by Hannah Haze
"You took my phone away. What else do you expect me to do?"
She points to the rows of textbooks on the shelf on the opposite wall. "Read one of those."
He snorts and flings the book back at her. "Why have you always gotta be such a grumpy bitch?"
Tugging the sheet, she snarls. He means opinionated. He means assertive. Men don't like that, especially the Alphas. In fact, most people don't like it. Foster parents, social workers, school teachers. They only want you to express your views in the boxed places and times they decide. They trumpet their phrases — 'never be afraid to say how you feel' or 'you can always talk to me' — but they don't mean it. She's learnt that. It is better to keep your feelings buried inside. And she tries so hard to do that, but sometimes they come leaking out. "Because I don't like you."
He flinches, ever so slightly, but she catches sight of it. "You don't know me."
"Oh, but I do." She pulls herself up to kneeling. "I know your type alright."
"Right." His jaw tightens. "And what is my type?"
"The type who doesn't give a shit about anyone else — only yourself." There were plenty of those at school, at some of the estates she'd lived in, even among the people employed to look out for her. Some would pretend otherwise. Noah doesn't even care enough for that.
"And you think you do care about other people?" He chuckles. "Because you go on your little marches and write your earnest articles in the student paper. You think you're some social justice warrior. You're not; you're pretentious."
"It's not pretentious to care about people — to want to make the world a better place." What else could you do? All the wrongs and the evils and the frustrations. Everything operates ineffectively — she can see the wheels in the mechanics — where things are poorly built, where they don't fit together, or where they stall or catch. She wants to fix it — her fingers itching with the need to do it.
"It’s all just hot air! Virtue signalling." He shakes his head.
It’s not. There’s plenty she does, that she tries to do. Talks at her old secondary school, trying to motivate the students to work hard and apply to a university like hers, mentoring two first years from disadvantaged backgrounds. She’s even got a shift booked at the soup kitchen once this heat is over. However, those aren’t things she talks about, they’re private, and he’d sneer at them like he sneers at everything people like her try to do to make a difference.
She glares at him. "The world seems good to you because you're an Alpha and a privileged one at that."
"Like I said, you don't know me."
"I've seen enough of you to take the measure of you." She dips her head at him. "Trust me."
His brow darkens and anger flashes in his eyes. "Then why the hell am I here?"
She doesn't have an answer for that. She doesn't know.
"Time for me to go then." He springs from the bed and stomps about the room, gathering up his clothes. "Your heat is pretty much over, anyway."
It isn't. She can sense there is at least another half day of it to go, and he knows that too.
But maybe it is for the best, even if her skin pricks and her stomach cramps as she watches him pull his t-shirt over his sculpted torso, and boxers up over his thick thighs, tucking his erection inside. He observes her from the corner of his eye as he dresses, neither of them speaking.
She doesn't want him to go, and yet she can't wait for him to leave. Her body and her mind battling inside, adding to the exhaustion and confusion from her heat.
When he is ready, he turns towards her, huge and domineering. "Omega."
"Yes?" she whispers.
"My phone."
Scowling at him, she unwraps the sheet, and collects the device from the drawer where she's locked it away. As she hands it over, his fingers brush hers and he jolts, his touch lingering for longer than it should. And then he leaves.
Chapter Three
The ball sails high into the sky, spinning and rotating, then arching back towards the ground. He pumps his arms, thrusting his legs forward, eyes fixated on the revolving oval. His brain calculates the trajectory, deducing where the ball will land, and he sees he’s not going to make it. He stretches out his arms and dives for the ground.
His body slaps down hard and he winces as he skids across the wet surface, forcing his eyes open, searching upwards. He spots the ball and reaches, snatching it from the air and cradling it into his body, cushioning it beneath him. Then tucking in his chin, he braces himself, his body still smarting from the impact with the pitch.
One...two...three...
Thud.
