Chapter 1
Welcome To Chaos
~MABELINE~
"There you are."
A tall woman stands in front of a golden door, arms crossed, heels planted like she's been waiting for us since the dawn of time.
Her hair is swept into a sleek bun that screams 'I have my life together and you clearly do not,' and her blazer is the kind of structured perfection that makes me acutely aware of the blue raspberry stains still clinging to my jeans.
Rafe groans beside me.
"Miss Flip, I'm not in fucking trouble for once."
The woman's eyebrow arches so high it practically disappears into her hairline.
"You will be if you don't correctly say my surname for once in your life." Her voice is clipped, precise, the verbal equivalent of a ruler smacking a desk. "It's Miss Abby Phillip. And I'm a single conversation away from making your life a living hell, so don't go playing games with me, Calder."
He groans again, louder this time, like a petulant child being told to clean his room.
His comrades snicker behind us.
Comrades. Listen to me. Like we're in some kind of war.
Though, honestly?
Living with three Alphas who made my childhood a nightmare feels pretty close to enemy territory.
But standing here, no longer being threatened or provoked or confronted with naked hockey players, I'm finally given the opportunity to actually observe them.
And by observe, I mean stare like a creep while pretending I'm looking at the architecture.
The boys I remember from sixth grade clearly aged like fine wine with a triple shot of testosterone, because, well…
Holy mother of all things Alpha.
Let's start with Rafe Calder, shall we?
He's still shirtless. Still radiating that infuriating 'I know I'm hot and I dare you to deny it' energy. But now that my survival instincts aren't screaming at me to flee, I can actually take in the full picture.
Six foot four, easily. Maybe taller. The kind of height that makes you feel small even when you're trying desperately to stand your ground. His shoulders are impossibly broad, tapering down to a narrow waist that showcases those ridiculous V-lines pointing south like arrows on a treasure map.
A treasure map to places I should not be thinking about.
His face is all sharp angles and dangerous beauty.
High cheekbones that catch the light. A jawline that could cut glass, dusted with just enough stubble to make him look rugged instead of polished.
That tiny scar through his left eyebrow adds a hint of roughness to what would otherwise be model-perfect features.
And his eyes.
God, those eyes.
Storm gray, like thunderclouds rolling over a winter lake. They're the kind of eyes that make you feel seen in a way that's both thrilling and terrifying. Right now, they're fixed on Miss Phillip with barely concealed annoyance, but every few seconds, they flicker to me.
Checking.
Assessing.
Claiming?
His scent wraps around me like smoke, even from this distance. Cedar and woodsmoke and cold winter air, with an undertone of something darker. Possessive. The kind of scent that makes my Omega hindbrain want to roll over and bare her throat.
Down, girl. We hate him. Remember the chants? Remember the tears?
My hindbrain whimpers but reluctantly stands down.
Next up:
Callahan 'Cal' Graham Knox.
Where Rafe is all hard edges and predatory grace, Cal is warmth personified. He's only slightly shorter than Rafe, maybe six foot three, but his build is different. Broader. Thicker. The kind of body you'd expect from a defenseman who's spent years throwing himself between pucks and goalies.
His skin is a rich, warm brown that practically glows under the hallway lights. His curls are cropped close to his head, neat and tidy in a way that suggests he actually owns a comb, unlike certain shirtless captains I could mention.
But it's his face that gets me.
Amber eyes that crinkle at the corners like he's always on the verge of smiling. Dimples that flash every time his lips twitch. A nose that's been broken at least once, adding character to what would otherwise be boy-next-door handsome.
He's wearing a soft gray hoodie that looks like it's been washed a thousand times, the fabric stretched and comfortable and criminally cozy-looking. Reading glasses are pushed up on his forehead, tangled in his curls like he forgot they were there.
His scent hits me in waves. Fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Warm oak. A hint of vanilla that makes me think of Sunday mornings and lazy breakfasts in bed.
The kind of scent that makes you want to curl up in his lap and never leave.
Which is a problem.
Because I distinctly remember Cal standing behind Rafe in sixth grade, laughing along with every cruel joke. He never started the torment, no. But he never stopped it either.
Cheerleader accomplice, thy name is Callahan Knox.
And finally, étienne Laurent.
The shy goalie stands slightly apart from the others, clutching that worn paperback to his chest like a shield.
