Chapter 6 The Captain’s Problem #2
I am barely listening. My attention keeps drifting to Mabeline, who is standing near the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her expression carefully neutral, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
The way she keeps her back to the wall, positioning herself near the exit.
Like she is ready to run at the first sign of danger.
Like she does not trust any of us.
Smart girl.
"Quiet hours are from eleven PM to seven AM," Miss Phillip continues. "This applies to all activities, including..." She pauses, her lips pressing together in a way that suggests she has had to give this particular lecture too many times. "...intimate activities."
Cal snorts. I refuse to look at him.
"The walls in these units are quite thin," Miss Phillip adds, her voice dripping with pointed emphasis. "What you do in your private rooms is your business, but please be considerate of your roommates and neighbors. Noise complaints will be taken seriously."
Thin walls. Do not be loud when having sex.
Good to know. Not that it is relevant. Not that I am planning to have sex anywhere near this dorm while that Omega is living here.
Even if she does smell like everything I never knew I wanted.
"Miss Rose." Miss Phillip turns to address Mabeline directly. "Your room is the last one on the left. It is the smallest of the four bedrooms, I am afraid. There were some issues with the original space arrangements."
"Issues?" Mabeline asks, her eyebrow arching slightly.
"The unit was originally designed for three residents.
Adding a fourth required some creative solutions.
" Miss Phillip's smile is apologetic but firm.
"However, good behavior and positive progress reports can lead to upgraded accommodations.
We have larger rooms available in other units that may open up over the course of the semester. "
I watch Mabeline process this information. Watch the way her jaw tightens slightly, then deliberately relaxes. The way she forces her shoulders to drop from their defensive hunch.
"No, this is enough space," she says, and her voice is steady. Calm. Completely at odds with the tension I can smell bleeding through her scent. "Honestly, it is bigger than my last place. I will be fine."
Bigger than her last place?
I frown, glancing at Cal and Etienne. They are both wearing matching expressions of confusion, clearly having the same thought I am.
The smallest bedroom in this unit is barely larger than a closet. A twin bed, a small desk, a narrow wardrobe. Room to stand and room to sleep and not much else.
Where the fuck was she living before if this counts as an upgrade?
But she does not elaborate. Just nods at Miss Phillip like the conversation is closed, her face a mask of polite neutrality that gives nothing away.
"Well then." Miss Phillip tucks her tablet under her arm.
"If you need anything, you can use the Omega hotline.
The number is posted in your room and in the common areas.
For more serious questions or concerns, you are welcome to text me directly.
" She pulls out a business card and hands it to Mabeline. "My personal number is on the back."
"Thank you." Mabeline takes the card, tucking it into the back pocket of her jeans.
Then she pulls out her phone.
And I have to physically stop myself from recoiling.
"What the fuck is that?"
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, my voice dripping with the kind of disgust usually reserved for finding mold in the refrigerator or stepping in something unidentifiable on a New York sidewalk.
Mabeline looks up at me, her expression shifting from neutral to annoyed in the span of a heartbeat.
"It is a phone."
"That is not a phone." I gesture at the ancient device in her hand like it personally offends me. Which it does. "That is a relic. That thing belongs in a museum. Is that an iPhone 8? No, wait. It looks older than an 8. Is that a 6? Did they even make phones that old?"
"It is a 6S, actually." Her voice is clipped, defensive. "And it works just fine."
"Works just fine?" I stare at her like she has grown a second head. "Can that thing even run apps? Does it have storage? How do you take pictures with that, a disposable camera from 2005?"
"I do not take pictures."
"Everyone takes pictures."
"Not everyone." She is glaring at me now, those hazel eyes flashing with defiance. "All that matters is it works for essential calling. I do not need the latest anything."
I huff, shaking my head in disbelief. "That is the saddest thing I have ever heard."
Cal, the traitor, chooses this moment to lean over her shoulder, peering at the phone with exaggerated horror.
"Sorry, MaeMae," he says, and I notice the nickname.
Notice how easily it rolls off his tongue.