The first body hits, the weight forcing the breath from his lungs. He gasps for oxygen, hanging tightly to the ball as the man sprawling over him attempts to roll him over and prize it from his fingers. A second weight thumps on top of him, forcing his face and his body into the muddy grass, his mouth suddenly full of dirt. He swallows, forcing a breath into his crushed chest, trying not to think of the pain.
"Noah!" his team mate shouts by his ear, and gritting his teeth, he tenses his muscles and rolls, throwing the two men off his back and passing the ball. His teammate, Kyle, scoops it up and races away, and Noah clambers to his feet, spitting out dirt and breathing hard. In the distance he sees Kyle race over the line, the opposition trailing behind him.
Try.
The ref blows his whistle.
He jogs over to slap Kyle on the back.
"Good move." Kyle grins at him, the corner of his lip swollen from an earlier elbow.
"Can I take the conversion?"
Kyle shakes his head. "Coach said Harry."
"Right." He turns away quickly and sprints to the other end of the pitch, his eyes scanning the crowd as he does, his nose analysing the scents. There's a good turn out, but he doesn't see his parents. His dad had said he'd try and make the match but he hasn't heard from him today.
He keeps searching. Half way along the lines of seats he halts.
For a moment he thought… but it’s not. Similar long brown hair and willowy figure.
He kicks at a tuft of grass with the toe of his boot.
For that split second he thought it was her: Cora Swift. But there's no reason she would be here, no possibility she’d come to watch him play. A girl like that is not interested in a boy like him.
She’s beautiful, smart and real. More real than any girl he's met before. Fiery and sharp. Sniping and slicing her way through life and taking no prisoners.
Smelling like some heaven-sent little snack. Sexy as hell with her peach-shaped arse, long legs and sweet tits. Yet unattainable, completely unattainable, and entirely out of his league.
Not that he cares. There's a whole gaggle of girls crowded in the front rows of the stands, cheering the team's every move, squealing with delight whenever he or one of his teammates makes a tackle or scores a try. Yeah, it isn't like he is short of offers. The long list of girls in his phone, any one of them willing to be his plaything for the evening, confirms that.
But it pisses him off.
Mainly it is the way Cora looks down her nose at him as if he stinks of shit, as if she believes he isn't even worthy enough to lick the boots she walks in. He knows what she thinks of him. Same as everyone else. Dumb, rich Alpha; spoilt and entitled.
She is so stuck up, so holier than thou. Always in the right. Never in the wrong. Always making the best choices and never fucking things up.
Yeah. Not like him. He has the fantastic ability to mess everything up.
And he's done it again.
He'd not quite believed his luck when he'd stepped into the library that night and smelled her — in heat. And then she looked at him with the hint of want in her eyes. An almost inconceivable invitation.
But if he thought it would be his chance to win her over, his opportunity to change her mind, he'd been wrong. He'd mucked it up as always. And, anyway, she'd turned out to be even more of an uptight bitch than he'd realised.
He hunches over his knee
s and watches in the distance as Harry sets up the ball and paces backwards. It's straightforward. Anyone could make it. He could do it with his eyes closed.
The ref blows his whistles and Harry runs towards the posts, swinging back his leg and sending the ball looping through the goal. The Oxford crowd cheers and the score on the board ticks over.
Why does he care if she is here? He didn't invite her. In fact, they've not spoken since he stormed out. They've actively avoided each other, and yet he sees her everywhere. Whenever he sets foot in the library she's there studying, when he heads into a cafe to grab a coffee she's there behind the counter, when he goes for a run he finds he's passing her on the path.
He smells her everywhere too. Her scent so distinctive, so vivid, so clear above all the other lingering and intermingling odours.
It's driving him wild.
Especially when his mind keeps wandering like it does now; back to those two days they'd spent together. Every time he catches a glimpse of her, and every time he catches a whiff of her scent. Minute flashes. The skin across her back goose bumping as he sucked her gland. A dark blush rushing along her neck as she came. Her bottom lip sucked in behind her teeth, her eyelids fluttering, the skin of her nipples creasing and hardening.
