's torture," he corrects. He presses closer. His thigh slots between mine.
The friction sends a shock up my spine and my toes curl.
Oh my GOD. Braiden was right. It was sexual tension. It was sexual tension this whole time and I'm an idiot.
"Sam." The way he says my name... "You smell... fuck."
He buries his face in my neck.
I stop breathing.
His nose drags along the sensitive skin below my ear. He's scenting me. Devan Morse, the ice king, is scenting me like a starving animal.
"Pine," I breathe, hands finding his biceps. "You smell like pine."
I sound like a Bath & Body Works commercial. Why did I say that? Why am I like this?
His teeth graze the pulse point of my throat.
I whimper. A genuine, pathetic, needy sound that I should be embarrassed by, but I'm too far gone to care. My hips buck forward, seeking him.
That breaks him. He growls, a low, guttural sound, and his mouth crashes down on mine.
His lips are hot, demanding, bruising. He tastes like dark coffee and desperation. He kisses me like he's angry at me for making him wait, like he's trying to devour me whole. The wet smack of our mouths fills the room.
I open for him instantly. No thought of wait, we're rivals, wait, we're in a library. Just one word, slamming through me: Mate.
MATE. That's what this is. That's why everything feels like—oh god, I'm making out with my fated mate in a library study room and I haven't brushed my teeth since this morning and I had garlic bread for lunch—
My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. I need him closer.
He groans into my mouth, tongue sweeping inside, tasting me. One hand yanks me upward, while the other drops to my waist, thumb digging into my hip bone. The bookshelf behind me shudders with the force of his body pressing mine into it.
"Mine," he mumbles against my lips, breaking the kiss to attack my jaw. "You're mine. Say it."
"Devan—"
"Say it!" He bites the spot under my chin. Hard enough to sting.
"Yours," I gasp. "I'm yours."
I'm agreeing to things. Big things. Life-altering things. I should probably think about this, but thinking is really hard when his mouth is doing THAT—