Chapter Eight
THREE YEARS LATER:
My advisor asks me to meet her in her office after class, even though I need to get to my Tuesday job ASAP.
I sit and fiddle my thumbs while Dr. Craven shuffles papers on her desk and sips a watered-down iced coffee.
“I need to be somewhere soon?—”
“Of course, dear. I know you stay busy. This won’t take a second. I have a special case I need your attention on. A late transfer, mandated tutoring. I need the best we have. And you’re it, darling.”
I internally groan. “My schedule?—”
“Only an hour a week. The student can accommodate your schedule.”
I chew my lip. There is no hour to spare. I should know, I’ve become a scheduling fanatic out of necessity over the past three years to manage two jobs and a full-time course load.
But I need Dr. Craven’s glowing recommendation for grad school if I’m going to get accepted anywhere decent, and it’s not often I’m in the position to do her a favor.
“Okay. I’ll make it work. But I can only do Wednesday afternoons.” It was my lunch break between my upper-level class and the start of my waitressing shift, but I could always shove something in my mouth at the grill when my boss wasn’t looking.
“I’ll pass it along. I’m sure that will be fine, but I’ll let you know if there are any complications.”
I nod and smile and start to stand. “Great. If that’s all?—”
“One more thing, Ms. Crane. The student’s an alpha. That won’t be an issue for you, will it?”
Great. Shut in a room an hour at a time with a posturing hormone monster. I’ve tutored alphas before, but I avoided them when I could. At least the university requires all students to be on the minimum dose of suppressants, barring medical and religious exemptions.
I suck in a breath and force a smile. “No, not a problem. I’m on suppressants.”
“Wonderful. I knew you were the sensible sort. Hurry along now then, dear.”
I run all the way from Craven’s office, down the stairs in the outdated English building, and across the mile-long trek to the commuter parking lot.
I’m panting when I slide into my car and crank it, immediately blasted in the face by hot air that refuses to cool.
“Fuck!” I slam my hands against the peeling steering wheel. My Civic’s freon leak is back, and summer is only just beginning.
The middle of my back and the space beneath my breasts are soaked in sweat when I pull into Murray’s gravel parking lot.
Francine, the manager, shoots me a look when I swing in the door, still pulling my hair into a ponytail and tucking it beneath my hat.
“You’re late, Crane.”
“I know, I’m sorry?—”
“Start prep. I’m not clocking you in till 5.”
I glance at the clock. It’s only 4:36.
I’m pretty sure that’s illegal wage theft, but I don’t have the energy to argue with Francine today. I don’t have the energy for much of anything, lately. I was encouraged by friends and professors alike to quit one of my jobs, but if I do that, I won’t be able to afford my extra medication.
Extra, as in black market.
Extra, as in I take twice the prescribable dose to keep my heats at bay. I haven’t had one since the claiming ceremony, and I intend to keep it that way.
I’m late to meet my new tutee, but I can’t be assed to care.
Today has been a nightmare. I spilled my coffee on my way to my first class, managed to forget that an entire paper was due in one of my electives, and I’m sleep-deprived.
I stayed late at Murray’s to close after a coworker called in sick, then I still had homework to do once I got home.
I only remember the tutoring appointment thanks to Dr. Craven’s email confirming the day and time. It arrived while I was sitting in my car, on break at my morning job at the third best café in town, fighting the urge to lean my seat back and take a nap.
I stomp up the library stairs to the second floor and hurry to our reserved study room. It’s on the back wall, deep in the stacks.
A wave of alpha pheromones overwhelms me when I enter the room. I plop my pile of shit—books, purse, requisite beverages, jacket, keys—onto the first available surface and head to the whiteboard. I start popping the caps off markers to find one not dry as a bone.
“You came.”
I nod, distracted. “Sorry I’m late. My schedule is a nightmare this semester.”
“No worries, Birdy. It’s been a long time.”
I freeze and slowly sniff the air. Only one person calls me by that nickname.
It's been so long since I've smelled him. My sense of smell is shit on this many suppressants, but his scent is unmistakable.
Unchanged.
Unthinkable.
For a moment, I'm back in that clearing, holding his shirt to my nose, ignorant to the pain about to eclipse my entire life.
I blink and tear myself out of the flashback.
The dry-erase marker falls out of my hand and rolls across the room, and I slowly turn around.
Connor Masters is sitting in my tutoring room.
He’s only gotten more devastating with age.
His scent has matured over the past three years. It's rich and spicy. Tempting. The scent of an adult alpha male quickly curling around the burnt nothing in my nose and doing its wicked work. I can feel my body temperature rising.
My heart kicks into a panic. I survived the last three years by having a plan.
I knew when he came to town weeks in advance.
I went to school, went to work, made dinner if I had energy left and groceries in the fridge—or more frequently, settled for spoonfuls of peanut butter or butter noodles, and slept.
My schedule kept me sane. Avoiding him kept me sane.
I was doing better lately. Recovering, even. I could go on walks in the woods again. I could research my condition without doom-spiraling. I finally started responding to texts from friends I didn’t deserve—the ones that still bothered to reach out, anyway.
Why now?
I swallow, my throat sticking with dryness. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm your tutee.”
“No, you're not.”
He raises a devastating eyebrow. “Yes, I am.”
