The Line Drawn
Kane turned back around and stared at the closed door of their dorm.
Her pheromones lingered in the hallway—thick, intoxicating, wrong. They screamed fear. Pain. Tears.
It coated the air like smoke, bitter and sharp, sinking into his lungs and making his wolf snarl low in his chest.
He didn’t like it.
His wolf didn’t like it.
The beast paced inside him, claws scraping at the edges of his control, demanding he go back in there. Fix it. Fix her. Wrap around her trembling body, lick the tears from her cheeks, comfort her until the only thing she smelled was them.
But she had looked at them like they were the monsters in the room.
Not the ones who had just torn apart half the Pit to get to her.
Not the ones who would kill for her.
Just… monsters.
Kane dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled hard.
Normally, this was his favorite part of the night.
After the claim.
After the blood.
After they had reminded the school who ruled it.
Violence.
The good kind—at least to them. To everyone else, their thinking was deranged.
The kind where he sank his jaws into a throat and felt the pulse stutter out.
Where he ripped limbs and painted walls red and laughed while they screamed.
But tonight?
He didn’t want it.
The thought of leaving her in there—alone, shaking, hating them—made his stomach twist in a way violence never had.
Saint spoke first.
“I don’t want to go anywhere.”
He was still half naked, blood drying in streaks across his scarred chest, blue eyes fixed on the door like it might open if he stared hard enough.
“I want to go back to our mate.”
Rhys tilted his head slightly.
He studied Saint like he was measuring something fragile and dangerous at the same time.
“You promised,” Saint said, his voice cracking on the word. “You said we’d protect her. Not hurt her.”
Rhys’s golden eyes narrowed just a fraction.
Saint stepped forward.
Not aggressive.
Not submissive.
Just… certain.
“I won’t mark her if she doesn’t want it.”
The hallway went still.
Kane felt the shift in the air like a blade being drawn.
Rhys stared at Saint for a long moment.
Then slowly, his lips curved.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Amused.
Dark, slow, delicious amusement.
He reached out and cupped Saint’s jaw with one bloody hand, tilting his head up.
“You’re growing teeth, puppy,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the sharp line of Saint’s cheekbone. “I like it.”
Saint didn’t back down.
His blue eyes burned.
“She’s scared,” he said. “She thinks we’re like them.”
Rhys’s smile widened—beautiful and insane.
“She’s right to be scared,” he said softly. “We are like them.”
He leaned in close enough that their breaths mingled.
“But we’re worse.”
Saint didn’t flinch. Didn’t drop his gaze.
Instead, he surged.
One hand shot up, fingers clamping around Rhys’s jaw—firm, not bruising, but unyielding. He yanked Rhys down the last inches and kissed him.
Not surrender.
Not even equal.
Claim.
Hard. Hungry. All teeth and tongue and the low, possessive growl vibrating in Saint’s chest. Rhys made a surprised sound—half laugh, half snarl—before his hands curled around Saint’s neck and he kissed back just as viciously.
For three brutal seconds, they devoured each other.
Then Saint broke it.
He shoved Rhys back one step and stepped away.
Without another word, he turned, shoulders set, and walked straight for the door.
Rhys stayed where he was, lips parted, blood smeared across his mouth, golden eyes gone cold as winter stone.
But Kane saw it.
The flicker.
The way Rhys’s fingers flexed once at his sides like he wanted to drag Saint back. The way his throat worked on a swallow he didn’t let anyone else notice. The way his gaze followed Saint’s retreating back like it physically hurt to let him go.
Kane knew that look.
Because he felt it too.
Rhys could snap necks and lill brutally without blinking but Saint? Their soft, stubborn, too-good-for-this-shit Saint?
They both had a knife lodged right under the ribs when it came to him.
And right now, that knife was twisting.
Because Saint had just drawn a line in the blood-soaked dirt: *our mate comes first.*
And neither of them was willing to cross it.
Not tonight.
Not when the alternative was a fight that would end in shredded throats and broken loyalty.
Rhys didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Just watched the door close behind Saint with that same icy, unreadable expression.
Kane leaned harder against the wall, arms crossed, staring at the same closed door.
“Fucker,” he muttered under his breath.
He didn’t mean it.
Not really.
Because deep down, the night had already lost its flavor.
The Pit could wait.
The blood could wait.
Everything could fucking wait.
Until they figured out how to crawl inside that room without making her flinch again.