Notice how she does not flinch away from him despite how close he is standing.
"But that shit is prehistoric. Like, when the dinosaurs were made prehistoric.
I swear we are on iPhone 19 going on 20. That thing is from the Stone Age."
"Dinosaurs were not made," Mabeline mutters. "They evolved. And then they died. Much like my patience for this conversation."
Okay. That was almost funny. I am not going to acknowledge that it was almost funny.
She cringes slightly, looking down at the cracked screen of her ancient device.
"But... it works?" Her voice is smaller now, uncertain. Like she is second-guessing a decision she has made a hundred times before.
Cal does not say anything. The fucking bastard just stands there with his eyebrows raised, letting the silence speak for itself.
Etienne, who has been quiet this whole time, clears his throat.
"Even if it works," he says, his voice gentle in a way that makes me want to punch something, "would it not be better to have something more functional? That phone looks like it has been through a war."
"It has been through several," she admits. "Beatrice the Second is a survivor."
"You named your phone Beatrice?" Cal asks, delighted.
"I name everything. We have discussed this."
"I must have missed that conversation."
"It was riveting. You would have loved it."
I watch their exchange with growing irritation. The easy banter. The way Cal is smiling at her like she is the most interesting person he has ever met. The way Etienne is hovering nearby, ready to jump in if she needs support.
When did my packmates become her personal fan club?
"Can that thing even hold twenty contacts?" I cut in, because apparently I cannot help myself. "Does it have enough memory for basic human interaction?"
She laughs.
Actually laughs.
And the sound does something annoying to my chest. Something warm and fluttering that I aggressively do not want to examine.
"I do not even know five people," she says, and there is a bitter edge to her amusement that I was not expecting. "Let alone have an emergency contact. So storage is not exactly a concern."
She does not know five people?
She does not have an emergency contact?
I frown, processing this information. Trying to reconcile the confident, sharp-tongued woman in front of me with someone who apparently has no one to call in case of emergency. No support system. No safety net.
That is actually kind of sad.
Not that I care. I do not care. Her social isolation is not my problem.
Etienne tilts his head, those storm-blue eyes soft with something that looks dangerously like concern.
"Well," he says slowly, "you will need our numbers, will you not? Since we are roommates."
Mabeline blinks.
Looks at him.
Looks at Cal.
Looks, briefly and reluctantly, at me.
"Uh..." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly uncertain. "I mean... you guys want my number?"
The question hangs in the air like a challenge. Or maybe like a test. Like she is waiting to see which way the verdict will fall.
Silence stretches between the four of us.
Uncomfortable silence.
The kind of silence that makes you acutely aware of every breath, every heartbeat, every microscopic shift in the atmosphere.
Say something. Someone say something. This is painful.
Miss Phillip clears her throat, breaking the tension with the practiced ease of someone who has refereed too many awkward situations to count.
"It would be good if you all exchanged numbers," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You are roommates, after all. There will be scheduling conflicts, shared responsibilities, emergencies. Having each other's contact information is practical."
Practical.
Right.
Because that is what this is. A practical arrangement. Nothing more.
Cal and Etienne exchange a look. One of those loaded, silent conversations that packmates develop over years of proximity. I can read it easily enough.
Should we?
Obviously we should.
What about Rafe?
Rafe can deal with it.
"Sure," Cal says finally, pulling out his own phone. It is the latest model, sleek and shiny and everything Mabeline's ancient device is not. "What is your number, MaeMae?"
She rattles off the digits, and I watch Cal save them with a contact name I cannot quite see from this angle. Probably something stupid. Probably something that will annoy me.
Etienne does the same, his movements gentle and deliberate, like he is handling something precious instead of exchanging basic contact information with a roommate.
Pathetic. Both of them. Absolutely pathetic.
Then they both turn to look at me.
Expectant.
Waiting.
I cross my arms tighter over my chest.
"She can exchange numbers with you two," I say, my voice flat. "I do not need her number."
Something flickers across Mabeline's face. Surprise, maybe. Or hurt. It is gone too fast for me to identify, replaced by that mask of careful neutrality she wears like armor.
