Chapter 21 #2
But the counting is distant now—background noise to the more immediate sensation of being wanted, being claimed, being kissed like I'm the only thing that matters.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
His hand is still around my throat.
His forehead rests against mine.
His lips brush against mine as he whispers, "I know."
My whole face is red.
I can feel it—the heat rising to my cheeks, spreading down my neck, probably visible to anyone who happens to walk by. I'm not used to this. Not used to being kissed in public, being touched with such casual possessiveness, being claimed in a way that feels more like worship than ownership.
"What was that for?"
The question comes out breathless.
Stupid.
His grip on my throat tightens slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who's in control.
"If I have to see one more Alpha check out your ass," he says, voice low and rough, "I'm going to lose my fucking mind."
My ass.
The words register slowly, filtering through the haze of arousal and confusion.
Someone was looking at my ass.
Multiple someones, apparently.
And Sage noticed.
And it bothered him enough that he's pinning me to a door and kissing me like it's the only thing keeping him sane.
A smirk curves my lips.
"Ah. You're possessive."
His eyes darken.
Dangerous.
"Fun," I continue, because apparently my brain has decided that poking the Alpha is a good idea. "I'll have to flaunt my ass more often."
The growl that escapes him is barely human.
"Sera—"
"Maybe wear shorter skirts," I add, warming to the theme. "Or those workout shorts from earlier. Did you see how short those were? Barely covered anything."
"Sera."
"Or maybe—"
I don't get to finish.
One moment I'm standing against the door, and the next I'm over his shoulder—actually over his shoulder—looking at the world upside down as his hand connects with my ass in a sharp, stinging slap that makes me yelp.
"Sage!"
"You want to flaunt it?" His hand rubs over the spot he just smacked, soothing and threatening in equal measure.
"I can flaunt it for you. But it'll show the red marks of my hand—" another slap, lighter this time but no less shocking, "—and the glistening of your pussy after I fuck you silly if you keep that up. "
The words send heat flooding between my thighs.
Immediate.
Devastating.
Completely inappropriate given that we're in a public hallway.
A giggle escapes.
High.
Manic.
Absolutely delighted.
"Oh, I like this jealous possessiveness." I squirm against his shoulder, not actually trying to escape, just enjoying the sensation of being held. "Keep doing that. Total turn on."
He grumbles something under his breath.
It sounds like "your madness is going to drive me insane."
"Join the club," I respond cheerfully. "We have jackets. And matching diagnoses."
His hand squeezes my ass—not a slap this time, just a firm grip that says mine without words.
"You're impossible."
"I prefer challenging."
"Same thing."
"Tomato, tomato."
He starts walking.
Actually walking, with me still draped over his shoulder like a sack of particularly mouthy potatoes. Students scatter out of his path—whether from the sight of a pack Alpha carrying an Omega in public or from the expression on his face, I can't tell.
Probably both.
I wave at a few of them as we pass.
Queen of the parade.
Most ridiculous parade ever.
"Where are we going?" I ask, watching the floor move beneath me.
"Back to the house." His hand is still on my ass, keeping me secure. "Pack meeting. Kai wants to discuss the plan."
"And you couldn't just... walk me there? Like a normal person?"
"Normal is overrated."
"Fair point."
We pass through a set of doors—outside now, the afternoon sun warm on my exposed legs—and I realize he's taking the long way around the building. The scenic route. The path that will be seen by the maximum number of people.
He's making a statement.
Showing everyone who I belong to.
Marking his territory in the most public way possible.
The realization should bother me.
Should trigger all my defenses about being objectified, being treated like property, being used as a prop in someone else's display of dominance.
But it doesn't.
Because there's something in the way he's holding me—secure but not crushing, possessive but not painful—that doesn't feel like ownership.
It feels like protection.
Like pride.
Like he wants everyone to know I'm his not because he thinks he owns me, but because he thinks I'm something worth bragging about.
When has anyone ever thought that before?
When has anyone ever wanted to show me off instead of hide me away?
The answer is never.
Never.
In three years at this academy—in ten years since my parents died—no one has ever looked at me and thought I want everyone to know she's mine.
They've looked at me and seen crazy.
Seen dangerous.
Seen something to be avoided, pitied, or eliminated.
But Sage looks at me and sees... something else.
Something worth keeping.
Something worth carrying through the halls of Ruthless Academy over his shoulder while everyone watches.
"Sage?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
The words come out quiet.
Sincere.
Stripped of the sarcasm and bravado I usually wrap myself in.
His steps slow.
His hand on my ass gentles.
"For what?"
"For..." I trail off, struggling to find words for something I don't fully understand myself. "For not being embarrassed. By me. By us. By whatever this is."
He stops walking entirely.
For a moment, he just stands there—one hand on my ass, the other wrapped around my thighs, holding me against his shoulder like I weigh nothing at all.