He puffs out his cheeks, blowing those thoughts away, focussing back in on the game.
The ball’s booted back to the centre and the teams take their positions. He grits his teeth. Another toot of the whistle and the other players throw the ball to one another as they progress onto the Oxford half.
He watches the man he's been assigned to mark, number twelve, a squat Beta who's surprisingly quick. He's positioning himself ready for a receive. Noah tracks him, prowling closer, staying just clear of his eyeline. His man darts forwards and the ball cruises back towards his waiting arms.
Noah doesn't wait. He doesn't give him time to set up the next pass. He launches at him, driving his shoulder into the number twelve’s gut, hitting him hard and sending them both crashing into the mud. Harry's there straight away, snatching the ball from the opposition before they have time to react and sprinting back towards the other try line.
The number twelve swears loudly and shoves at Noah’s shoulders, but Noah presses him down harder into the ground, keeping him pinned and snarling at him. He takes his time getting up to his feet.
The man mutters something under his breath as he trots away and Noah glances over to see where the ref is, then picks up his feet, knocking against the other player as he sprints past.
"Watch it you cunt!" he growls at him.
There's only a few minutes left on the clock. His team is gaining on the line. He sprints to help, taking a quick ball and throwing it onwards. Kyle dashes it under the posts as the clock ticks over and the ref ends the game.
A win.
The atmosphere in the showers is jubilant. Someone passes around a bottle of warm champagne. Kyle tips most of it over Harry’s head and then sprays foam at Noah. He lunges for him good-humouredly, and they skid around the wet bathroom floor.
It feels good to win. The other team, York, had beaten them comfortably last year, and he’s pleased he pushed himself hard and helped seal the win.
After they’re dressed and the coach finishes the debrief and cool down, they hit the sports bar on the Cowley Road and start on the beers. A couple of hours later someone suggests a house party further up the road with the lure of hot girls, free alcohol and maybe some coke.
As soon as he steps through the front door, he knows Cora's there. It's not just her scent, he has a sense she is, he just knows, and the dullness from the alcohol suddenly dissipates. It’s like he’s back on the pitch, everything heightened, everything focussed. He scans the living room. The lights are out and someone's lit candles all around the room, shadows flickering along the walls and smoke curling in the air, along with the acidic aroma of weed.
They head past a couple of other rooms, one where the music is rowdier and people are dancing, another where it seems a halfhearted game of poker is taking place, and into the kitchen. It's a large room with a long table and a crowd gathered around it. That's where she is, deep in conversation, her whole body passionately emphasising whatever point she's making.
The first time he’d seen Cora had been in the lecture hall, sat alone in the middle of a row. She had the physique of someone who'd spent most of their adolescence running and she was stretching like a cat, her arms extended above her, arching her back and rolling her head. Except it hadn't really been cat-like, there was nothing domestic about her. He knew that from the start.
Of course he'd already smelled her. Starting university had reminded him of the time his parents had taken him to a theme park and sensory overload had struck him, leaving him unsure what pleasure, what ride, to pursue first. He'd simply stood there for ten minutes, frozen with indecision, while his parents waited impatiently for him to decide
That first moment on campus had hit him in the same way. There'd been so many new scents that day, such variety. It had ignited every nerve of the Alpha inside him, giving him this jolt of energy that pounded through his body. All sorts of smells: earthy, chemical, delicate, vivid, exotic, tame, wet. And obviously among them had been hers. A scent that had tweaked his subconscious without him even mentally acknowledging it. And then in the lecture hall it was there again.
He'd watched her from the back row, entranced, absorbed by the eagerness with which she made notes, the excitement that raced through her body, the confident manner in which she raised her hand and clarified a point. To him she seemed fearless, never shying away from sharing her opinion, or arguing her side. Not like him. His brain seemed to turn to slop in those moments. His tongue heavy and slow, his mind needing time to mull things over.
