Chapter 28 What’s Ours #2
I stare at Vanessa with an expression I have perfected over years of being targeted.
Calm. Unreadable. Offering nothing for her cruelty to grip onto, no tears to validate the attack, no flinch to confirm the hit.
I let the silence stretch until it becomes its own response, until the absence of my reaction becomes louder than any words I could deploy.
Then I roll my eyes and turn to leave.
"Oh, and one more thing," Vanessa calls at my back, her voice carrying the shrill edge of someone who is not satisfied with the response she received and is reaching for a final blow. "I am going to be wearing Rafe's jersey tonight at the game. So do not be jealous."
I almost laugh.
Almost. The impulse rises in my throat, buoyed by the genuine absurdity of being told to envy a woman whose primary achievement is wearing another person's laundry, but before the sound can escape, an arm slides around my front.
Warm. Solid. The weight of it settles across my collarbones with a casual possessiveness that is both protective and declarative, and the scent that accompanies it washes over me like a tide.
Ocean salt and warm amber, clean and bright, the familiar fragrance threading through my senses before my eyes confirm what my nose already knows.
Cal.
I look up.
He is standing behind me, his arm draped across my front with the relaxed confidence of a man who has been listening to the conversation for longer than his entrance suggests.
He is still in his practice gear, a university hoodie zipped over his workout clothes, his blond hair damp at the temples from recent exertion, his amber eyes fixed on Vanessa with an expression that is polite in the way a closed fist inside a velvet glove is polite.
"And why would she be jealous of that," he says, his voice carrying across the hallway with a volume precisely calibrated to ensure the lingering students hear every syllable, "when she is dating me?"
Vanessa gawks.
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. The reaction ripples through her entourage like a shockwave, three faces cycling through identical sequences of surprise and recalculation. A cluster of students near the lockers stops pretending not to watch and starts openly staring.
Cal tilts his head, one eyebrow arched with the lazy amusement of a man who is enjoying himself far more than the situation warrants.
"Obviously she is going to be wearing my jersey tonight.
Though I will probably play devil's advocate and stay off the ice, since Rafe is the skilled almighty one who is going to win us our first game single-handedly.
" The sarcasm is thick enough to spread on toast. "No need for the rest of us, right?
Rafe has it covered. The whole team can just sit in the stands and let the one-man show handle it. "
"Cal," I whisper, tugging at his sleeve.
He looks down.
And he smirks. The full, unbothered, Cal Whitmore smirk that I have watched him deploy in a dozen contexts but never aimed at me from this angle, from this proximity, with this particular softness layered beneath the confidence.
Then he leans down and kisses me.
In the hallway. In front of Vanessa. In front of the students.
In front of the cardboard bear with the Sharpie mustache and the BE MINE OR BE GONE banner and the paper hearts dangling from the ceiling on fishing line.
A firm, deliberate press of his lips against mine that lasts exactly long enough to make a statement and short enough to leave me wanting more.
Several people gasp.
One girl drops her binder.
"Hey, MaeBell." He pulls back with a grin, casual, like he did not just detonate a social bomb in the middle of a public corridor.
"Sorry for making you wait. Traffic in the halls is insane with the dance coming up.
They are putting all these Valentine's Day decorations everywhere.
Barely made it through the east wing without getting clotheslined by a streamer. "
My cheeks are burning. My pulse is a percussion section. My brain is attempting to reconcile the fact that Callahan Whitmore just kissed me in front of a live studio audience and is now discussing hallway decoration logistics like it was a natural transition.
I nod, because my vocal cords are temporarily out of service.
"Do not worry about it," I manage, my voice a full octave higher than its resting frequency. "I was just, um. Going to drop my stuff at the dorm."
"Perfect." He nods, his arm still around me, solid and warm and broadcasting a possessiveness through his ocean salt scent that makes my Omega instincts hum with a contentment I refuse to display on my face in front of Vanessa's imploding social circle.
"I will come with. Need to drop my gear and get my hockey equipment set up for tonight.