He's the leanest of the three, all wiry muscle and graceful lines.
Six foot two, maybe. The kind of build that's deceptively strong, honed by years of explosive movements and split-second reflexes in the crease.
His skin is pale, almost luminous, dusted with freckles that scatter across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose like constellations. His hair is a mess of soft black curls that fall into his eyes, and he keeps pushing them back with long, elegant fingers.
Pianist fingers. Writer fingers.
Fingers that could probably do very interesting things if given the opportunity...
STOP IT, brAIN.
His face is softer than the others’. Less sharp.
A gentle slope of cheekbones, a slightly rounded jaw, lips that look perpetually on the verge of saying something important.
His eyes are the color of a winter storm, pale blue with hints of gray, and right now they're watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
His scent is the one that's been clinging to me since he draped his jersey over my shoulders. Snow-dusted evergreens. Old books with yellowed pages. A hint of ink and something warm underneath, like a fireplace on a cold night.
Safety. That's what he smells like. Safety…and secrets but also a pinch of quiet understanding? Odd to think that way when it comes to aromas caught by the nostrils, but I guess nothing is really odd in this Alpha and Omega dynamic.
The weird thing is, when I try to remember sixth grade, try to place him in the crowd of tormentors, I come up blank.
Rafe was the ringleader.
Cal was the laughing sidekick.
But étienne?
I can't recall a single cruel word from his lips.
Can't picture him joining the chants or snickering behind his hand.
Odd.
All three of them together create a scent combination that should be illegal.
Cedar smoke and cinnamon and evergreens, blending into a symphony that makes my Omega hindbrain want to build a nest right here in this hallway and never leave.
A nest.
With three Alphas who ruined my childhood.
Sure, Mabeline. Grand plan. Very sane.
I shake myself out of my observation spiral just as Miss Phillip clears her throat pointedly.
"Ms. Rose?"
I blink, realizing she's been trying to get my attention for probably longer than is socially acceptable.
Smooth. Very smooth.
Nothing says 'functioning adult' like zoning out while staring at your childhood bullies.
"Sorry." I force a smile. "Long day."
Her expression softens slightly.
"I can imagine. Allow me to officially welcome you to Valenridge University for the Gifted."
Valenridge University for the Gifted.
Even the name sounds prestigious. Old money.
The place where legacies are built, and futures are forged.
Especially for us Omegas, and I guess Alphas who have to try and act less feral here than in the real world where they can do whatever they wish.
"Valenridge was established fifteen years ago as the premier institution for Alphas and Omegas pursuing excellence in athletics and the arts," Miss Phillip continues, slipping into what is clearly a well-rehearsed speech.
"Our founder, Victoria Valenridge, believed that the traditional separation of designations in higher education was limiting the potential of both.
Here, we encourage integration, collaboration, and mutual respect between all designations. "
Mutual respect. Ha. Tell that to Vanessa ‘Viper’ Voss and her slushie-wielding minions.
"We have state-of-the-art facilities for hockey, figure skating, dance, music, and visual arts.
Our academic programs are rigorous but flexible, designed to accommodate training schedules.
And our pack integration housing program," she gestures toward the golden door behind her, "is designed to help students experience healthy pack dynamics in a supervised environment. "
"Pack integration housing," I repeat flatly. "With three Alphas."
"Yes." Miss Phillip's lips press together. "About that. I'm glad you met your roommates earlier."
I let out a groan that could rival Rafe's earlier performance.
"No one informed me that I had to have three Alphas as roommates. I was told I'd have roommates. Plural. No one mentioned they'd be..." I gesture vaguely at the wall of muscle behind me. "Them."
Miss Phillip's frown deepens, carving lines of genuine concern into her otherwise composed face.
"You weren't informed? Someone had to have checked off the box in your form before submission. The Alpha-Omega integration housing requires explicit consent from all parties."
I blink, trying to think back to the application process.
The endless forms.
The checkboxes that blurred together after the third hour of digital paperwork. I'm usually meticulous about these things, but I was also running on three hours of sleep and the desperate hope that this program would save me from my parents' arranged bonding plans.
Was there a final page? Did I miss it?
"I'm sure there wasn't anything there about Alpha roommates," I say slowly. "I would have remembered that."