Chapter 32 #2
“I’m not yours,” I say, each word costing enormous effort. “I never will be.”
Carson doesn’t react, but all hints of amusement ice over. His hand moves to his pocket, retrieving his phone. With deliberate slowness, he scrolls to an image and holds it up before me.
On screen, Quinn bends in her chair, wrapping both arms around Sprinkles’s neck. The dog responds right away, licking at her chin before settling his head in Quinn’s lap. The moment is soft and comforting, not like the disciplined working animal administrators prefer.
The timestamp blinks in the corner as Sprinkles’s body relaxes against her, a snapshot that captures domestic intimacy and could be recast as “pet behavior” with the right narrative behind it.
“Documentation,” Carson says smugly, “of policy violations that could trigger immediate accommodation review.”
My stomach plummets. “That’s nothing. Normal behavior for any—”
“Policy doesn’t concern itself with ‘normal,’” he interrupts, pocketing the phone. “Only with compliance. Which brings us back to you, and your persistent difficulty with that concept.”
He steps back, giving me space that’s somehow more threatening than his proximity as his eyes travel over me.
“Tonight was your final opportunity to demonstrate willing cooperation,” he says, his right hand flexing at his side, the subtle movement drawing my eye. “Now we do this the hard way.”
His knuckles whiten as his fingers curl inward, and recognition flashes through me a second too late. No time to raise my arms, no time to step back as his fist arcs toward my face, the blow connecting with my cheekbone in an explosion of white-hot pain that shatters my vision into fractured light.
The force spins me to the side, my hip colliding with the desk, papers cascading to the floor in a paper waterfall. The desk chair catches my falling body, sliding under me before tipping.
Gravity claims us both, and I crash to the carpet with the chair tangled between my legs.
The carpet scratches my palm as I brace myself, head hanging between my shoulders, blood dripping onto the beige fibers, while each heartbeat sends a fresh throb of pain across my cheekbone where bone met knuckle.
Carson stands above me, straightening his tie. There’s no change in his breathing, no flush of exertion colors his cheeks.
“Regrettable,” he says as he stares down at me. “But necessary.”
I prod my lip, pulling my fingers away to find blood smeared across the tips.
A metallic taste fills my mouth, my tongue probing the split flesh inside my lower lip where teeth cut into soft tissue.
Flashes of Westbrook come back to me. I had seen the potential for Carson’s violence there, but for some reason, I let myself believe I was mistaken, that he wouldn’t go this far.
“Get up,” Carson commands, his tone unchanged from our earlier conversation. “This display lacks dignity.”
My arms shake as I push myself to my knees, untangling from the fallen chair. The room tilts and steadies, tilts again.
Carson withdraws a handkerchief from his breast pocket, the crisp white linen monogrammed with his initials, and drops it beside me, the cloth unfurling like a surrender flag on the carpet.
“Clean yourself.” He walks to the minibar, where he retrieves a bottle of water without asking permission. “Blood on the collar is difficult to explain to housekeeping.”
The normality of his movements, the banality of his concern for my shirt rather than the injury he inflicted, sends a chill through me more profound than the pain. I ignore the handkerchief and raise the collar of my shirt to my lip, soaking up the blood.
“Violence is crude.” Carson unscrews the water bottle cap and sets it on the desk without offering me a drink. “I prefer more sophisticated methods of correction, but you’ve demonstrated a particular resistance to subtlety.”
My tongue finds the split in my lip again, probing the wound, and the pain grounds me in the surreal moment.
“Physical discipline is reserved for those who cannot be reached through intellectual means. Such as animals.” Carson speaks as if delivering a lecture. “Some Omegas respond only to direct demonstration of hierarchy.”
I pull myself up using the bedframe, refusing to remain kneeling before him. My cheekbone throbs in time with my heartbeat, heat spreading across the bruised skin as blood rushes to the injured tissue.
“The faculty handbook has specific language about assault,” I manage, words slurring around my swelling lip.
Carson’s mouth curves in appreciation. “Indeed, it does. Section 4, paragraph 3, addresses physical altercations between staff members. Were you planning to file a complaint?”
Shame floods through me. We both know what happened to my last complaint at Westbrook, where my detailed report vanished into administrative limbo.
“The board chairman was quite concerned by your absence tonight,” Carson continues, checking his watch as if noting the time for a report. “Particularly after I shared my concerns about your emotional stability following our disagreement about professional boundaries.”
Ice slides through my veins as his strategy comes into focus. He’s already crafted the narrative of an unstable Omega, the dedicated administrator trying to help, and the regrettable breakdown that necessitates intervention.
“Your behavior patterns suggest increasing volatility.” He tuts in quiet disappointment.
“First with your documented violent behavior at Westbrook, then flaunting your promiscuity around students here… Not to mention how you refuse reasonable professional requests. And now isolation and erratic communication.”
Each accusation builds on a foundation of truth, twisting reality into something unrecognizable.
“The board relies on my assessments when evaluating staff concerns.” Carson straightens his already immaculate collar. “It would be a pity to throw all your years of educational training away.”
My split lip throbs with my pulse, the room swaying around me.
“Monday morning, eight o’clock. I expect you to be punctual when you report to my office,” Carson states, reaching for the door handle. “We’ll discuss your continued employment and Quinn’s accommodation review.”
He pauses, hand on the knob, his back to me in a display of confidence that I pose no threat, despite our size difference. “The natural order will always reassert itself, Leif. Fighting it only increases the pain of inevitable submission.”
The door opens and closes with a soft click, Carson’s footsteps fading down the corridor.
My knees give way, and I sink to the carpet once more, one hand braced on the floor as my breathing comes out in ragged gasps.
Carson’s cherries-and-iron pheromones linger in the air, still suffocating me after he’s gone.
The Alpha calculated this moment perfectly, and I walked right into his trap.
Isolation didn’t protect me. It only made me an easier target.
Here, there were no witnesses to Carson’s assault. No one knows where I am. No one was expecting to hear from me. The perfect conditions for the next phase of Carson’s systematic dismantling of my life.
On Monday morning, he expects me in his office, ready to accept whatever terms he dictates for my continued employment. Ready to submit.
The coppery tang of blood fills my mouth as I brace my hand on the bed, pulling myself upright in stages. My knees protest, and my head throbs with each beat of my heart. Blood drips onto the carpet, marking a trail from where I fell to where I now stand, unsteady but vertical.
I can’t stay here.
Can’t wait for him to change his mind and come back.
Can’t do this alone.
With a shaky hand, I gather my jacket from the closet and slip it on, zipping it up to my chin to hide the blood on my shirt.
Then I grab my wallet, my car keys, and get the hell out of there, once again running.