“You don't even go here!” What the fuck was he playing at? “I don't have time for this.” I start to gather my things.
“For this, or for me?”
“ Either .”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “I transferred.”
A rock drops into the pit of my stomach.
“Why?”
“I’m swapping to pre-med. Specialty in designation studies. And there’s a great med school in Canterfield. A prominent researcher in mating bonds teaches a course there. You may have heard of her—Dr. Aiko Kanata?”
I freeze.
He knows, he knows, he knows.
“Never heard of her.”
This wasn’t part of the plan. Why didn’t Mac tell me? If I knew Connor was contemplating med school, I could have factored that into my plans—considered all the places he might go and adjust accordingly Maybe I could’ve taken more overtime hours and graduated early?—
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Room 207, right? Dr. Craven said you agreed to tutor me.”
“She didn’t give me a name! Just told me it was an alpha. ” I spit the word like venom.
Connor looks nonplussed. Always at ease, always comfortable in his skin. “And I am that alpha .”
The way he says it sends a shiver down my spine.
“You can’t come to school here. I’m almost done.” The response just spills out of me. Connor flinches slightly, then curls his lips into a frown.
“I think that’s between me and the admissions board.”
Which his dad has a seat on. Something inside me dies. I didn’t know there was still were still things alive in me available to die, but trust Connor Masters to find a way.
“Since when are you interested in med school?”
“Since when do you get to act like you still know me and the things I’m interested in?”
“Well, I know damn well you don’t need tutoring.” He was always a strong student, when he bothered to apply himself.
“It's a stipulation of my transfer. I racked up a lot of absences last year.”
That was unlike him. Why — I shut down the thought. Not my circus, not my alpha.
Alpha? My omega perks up.
I am going to strangle Mac. Was his hand in this? Was this his way of manipulating me into telling Connor?
I close my eyes and keep them shut for several long seconds— time ticking away behind the blackness of my lids. A whimper escapes my lips.
“Lana?”
Why do you insist on ruining my life?
He looks stricken. Shit, did I say that out loud?
“Your dad didn’t tell me.”
Connor scowls. “Talk to Mac often, do you? For someone who lives and works in this town, you’re always conveniently away when I visit.”
I start stuffing my shit into my bag, suppressing the instinct to flee. That will only excite an alpha.
“He usually mentions when you have a visit coming up.”
“So you can avoid me?”
Yes .
I shrug. “I like to camp in the summers.”
“And on random Tuesdays in November.”
He noticed my absence, which meant he was looking for me?—
Has Mac already told him?
He wouldn’t. He swore he wouldn’t.
He’s the reason his son’s scent was on that table. He’s the reason my entire life derailed, the reason my bond was a gaping wound in my chest without constant suppressants to mute it. The man has a guilt complex a mile wide.
“You owe me a conversation.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
Connor lets out a frustrated growl, and the sound sends a shot of heat between my legs.
My scent spikes higher than it has in three years. He inhales.
I need to get out here. I need to take my suppressants.
I needed to calm the fuck down. Panicked, my omega scent will be twice as powerful. But my instincts scream at me to flee. If he identifies me as his mate, it’s over. I can’t deal with his rejection again. It would kill me this time.
Connor rises from his seat, and a wave of his scent comes with the motion.
It’s too much. I’ve gone too long without, and now I’m overdosing on him.
My breaths are coming too fast. The corners of my vision waver.
I brace myself against the wall and slide down it.
I blink, and Connor is crouched in front of me, concern etched onto his perfect face. “Lana? Your scent’s spiking. What’s wrong?” His voice fades in and out.
Then he’s touching me, monitoring my heart rate with fingers pressed against my neck. He brushes against my mating gland through my shirt, and I shudder violently.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
His touch is a forbidden balm. Everything I want and can’t have.
His fingers stroke my collarbone. “Lana, it’s all right. You’re safe with me. Deep breath in.”
I obey. This man could turn me into his puppet, suppressants or not.
“Hold it. Now release.”
I follow his steady instructions until my heart stops hammering in my ears.
“When's the last time you ate? Is your blood sugar low? Are you sick? What do you need?”
There’s a part of me, buried deep, that exults in this treatment—his care and attention.
This is how it could be.
A minute more, and I find my way back to normal—or as close to normal as can be expected in his presence.
Connor’s expression is tortured. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll ask them to assign a different tutor. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any distress. I just—wanted to see if we could be friends again. To find out where we went wrong.”
I nod but don’t speak, then take a tentative sniff.
He smells good , far better than any other alpha, but his scent isn’t sending me down a panty-soaking spiral like it would if my suppressants weren’t working.
And if he really is going to school here, I can’t expect to avoid him like I have since high school.
Maybe it’s better if I can control our meetings—then I can monitor how well the suppressants work in close proximity to him.
Better than randomly running into him on campus and being surprised when their effectiveness has failed.
Connor is standing up and gathering his things before I manage to speak.
“Wait.”
He looks back, all earnest concern.
“Dr. C’s my advisor. I need a stunning letter of recommendation, and you’re a local legend and a board member’s kid. I’m not jeopardizing that. I’ll tutor you.”
He frowns, then gives me a slow nod. “If you’re sure.”
“Don’t make me second guess myself.”
A small grin creeps onto his face.
“Alright, Crane. I appreciate it.”
“We’ll start next week. Same time, same place.”