Chapter 22 Compartmentalized
Morning came too early. I rolled out of bed with a low groan, every muscle reminding me exactly what I’d done the night before. A deep, satisfied soreness lingered in places I refused to think about. I shuffled into the bathroom on autopilot and flipped on the light.
One look in the mirror was enough.
My hair was a complete disaster, tangled and flattened on one side. The mascara had somehow survived better than expected, only slightly smudged. But none of that held my attention. Right at the curve where my neck met my shoulder sat a dark, unmistakable hickey. Deep purple. Impossible to hide.
I stared at it for a long second.
“That rat bastard.”
My cat purred, the traitorous little shit sounding entirely too satisfied.
Concealer took the edge off the worst of the color, but it didn’t hide the mark completely.
I cursed under my breath, grabbed a long-sleeved training top, and zipped it all the way to my throat.
The rest of my gear followed fast. I was out the door and heading for the track before anyone else in the house was awake.
The locker room was already half full when I walked in. I went to my usual locker beside Cassidy, set my bag down, and unzipped the long-sleeved top. The second the high collar left my neck, the air changed.
“Oh my god.”
I looked over at Cassidy.
She stepped closer, staring at my neck. “Harper. Is that a hickey?”
I slammed my locker shut. “It’s nothing.”
“That is not nothing. That thing is massive.” She grinned, delighted. “Did Jackson do that?”
I grabbed my hair tie and twisted my hair up. “Drop it, Cassidy.”
“I can’t. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.” She leaned in, still staring. “Does it hurt? It looks like it hurts.”
“It doesn’t.”
A locker slammed behind us. Naomi stood a few feet away, eyes fixed on my neck, expression already twisting into something ugly.
“Wow,” she said, voice dripping with venom. “Nice souvenir. Guess you had a busy night.”
Cassidy went stiff beside me.
“Problem?” I asked calmly.
“No problem at all,” Naomi said with a fake smile. “Just didn’t realize you were that quick to spread your legs. Three weeks in town and you’re already wearing teeth marks like a trophy.”
A couple of her friends snickered.
I tied my hair back slowly. “Funny.”
“What’s funny?”
I turned to face her. “You calling me easy… when you’re the one who snuck into Jackson’s bed naked and got thrown out like yesterday’s trash.”
The locker room went dead quiet.
Naomi’s face drained of color for a split second, then flooded red. “That never happened.”
I just looked at her.
“It didn’t,” she insisted, voice rising. “Whoever told you that is full of shit.”
I tilted my head slightly, letting the hickey catch the light. “He told me himself.”
Her friends suddenly got very interested in their shoes.
“You’re lying,” Naomi spat. “Jackson would never touch you.”
I smiled, small and cold. “Keep telling yourself that.”
She took a step forward, fists clenched. “You fucking bitch—”
"Both of you, stop," Cassidy cut in, stepping between us.
Naomi held the glare for another long second, like she was deciding whether it was worth pushing further. Then she spun on her heel and stormed out, ponytail still only half-done. Her two friends scrambled after her without a word.
Cassidy turned to me, eyebrows raised.
“You and Jackson?”
“Not talking about it.”
She grinned. “After practice. You’re telling me everything.”
I picked up my water bottle. “I’m telling you nothing.”
“You say that now,” she said, still smiling as we headed out. “But I’m very persuasive.”
Practice was all intervals and drills. After a quick shower, I pulled on jeans and a black turtleneck, then let Cassidy steer me toward the cafeteria. She bought two coffees and slid one across the table the second we sat down.
She lasted about four seconds.
“So,” she said, eyes gleaming. “You and Jackson.”
I took a slow sip. “There is no ‘me and Jackson.’”
“Liar. That hickey says otherwise. It’s practically a neon sign.”
I picked at the fruit cup. “Drop it.”
“Impossible. I need details. Scale of one to ten, how good was it?”
I gave her a flat look.
She leaned in. “At least tell me if he’s as big as he looks.”
“Cassidy.”
“What? It’s a valid question.” She grinned. “Come on. One tiny crumb. Did he take you to the cult compound? Was there chanting? Robes?”
I exhaled. “No cult. No chanting. And that’s all you’re getting.”
She slumped back dramatically. “You’re killing me. I live vicariously through you now.”
“Tragic.”
An hour later, I stepped out of Criminal Profiling with my notebook tucked under my arm and my mind still turning over the lecture.
The hallway was a press of students moving in both directions.