But I was thinking we could do some quick shopping before an early dinner. You need new clothes, right?"
I blink.
The mention of clothes triggers a memory from yesterday's conversation, a casual remark I made about running out of wardrobe options that I did not realize he had filed away in whatever mental catalogue he maintains for my needs. I mentioned it offhandedly. He remembered it with intention.
"Yes," I say, the surprise audible. "I do actually need some things."
"Good." He grins. "Let us go shopping. My girl needs the latest cozy fits, and I am not letting you walk around this campus in recycled outfits when I can fix that."
My girl.
Second time this week an Alpha has called me that, and the possessive still hits like a match striking flint. Sparks. Heat. The involuntary acceleration of a pulse that does not know how to be casual about being claimed.
Cal turns his gaze back to Vanessa.
She has not moved. Her entourage has not moved.
They are collectively frozen in the aftermath of a scene that has rewritten their understanding of the social hierarchy in real time, and the expression on Vanessa's face is caught between fury and the particular discomfort of a woman who just lost control of a narrative she thought she owned.
Cal smirks.
"Do not be too antsy with my girl, Voss." His tone is pleasant. His eyes are not. "Or maybe I will have to entice her to join the team and take your place as captain."
He winks.
Then he steers me away, his arm guiding me through the hallway with the practiced ease of an athlete navigating a crowded space, and we leave Vanessa and her chorus line standing in a pool of their own silence while the students who witnessed the exchange pull out their phones to document the gossip before the details cool.
We round the corner.
The moment we are out of sight, I exhale. The breath leaves my body in a rush that empties my lungs completely, releasing tension I did not realize I had been holding since Vanessa's first syllable landed on my skin.
"Thank you," I say, glancing up at him. "For interfering. You did not have to do that."
"Obviously I did." His expression shifts from the smug public performance to genuine concern, his amber eyes scanning my face for damage the way a trainer checks a player after a hard hit.
"Sorry she is targeting you. You are clearly her primary focus, and I am guessing that has been the case since you arrived. "
"Clearly." I huff, the sound more tired than bitter.
"Vanessa Voss has decided that my existence is a personal affront to her social standing, and she intends to remind me of that at every available opportunity.
It is her hobby. Her passion project. I should be flattered by the dedication, honestly. "
"You should not have to deal with it."
"No. But I can handle myself." I straighten my spine, pulling my shoulders back with a resolve that is partly genuine and partly performance for my own benefit.
"She is not the first person to call me names and she will not be the last. I have survived worse insults from people with actual power over my life.
Vanessa Voss and her three backup dancers do not crack the top ten. "
He nods, his jaw tightening with the restrained frustration of a man who wants to fight a battle I have already decided to wage on my own terms.
We walk in comfortable silence for half a block, the February air biting at our cheeks, the campus buzzing with pre-game energy that electrifies the atmosphere like a low current running through the ground.
Students are wearing university colors. Banners advertising tonight's match hang from the athletics building.
The parking lot near the arena is already filling with early arrivals staking out their tailgate spots.
"Hey," Cal says, breaking the silence with a tone that is deliberately casual in the way that means the next thing out of his mouth is not casual at all. "Do you want to go to the Valentine's Day dance?"
I stop walking.
"Wait." I turn to him, searching his face for traces of a joke. "Are you actually asking me?"
He smirks, his hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, his blond hair catching the grey February light.
"Yup. And before you overthink it, I mean with the pack. All of us. Together. Might be nice to show up as a unit instead of four individuals who happen to share a mailing address." His smirk widens. "Better to ask now before someone tries to steal what is ours."
He winks.
Ours. The word blooms in my chest with a warmth that the cold air cannot touch.
"I have never been to prom," I admit, the confession slipping out with a vulnerability I did not intend to display on a public sidewalk.
"Or homecoming. Or any school dance. The communal housing system does not exactly coordinate formal wear and limo rentals for its residents.
The closest I got was watching other girls post photos from their events while I sat on my shelter bunk and pretended I did not care. "
Cal's expression softens.