He watches her again now from the corner of his eye, engaged with passion in the debate taking place, leaning right forward, her hands swirling wildly in the air around her, her brow pulled tight, every eye around the table locked on her. So different from their conversations in her bed when her hands had been tense, and her words came reluctantly.
He spots the moment she senses him, although perhaps she'd already had an inkling, her body stiffening ever so slightly like before and her eyes flitting to meet his for the briefest of moments. It electrifies every nerve in his stomach and he has to force himself to look away, not to stand there gaping at her like the idiot he is.
"Noah!" Kyle calls from the fridge as he chucks a can of lager at him. He catches it with one hand and strolls over. Mo and Harry have their arms wrapped around each other's necks and are singing some dirty song at the top of their voices. Kyle cracks open his beer and knocks his tin against Noah's.
"Shut up, will you!" shouts someone from the table. Noah spins around. Cora's gone. It's one of the men she hangs out with. Zach, isn’t it? The man glares right at him, and Noah feels his blood boil.
Why is the guy looking at him like that? He draws himself up and takes a menacing step forward.
"What the fuck d'you say?" he snaps and instantly he smells the tension in the room shift.
Kyle lays a hand on his shoulder, but he shakes it off. He's glaring down at Zach so hard he feels the strain in his eyes. He can't help it. He hates him, hates the way somehow he is deemed worthy of Cora's company and attention while she won't even look at him, hates the way he recognises his scent so often mixed with hers.
The fingers by his sides are itching for a fight, an excuse to smash this man to smithereens, but then Kyle intervenes.
"Hey, guys, we won. Did you hear? Thoroughly crushed York." He lifts his can in toast and with that action the tension melts away.
There’s cheering from the table and the singing restarts, moving to something less offensive, something about crushing the opposition. Zach throws Noah one more disgusted look and turns back to the small girl to his left, Cora's housemate.
Kyle pulls Noah away and he's thankful for it. Any longer and he might've been tempted to hit the self-r
ighteous dick. He concentrates on his breathing, but Cora’s scent still lingers in the room and he huffs through his nostrils, trying to drive it away.
"Let’s go somewhere else," he whispers into Kyle’s ear. "It’s lame in here."
Kyle nods and they head to the room with the dancing. Immediately Kyle’s pulled away by someone Noah doesn’t know and he leans against the wall sipping his lager, eyes flicking around the room. They land on a girl he's talked to a couple of times. She spots him too and smiles at him through her fake eyelashes. He quirks his head and she walks over, hips swaying. She's cute. Big blue eyes and even bigger tits.
When she reaches him, she rests her hand on his arm and stands up on her toes to kiss his cheek, her mouth sticky with lipstick.
"Hey you," she says, her hand still on his arm, squeezing his bicep.
"Hi." He doesn’t remember her name. It doesn’t matter. Her perfume is strong and floral. It invades his nasal passage and wipes away all other aromas and with it all other thoughts.
She goes to say something, then hesitates, beckoning him down, and he lowers his head so she can speak in his ear, his face hovering above her cleavage.
She’s telling him some story but he’s already lost the thread of it. She giggles, moving closer towards him, her other hand twisting a piece of hair around and around her fingers and her body pressing into his. His hand floats down to rest on her hip. There’s more to her than Cora. He can’t feel the outline of her hip through her curves. If he fucked her he’d have to grip her by the flesh and not by the bone. He liked the way Cora’s hip bone fit so perfectly in his hand. He liked the way she wanted to be held there. He likes the sleek lines of her.
But she doesn’t like him. She can't even stand to be in the same room as him. A spike of irritation flashes through him and he bends down to mash his mouth hard onto the girls, gripping her tight. She likes it, whimpering filth about Alphas into his ear.
That’s all he is to these people. An Alpha. There're girls like this one, who want an Alpha, who want him for his body. And then there are girls like Cora who hate everything he is.