Then he sets me down.
Carefully.
Gently.
My feet find the ground, and I sway slightly—disoriented from being upside down, or maybe just overwhelmed by everything that's happened in the last hour.
His hands find my face.
Cup my cheeks.
Tilt my head up until I'm looking directly into those green-gold eyes that have become distressingly familiar.
"Listen to me," he says, voice low and serious. "I'm not embarrassed by you. I couldn't be embarrassed by you if I tried. You're the most incredible person I've ever met—and I've met a lot of people, Sera. A lot of broken, desperate, dangerous people."
His thumbs stroke across my cheekbones.
"You fight like a dancer and dance like a fighter.
You write letters in blood because commitment matters more to you than convenience.
You survived three years alone in a place that destroys people, and you didn't just survive—you thrived.
You earned a townhome through sheer stubborn refusal to die. "
His forehead drops to rest against mine.
"And you smell like cotton candy," he whispers.
"Like sweetness and chaos and everything I never knew I wanted.
So no, I'm not embarrassed. I'm fucking honored that you let me touch you.
That you let me claim you. That you're standing here, right now, looking at me like maybe I'm worth something too. "
The tears come before I can stop them.
Not sobbing—just silent streams that track down my cheeks and wet his fingers where they're still cupping my face.
No one has ever...
No one has ever said...
I can't finish the thought.
It's too big.
Too much.
Too everything that I've been starving for without knowing I was hungry.
"Sera." His voice is soft now. "Don't cry."
"I'm not crying." The words come out watery and completely unconvincing. "It's raining."
"It's not raining."
"Allergies."
"You're not allergic to anything."
"How would you know?"
"You told me in a letter once. When you were fifteen. You said the only thing you were allergic to was 'the bullshit of people who think they know what's best for me.'"
A laugh escapes—wet and broken and completely involuntary.
"You remember that?"
"I remember everything." He kisses my forehead. "Every word. Every confession. Every glimpse of the girl behind the armor."
One-two-three-four.
My fingers flex against his chest.
One-two-three-four.
The counting helps.
Grounds me.
Keeps me from floating away on the tide of emotions threatening to sweep me under.
"We should go," I manage finally. "Pack meeting. Kai. Plans."
Sage nods.
But he doesn't release me immediately.
Instead, he kisses me again—softer this time, gentler, a press of lips that feels more like a promise than a claiming.
I see you.
I want you.
I'm not going anywhere.
When he finally pulls back, his smile is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Come on, Sweets." He takes my hand, interlacing our fingers. "Let's go plot the downfall of an empire."
We walk together.
Side by side.
Hand in hand.
The afternoon sun is warm on my face. The campus is busy with students heading to afternoon activities, and more than a few of them stare as we pass—at the pack Alpha holding hands with the crazy Omega, at the obvious intimacy between us, at the way we move in sync like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
Let them stare, whisper, and wonder how someone like me ended up with someone like him.
I don't care anymore.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don't care what anyone thinks. Don't care about the judgment, the speculation, the constant assessment of my worth by people who've never bothered to know me.
Because Sage knows me.
Really knows me.
He's read my letters. Seen my darkness. Witnessed my chaos and my counting and my madness.
And he's still here.
Still holding my hand.
Still looking at me like I hung the moon and he's just grateful to be standing in the light.
This is real.
This is happening.
This is actually my life now.
The realization settles into my chest like a warm ember.
Not burning—just glowing.
Steady.
Hopeful.
"Sage?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm excited."
He glances at me, eyebrow raised. "About the pack meeting?"
"About everything." I squeeze his hand, feeling the warmth of his fingers against mine. "About the audition. About the plan. About... about seeing what happens next."
His smile widens.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." A giggle escapes—not manic this time, just happy. "Is that weird? I'm never excited. I'm usually just... surviving. Enduring. Waiting for the next bad thing to happen."
"That's not weird." He squeezes back. "That's called hope. It's what happens when you finally have something worth looking forward to."
Hope.
The word echoes in my skull.
Hope.
I've spent so long avoiding that feeling—treating it like poison, like a trap, like something that would only hurt me when it inevitably shattered.
But maybe I was wrong.
Maybe hope isn't the enemy.
Maybe hope is just the first step toward having something worth fighting for.
The pack house comes into view—a structure I'm beginning to recognize, beginning to associate with safety and belonging and the particular kind of chaos that comes from being claimed by four men who are just as broken as I am.
Home.
The word surfaces unbidden.
Dangerous.
Precious.
But I don't push it away.
Just let it settle into my chest next to the ember of hope, next to the warmth of Sage's hand in mine, next to the unfamiliar sensation of actually looking forward to what comes next.
For the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—I'm not just surviving.
I'm not just enduring.
I'm not just waiting for the next bad thing to happen.
It's the first time I've been excited.