Chapter 9 The Chase
The Chase
~ETIENNE~
The door clicks shut behind her, and the sound echoes through the apartment like a gunshot.
For a moment, none of us move. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, filled with the ghost of her presence and the lingering sweetness of her scent. Vanilla sugar and frosted roses, now tinged with something sharper. Something hurt.
I stare at the closed door, my coffee cup still warm in my hands, and feel something inside my chest crack.
Then I turn on Rafe.
"Fuck, Rafe, really?" The words come out sharp, angrier than I have ever heard myself sound. "Why are you such a fucking douche? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Rafe huffs from his position by the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest with that infuriating dismissiveness that makes me want to throw my coffee in his face.
"She is just a temporary roommate." His voice is flat, unapologetic. "She will be out by Valentine's Day. Gone. Back to whatever arranged marriage bullshit her family has planned. Why should I care about hurting her feelings when she is not going to be here long enough for it to matter?"
He shrugs, like he did not just emotionally gut someone who was finally starting to smile.
"Unless you are suddenly smitten for the Omega." His gray eyes narrow with something that looks almost like accusation. "In which case, feel free to go after her. Chase her down the hallway like a lovesick puppy. I do not care if I hurt her feelings. She needs to toughen up."
Smitten.
Is that what this feeling is? This ache in my chest when she cries? This need to protect her from everything, including my own packmate?
I open my mouth to respond, but I do not get the chance.
Cal moves faster than I have ever seen him move off the ice.
One second he is sitting in his chair, amber eyes blazing with barely contained fury. The next second, his fist is connecting with Rafe's gut in a punch that has the full weight of his body behind it.
Rafe doubles over with a wheeze, the air forced out of his lungs in a sound that would be satisfying if I was not so focused on Mae and where she might have gone. He staggers backward, catching himself on the counter, one hand pressed against his stomach as he coughs and gasps for breath.
"What the fuck, Cal!"
Cal does not back down. His hands are clenched at his sides, his shoulders rigid with rage that goes deeper than a morning argument about roommates.
"So you think it is funny?" His voice is low, dangerous. "You think it is amusing because you came from some rich prodigy family with your trust fund and your fancy cars and your never having to worry about where your next meal comes from?"
Rafe straightens slowly, still wincing.
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"You forget, Rafe." Cal takes a step closer, getting in his face. "My family was fucking broke. In the dumps. Homeless once, too. Sleeping in our car for three months while my parents tried to figure out how to keep us fed."
The words land like stones dropped into still water.
I knew Cal's family had struggled before his hockey career took off. Knew there were years of scholarships and sponsors and grinding to make it work. But I did not know about the homelessness. Did not know the depths of what he had survived.
Rafe says nothing.
For once in his life, the captain has nothing to say. He just stands there, still clutching his stomach, his gray eyes flickering with emotions I cannot fully read. Shame, maybe. Or surprise. Or the realization that he fucked up worse than he thought.
Cal does not wait for an apology. He grabs his bag from where he dropped it by the couch, slinging it over his shoulder with sharp, angry movements.
"Etienne." He looks at me, his amber eyes still blazing but softer now.
Concerned. "Go after her. I do not know if she is still the nerdy MaeMae from the past, but she should not be ruining her makeup crying in a bathroom stall while eating a bagel she does not even get to enjoy because this asshole decided to be cruel for no fucking reason. "
I nod, already moving to grab my own bag and coffee.
But I pause at the door.
"She does not wear makeup."
Cal stops mid-stride, turning to look at me with confusion.
"What?"
"Mae." I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder. "She does not wear makeup. I saw her items in the bathroom this morning when I was guiding her to the shower. No foundation, no mascara, no anything. Just lip balm and some kind of color gloss. No skincare either."
Cal frowns, processing this information.
"Every girl wears makeup," he says slowly, like he is testing the statement. "My sisters wear makeup. Every Omega I have ever met wears at least mascara."
I shake my head, pushing through the door with Cal right behind me. We leave Rafe standing in the kitchen, still clutching his gut, still silent.
Good. Let him think about what he did.
"No," I say as we walk down the hallway of our dorm building.