I took the corner without checking and drove straight into a solid chest. My books and notes scattered across the floor.
The wolf I had walked into scowled down at me, already angry.
“The fuck? Watch where you’re—”
His voice died mid-sentence. His eyes flicked over my shoulder and every bit of color drained from his face.
A low, dangerous growl rolled out from behind me.
“Give her the fucking books. Now.”
The wolf dropped into a crouch immediately, hands scrambling to gather my scattered notes and notebook.
“Sorry,” he muttered, not looking up. “Didn’t see you there.”
His two friends stood frozen beside him, suddenly very interested in the floor.
I took the stack of books from his hands without a word. The three of them backed away quickly and disappeared down the hall.
I turned.
Jackson was still staring down the hall, body wound tight, jaw locked, eyes dark with the kind of fury that didn’t burn out fast. He wanted to go after them. I could feel it.
The last thing I needed was him breaking someone's nose over a hallway collision.
I reached out and threaded my fingers through his.
He tensed for a second, then let out a slow breath. His grip tightened around mine, but he stayed put.
A few feet away, on the edge of the crowd, Lia stood with books clutched to her chest. Her eyes dropped to our joined hands, then flicked up to my face. She managed a tight, brittle smile that didn’t reach her eyes before turning sharply and disappearing into the lecture hall.
I let go of his hand. When I looked back at Jackson, he was already watching me.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I was fine until you tried to terrorize half the hallway.”
His jaw flexed. “He ran into you.”
“I ran into him,” I corrected.
“He still hit you,” he said, like the distinction didn’t matter.
I started walking toward Environmental Science. He fell into step beside me.
We made it about ten steps before he glanced down at me — specifically at my neck.
His eyes narrowed. “Why are you wearing a turtleneck?”
“It’s cold.”
“It’s not cold.”
I kept walking. He matched my pace easily.
“You’re covering it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t like that.”
“Noted.”
A few steps passed in silence before he spoke again, voice lower.
“I was looking forward to seeing my mark on you today.”
“Heartbreaking,” I muttered.
“Harper.”
I sighed and finally glanced sideways at him. “It’s a bruise, Jackson. Not a trophy.”
“It’s my bruise.”
My cat purred. I ignored her.
He pushed open the door to the lecture hall and held it for me. I walked in first. We took our usual seats right before the professor began. The moment I sat, Jackson’s thigh settled against mine, solid and warm. He rested his arm along the back of my chair a second later.
For most of the lecture on watershed dynamics the contact stayed exactly like that— quiet, constant, distracting.
Until the eighty-minute mark.
Jackson stretched, one arm reaching back behind his head. The movement pulled his shirt up just enough to show a strip of toned stomach and the dark line of hair that disappeared into his waistband.
I looked. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I knew exactly what waited at the end of that line.
He caught me staring.
“Like what you see?” he asked, voice low and amused, lips curving.
I jerked my gaze back to the front of the room, jaw tight. “No.”
“Liar,” he said softly.
It would have been easier if last night had been forgettable. It wasn’t. I still remembered every touch, every sound, every place he’d made me come apart.
The memories weren't going anywhere. Neither was he.
Maybe I could keep the two things separate. Fighting the pull every time we were in the same room was starting to cost more than managing it. I had already crossed the line. Pretending otherwise was a waste of energy.
I didn’t look at him again for the rest of the lecture.
When the lecture ended, he gathered my notebook and pen, slipped them into my bag, and handed it over with the strap already adjusted.
“I’ll text you later,” he said.
“Mm.”
Outside the hall we split off in different directions.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of lectures and half-finished notes. By five I was at my desk with the curtains drawn and the laptop open.
I still knew too little about John Mercer.
Most of what I had came from the pack’s own carelessness.
Their internal pages used a password that hadn’t been updated in years; once I was in, the shift rotation was right there.
His address came from an outdated county property record.
Everything else lived in the open on Facebook—profiles left public, privacy settings ignored.
Pack members. Their wives. John’s own page, empty of any wife or recent relationship.
Careless. All of it.
I'd spent the better part of an hour going through months of posts.
Every Wednesday someone uploaded the same photo sooner or later.
Five middle-aged men crowded around the same card table, beer bottles everywhere, every face tagged.
The timestamps clustered around ten. By then, the game was always in full swing. Reliable enough to build a plan around.
That was the window.
If the pattern held, tonight the game would pull him out of the house. The gate rotation changed at the same hour, thinning patrols along the outer perimeter. Darkness would cover the rest.