"Fine." She shrugs, the movement deliberately casual. "I did not particularly want yours anyway."
Liar.
Wait. Why do I care if she is lying? I do not care. I do not want her to want my number. This is exactly the outcome I was aiming for.
So why does her easy acceptance feel like a splinter under my skin?
"Well then." She turns to Miss Phillip, her posture shifting into something more relaxed now that the phone exchange is complete. "I think we will be fine from here. You are probably very busy, and I do not want to take up any more of your time."
Miss Phillip studies her for a moment. Studies all of us, actually, her sharp eyes cataloguing the bruise on my cheek, the split on Cal's lip, the protective way Etienne is still angled toward Mabeline like he expects an attack at any moment.
"Mmhm." The sound is skeptical. Knowing. The sound of someone who has seen enough drama to recognize when more is brewing just beneath the surface. "If you are sure, Miss Rose."
"I am sure."
"Very well." Miss Phillip makes her way toward the door, her heels clicking against the hardwood with efficient precision. She pauses at the threshold, one hand on the frame, and looks back over her shoulder.
That knowing smile is back. The one that makes me feel like she can see directly through my bullshit to the chaos underneath.
"Good luck," she says. And then, with a smirk that could mean absolutely anything, she is gone.
The door clicks shut behind her.
Silence descends.
Four people standing in a living room that suddenly feels way too small. Three Alphas and one Omega. Three childhood bullies and the girl they tormented. One pack and the woman who just upended everything.
Cal clears his throat. "So... should we give her the tour of the kitchen or..."
"I am going to my room." Mabeline is already moving, grabbing her wheel-less suitcase by the handle and dragging it toward the hallway. "I can figure out the layout myself. You three can do whatever it is you were doing before I interrupted."
She does not look at any of us as she goes. Does not pause. Does not give us the chance to respond.
The door to her room clicks shut a moment later. Quiet. Final. A barrier between her and the three Alphas she has clearly decided she wants nothing to do with.
Good. That is what I wanted. Distance. Boundaries. A clear understanding that we are not going to be friends.
So why does her retreat feel like a loss?
Cal sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well," he says. "That went well."
"Shut up."
"I am just saying, maybe if you had not been such an asshole about her phone..."
"I said shut up."
Etienne does not say anything. Just stands there looking at the closed door with an expression I cannot read. Something thoughtful. Something determined.
Great. Now he is going to be brooding about her all night. Both of them. My packmates are going to spend the next six weeks pining after an Omega who hates our guts.
And I am going to have to watch.
While pretending I do not care.
While ignoring the way her scent is still wrapped around me like a promise I never asked for.
I push off from the counter, heading toward my own room. I need a cold shower. I need to hit something. I need to figure out how I am going to survive six weeks of living with a woman whose very existence makes me feel like my carefully constructed walls are crumbling.
"Rafe." Cal's voice stops me at the hallway entrance. "We need to talk about what happened earlier. About what you said."
"Not tonight."
"Then when?"
"When I am ready."
"That is not an answer."
"It is the only one you are getting."
I do not wait for his response. Just keep walking until I reach my room, slamming the door hard enough to make a point.
Alone at last.
I lean against the door, tilting my head back and staring at the ceiling like it might have answers to questions I have not even figured out how to ask yet.
Six weeks.
Six weeks of living with Mabeline Mae Rose. Of smelling her scent every time I walk through the common areas. Of hearing her voice through the thin walls. Of watching Cal and Etienne fall over themselves to make her comfortable while I try to remember why I am supposed to hate her.
Do I hate her?
I am supposed to hate her.
She is a complication. An intruder. A reminder of every shitty thing I did when I was young and stupid and desperate to feel powerful.
But hate is not what I feel when I look at her.
Hate is not what makes my blood run hot and my fists clench and my entire body ache with a need I refuse to name.
I close my eyes, breathing deep, trying to find the calm that always escapes me when I need it most.
Miss Phillip's parting words echo in my head.
Good luck.
Fuck.
We are going to need it.