Chapter 5 Brothers And Battles #2
For a split second, genuine surprise flickers across his face. Like he expected me to cower, and got a cat with claws instead.
Then he whistles, low and mocking.
"Oh, would you look at that." His lips curl into a smirk that makes my skin crawl. "She has a voice now. The little mouse learned to squeak."
Little mouse. Squeak.
The rage that floods through me is hot and immediate and deeply, deeply satisfying.
I open my mouth to deliver what would surely be a devastating comeback, but I do not get the chance.
A growl cuts through the tension.
Low. Dangerous.
The kind of sound that bypasses your brain and goes straight to your survival instincts. A sound you hear in nature documentaries right before something gets its throat ripped out.
My eyes dart forward to find Etienne standing at the end of the pathway, both recovered wheels clutched in his hands like improvised weapons. His entire posture has transformed. Gone is the shy, gentle goalie who laughed at my broken luggage and called my naming habits endearing.
In his place is something primal. Protective. Something along the lines of being ready to tackle his own copy of a brother into the ground and start throwing punches without a single regret.
"Qu'est-ce que tu fous ici?"
The French words come out sharp and clipped, cutting through the evening air like a blade.
What the fuck are you doing here?
I am oddly pleased that three years of high school French are finally paying off in the most unexpected way.
Bastien rolls his eyes; that cocky smirk never wavers.
"Je suis juste curieux, petit frere." He spreads his hands in mock innocence. "Being a nosy fucker, what does it look like?" His gaze slides to me, then back to his brother. "But I am curious why you are hanging around with this one. You are not a fuck boy. Do not have the social skills for it."
He pauses, tilting his head with theatrical consideration.
"Probably still a virgin, are you not?"
Wait.
What?
I glance at Etienne, whose face has gone red with either rage or embarrassment. Possibly both. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
Is he actually a virgin? Not that it matters. Not that it is any of my business. Completely irrelevant information that I have no reason to be curious about.
But... interesting. Filing that away for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
"Fuck off, Bastien." Etienne's voice is tight, controlled, barely leashing the violence that is clearly simmering beneath the surface.
"Make me, brother." Bastien takes a step forward, his posture shifting into something challenging.
His scent spikes with aggression, filling the space between them.
"You think because you are about to hit bulk season that you can out-fight me?
You think Coach Moreau's little pet project can actually take on the real deal? "
He laughs, and it is an ugly sound.
Sharp and cruel and nothing like his brother's warm amusement.
"Please. You are still the same pathetic little—"
"Oh my god."
The words burst out of me before I can stop them, frustration overriding self-preservation.
Both Laurent brothers turn to stare at me with identical expressions of surprise.
I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of confidence I have been faking all day. Every bit of bravado that I have had to manufacture just to survive the past few hours.
"Si vous voulez faire vos conneries de freres comme si j'etais un trophee," I say, letting my rusty high school French sharpen with annoyance, "pouvez-vous le faire plus tard? J'ai eu une tres longue journee. J'aimerais vraiment m'installer dans ma chambre avant minuit. Merci."
If you want to do your sibling bullshit like I am some grand prize at a carnival, can you do it later? I have had a very long day. I would really like to settle into my room before midnight. Thanks.
The silence that follows is deeply satisfying.
Bastien's eyes go wide. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. He clearly did not expect the Omega he used to torment to speak fluent-ish French back at him while telling him to shove his family drama where the sun does not shine.
Etienne looks equally stunned, but there is something else in his expression. Something warm…that looks dangerously like admiration.
Yeah. That is right. The little mouse has claws now. Surprise.
But the satisfaction is short-lived.
Because Bastien's surprise curdles into something uglier. Meaner. His expression hardens, and before I can react, his hand shoots out.
Fingers wrap around my wrist in a grip that is just shy of painful. Tight enough to bruise. Tight enough to make my shoulder protest as he yanks me toward him.
"Why are you not some quivering coward anymore?
" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper, his face too close to mine.
Those cold blue eyes bore into me like he is trying to see through my armor.
Like he is searching for the scared little girl he remembers.
"Where is the pathetic little nerd who used to cry every time someone looked at her wrong? Who used to shake when I walked by?"