"I checked. Not because I was snooping, but because I noticed when I was looking for her toothbrush to make sure she had one.
No makeup. Well, aside from the lip balm and color gloss.
No skincare products beyond basic soap. No hair products beyond shampoo and conditioner. "
Cal's frown deepens.
"Does she have anything?"
The question echoes through my mind, mixing with everything else I have noticed about Mae in the past twenty-four hours.
The ancient phone she refuses to replace.
The suitcase that fell apart in front of our dorm.
The way she offered to pay me back for a simple bagel like she has been conditioned to believe nothing comes without a cost.
And her luggage.
Her one suitcase that was falling apart at the seams was filled with coats.
I remember helping her carry it inside, remember the weight of it, remember glimpsing the contents when the zipper gave way for a moment. Heavy winter coats packed so tightly they could barely breathe. The kind of thick, practical outerwear that would keep you alive through freezing temperatures.
Not clothes for fashion. Not clothes for variety. Clothes for survival.
How bad was her situation before she came here?
How long has she been surviving instead of living?
"I do not know," I admit, my voice quiet. "But I am starting to think it was worse than any of us realized."
We reach the main exit of the dorm building, and I pause, scanning the pathway outside.
"We will talk more at practice," Cal says, following my gaze. "Go find her. Make sure she is okay."
I nod.
"See you later."
"Later." He claps me on the shoulder before heading off toward the main campus buildings, his stride still tight with residual anger.
I turn the opposite direction, following the pull in my chest that seems to know where she went even before my eyes confirm it.
There.
A glimpse of dark hair turning a corner up ahead. The flash of a navy blazer disappearing around the edge of the academic building. The lingering trace of her scent in the morning air, vanilla and roses leading me forward like a thread I cannot help but follow.
I pick up my pace, weaving through the handful of early-morning students making their way to class. My longer legs eat up the distance quickly, and I round the corner just in time to see her approaching another student.
"Excuse me." Her voice is steady, controlled. No hint of the tears I know are threatening to fall. "Where is the nearest washroom?"
The student points down the hall, giving directions I barely hear because my heart is sinking.
The washroom.
She is going to hide in the washroom.
I remember sixth grade. Remember the rumors that filtered through the school about Nerdy MaeBell spending her lunch periods crying in bathroom stalls. Remember Bastien and his friends laughing about it like her pain was entertainment.
Some habits die hard.
But she does not have to hide anymore. Not from me. Not if I can help it.
I catch up to her just as she starts walking toward the bathroom, her steps quick and determined and heartbreakingly familiar.
"Mae."
My arm goes over her shoulders before I fully think it through, the movement instinctive and protective. She stops mid-stride, her body tensing under my touch, and looks up at me with surprise flickering across her features.
Those hazel eyes are red-rimmed but dry. She has not started crying yet. She is holding it together through sheer force of will, the same stubbornness that made her kick Rafe in the balls yesterday and flip off my brother with both hands.
Strong. She is so incredibly strong. Even when she is breaking.
"Our first class is this way," I say, gesturing vaguely in the opposite direction of the bathroom. "I checked the schedule this morning. We have Literature together in Building C."
She blinks at me, and for a moment I see the anger flash across her face. The frustration at being intercepted. The irritation at not being allowed to fall apart in peace.
But then her eyes meet mine, and I watch her temper calm. Just a bit. Just enough for her shoulders to loosen slightly under my arm.
"I was not planning to skip class," she says, her voice carefully neutral.
"I know."
"I was just going to... freshen up."
"I know."
She is quiet for a moment, studying my face like she is trying to read the words I am not saying.
"I am not going to defend Rafe," I say finally. "What he said was a low blow. Cruel and unnecessary and completely out of line. He had no right to judge your situation when he knows nothing about what you have been through."
Her jaw tightens.
"It does not matter."
"It does."
"He is not wrong." The words come out bitter, edged with the pain she is trying so hard to hide. "I was living on handouts. On pity. On whatever scraps people were willing to throw my way because they felt sorry for the late-bloomer Omega whose family did not want her."
"Mae."
"It is the truth, Etienne. I am not going to pretend otherwise just because it hurts to hear it out loud."