My heart is pounding.
My wrist aches where his fingers are digging in.
And somewhere deep inside me, that scared little girl is screaming. Run. Hide. Make yourself small. Do whatever it takes to make the bad man stop.
No.
She is dead. I killed her myself. Buried her in therapy sessions and late-night tears, and the slow, painful process of rebuilding from rubble.
And I will be damned if I let him resurrect her.
I meet his eyes and hold them.
"She grew up," I say quietly. "And she stopped giving power to people who did not deserve it."
Something flickers across his face.
Surprise, maybe.
Or recognition of a challenge he was not expecting. His grip tightens on my wrist, fingers pressing into bone.
But before either of us can say anything else, an arm wraps around my waist.
Strong. Firm. Pulling me backward out of Bastien's grip and into a solid chest that smells like evergreens and old books and safety.
Etienne.
His growl vibrates through me, low and primal and absolutely menacing. His arm tightens around my middle like a steel band, tucking me against him like he is shielding me from a threat.
"Touche ma belle encore une fois," he snarls at his brother, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying the force of a shout, "et je te defonce la gueule."
Touch my beautiful one again, and I will knock your fucking face in.
Ma belle.
He called me ma belle.
My beautiful one.
My brain short-circuits for a solid three seconds.
I can feel the tension coiled in every muscle of his body.
Feel the barely restrained violence thrumming just beneath the surface. His scent has changed too, sharpened into something protective and possessive that makes my Omega hindbrain perk up with entirely inappropriate interest.
It is fake. Obviously fake. We are still playing the pretend game from earlier.
So why does my stomach flip like it means something real?
Bastien's grip on my wrist loosens in surprise. He steps back, blinking at his younger brother like he is seeing him for the first time.
Then that ugly smirk returns, slower this time.
More calculating.
"Oh." His voice drips with mock realization. "So my little brother has an obsession, huh? The quiet virgin goalie finally found himself something worth fighting for."
Etienne's arm tightens around me. I can feel how badly he wants to launch himself at Bastien and start throwing punches. Can feel the restraint it is taking to hold himself back.
Please do not fight. Please do not fight over me. I am not worth getting suspended over, and I really do not want to explain to Miss Phillip why there is blood on the pathway.
The door behind us swings open with a dramatic creak.
"Is there a problem here?"
Miss Phillip's voice cuts through the testosterone-fueled standoff like a bucket of ice water. She is standing in the doorway of the dorm, tablet clutched to her chest, one perfectly manicured eyebrow arched so high it is practically touching her hairline.
Her gaze sweeps over the scene before her: me pressed against Etienne's chest, his arm still wrapped protectively around my waist, Bastien looming a few feet away with murder in his eyes.
Behind her, I can see Rafe and Cal.
They are both standing with their arms crossed, expressions sullen, postures radiating the specific energy of people who have recently been thoroughly and humiliatingly scolded.
Rafe has a fresh bruise forming on his cheekbone, purple already blooming across that sharp bone structure.
Cal's lip is split, a thin line of dried blood visible at the corner of his mouth.
Wait. Were they fighting? With each other?
Miss Phillip surveys the tableau with the weary patience of someone who deals with Alpha drama on a daily basis and is thoroughly sick of it.
"I am sorry to break up whatever family reunion is happening here," she says, her tone making it clear she is not sorry at all, "but can Miss Rose please be allowed into her dorm so we can finalize things?
" She checks her watch pointedly. "I have meetings to attend and paperwork to file.
I do not have time to referee sibling rivalries or whatever this is. "
She gestures vaguely at all of us.
Bastien takes a step back, finally releasing any lingering claim on my space. The imprint of his fingers throbs dully against my wrist, and I resist the urge to rub it.
"Miss Phillip?" I step forward, reluctantly leaving the warmth of Etienne's protective hold. "Why are you here? I already got my schedule from the administrative office."
"Ah, yes." She waves a hand dismissively. "I forgot to explain some house rules during our earlier tour. Very important rules about quiet hours, shared spaces, bathroom schedules, and the general expectation that residents will not try to murder each other."
Her eyes slide meaningfully to Rafe and Cal.
"Rules that some residents seem to need reminding of already."