The lecture hall for Advanced Neuropharmacology felt hotter than usual, though I knew it wasn’t. My itchy turtleneck was doing me no favors, and every movement reminded me of the aches that refused to fade. I kept my head down, scribbling notes I’d probably have to rewrite later, willing myself to focus.
I felt wrong. Like my body didn’t belong to me anymore. Like I’d been cracked open and something vital had spilled out, leaving me hollow. My mind kept circling back to the same questions. What have I done? What do I do now? Can I fix this?
It wasn’t just the fact that I’d gone into heat, though that had been the catalyst. A spontaneous heat, no less, triggered by nothing more than his proximity, his scent. It was fascinating in a way that set my scientific brain on fire and terrified the rest of me. Spontaneous heats were rare. Exceptionally rare. They only happened under specific circumstances—biological compatibility, heightened pheromone levels, mutual attraction.
Attraction.
The word made my stomach twist, a sharp pang that left me breathless. I was attracted to Max. There was no denying it now, no matter how much I wanted to. My body had already betrayed me, reacting to him in ways I’d never experienced with anyone else. Not with the perfunctory beta partners I’d taken to avoid alphas. Not with anyone.
I couldn’t tutor him anymore. That much was clear. The thought was both a relief and a weight, sitting heavy in my chest like an anchor where it didn’t belong. Relief, because walking away from this mess—the tangled web of Max’s scent, his touch, and everything I’d let happen—felt like the only way to salvage my professionalism.
But the weight? That was harder to pin down. It wasn’t just guilt, though there was plenty of that to go around. It was something sharper, deeper, gnawing at the edges of my resolve.
I hadn’t had a chance to pack lunch this morning, and I told myself that was the reason for the pang in my chest. Low blood sugar, nothing more. The hollow feeling wasn’t about him. It couldn’t be.
Almost there. Just survive this class, and you can—
“Kerrigan.” Professor Malik’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and expectant.
My stomach plummeted. I’d been hoping for today, of all days, to be the one where I wasn’t called upon, but apparently that was too much to hope for. Professor Malik’s gaze locked upon me, curious and unwavering, and I met it, tilting my head.
“Research suggests that scent memories can become permanently linked to emotional or hormonal events. How might these pathways be mitigated or overwritten in individuals prone to heats triggered by specific scents?”
The room went still. Every head turned my way, every pair of eyes boring into me. Of all the questions… I swallowed hard, forcing myself to sit straighter. “Scent memories,” I began, keeping my voice steady, “are heavily encoded in the hippocampus, which makes them particularly resilient to extinction.”
I paused, buying time to suppress the rising panic clawing at my chest. Memories of last night surged forward—his scent, his growl, his hands—and I shoved them down with all the force I could muster.
“But,” I continued, my fingers tightening around my pen, “there are potential pharmacological interventions. Repeated exposure to a neutralizing agent, combined with neuroplasticity-enhancing drugs, could theoretically weaken the connection. Alternatively, using targeted olfactory inhibitors during the initial event might prevent the memory from forming as strongly.”
Right. As if I could scrub last night out of my brain the same way I’d scrubbed my skin raw in the shower. Like there was some magical drug that could erase the way Max had looked at me, touched me. The way I’d let him.
I was a hypocrite, honestly. Spouting solutions I’d failed to follow, proposing fixes for problems I’d walked straight into.
“Interesting,” Professor Malik said, nodding thoughtfully. “And would you suggest any psychological conditioning alongside the pharmacological approach?”
I hesitated, sensing the trap. “While psychological conditioning may help reinforce neutral associations, it would need to be carefully tailored to avoid further stress responses.”
“Well put,” she said, and I felt a flicker of relief.
“I don’t know,” came a smooth, infuriating drawl from a few rows behind me. “It sounds like a lot of work for something as simple as self-discipline.”
Francis Gray was everything I hated wrapped in a perfect package—sharp, polished, and maddeningly smug. As another omega CPE, he was more a peer to me than other classmates. Everyone was convinced we had some sort of rivalry going on, given how he constantly needled me at every opportunity, and they might’ve been right, because I couldn’t stand him.
The room shifted. A few students chuckled nervously, but I didn’t turn, instead staying planted in my seat and tightening my grip on my pen until my knuckles ached.
“Self-discipline?” I said, my voice cold. “You’re suggesting someone consciously override the neural cascades of their own limbic system? That’s not self-discipline—it’s science fiction.”
I didn’t have to look back to know that Francis was wearing a smirk. “Maybe. But doesn’t it come down to personal responsibility? If you know a scent could trigger a reaction, isn’t it on you to avoid it?”
My blood roared in my ears. He couldn’t know. He didn’t know. He was just being Francis, needling me for sport, and yet the words landed like a slap. Francis always knew where to aim. He didn’t just throw barbs; he aimed for the cracks, the places you didn’t want anyone to see. “Avoidance isn’t always an option,” I said tightly. “Biological responses don’t wait for convenient timing.”
“So you’re saying it’s inevitable? That we’re all just prisoners of our biology?”
“That’s not what I said,” I snapped, my composure slipping. “But pretending it’s as simple as willpower is reductive and irresponsible. If we’re discussing solutions, they need to be based in science, not armchair moralizing.”
“Touchy today, aren’t we?” Francis’s honeyed voice was unbothered, amused even. The scratchy turtleneck felt tighter with every breath, a constant reminder of the bruises hidden underneath. The more Francis spoke, the more I felt like the fabric was suffocating me.
Thankfully, Professor Malik cut in then, her voice sharp. “Gentlemen, I appreciate the debate, but let’s move on. Kerrigan, excellent analysis. Mr. Gray, next time, save the tangents for your own presentations.”
By the time class ended, I was a mess. My notes were useless, my focus shattered, and I felt no closer to salvaging what was left of my day. As the lecture hall emptied, I stayed seated, staring blankly at the page in front of me.
I wasn’t sure what weighed more—the useless notes in my bag or the decision I knew I had to make.
----------------------------------------
The library was quiet in the way libraries always were—hushed voices, the faint rustle of pages turning, and the muted clicks of keyboards. I sat in my usual corner by the window, a cup of coffee growing colder by the minute and a half-eaten sandwich sitting limply in its wrapper.
Normally, this was my sanctuary—a space where I could focus, organize, and restore order to the chaos of academia. But the email draft was still open on my laptop, the cursor blinking at the end of a line I’d read and rewritten a dozen times.
Max,
I regret to inform you that I am no longer able to provide tutoring services due to personal conflicts. I will notify the Tutor Council to assign you to someone else. I apologize for the inconvenience and wish you the best of luck in your studies.
My finger hovered over the Send button. One click, and this mess would be behind me.
“Ainsley, darling!”
The unmistakable sing-song lilt of Theo’s voice sliced through the tranquil air like a spotlight in the middle of a crime scene. My stomach sank as I spotted him making his way over, flamboyant and determined, armed with what could only be described as maximum Theo energy.
“I’m working,” I muttered, willing him to turn around.
But, of course, he didn’t. He was already sliding into the chair across from me, his bag landing on the floor with a dramatic thud. I suppressed a sigh, taking in his ridiculous scarf and winged eyeliner and pressed slacks.
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“You’re always working, babe,” Theo complained, pouting as he planted his elbows on the table. “We haven’t hung out in days and I need to yap, okay? Besties yap and you know how I get when I can’t yap.”
I sighed, picking up my coffee and taking a sip of the lukewarm bitterness. “Okay. Fine. Yap.”
“Okay, so…” Theo grinned, pulling out his phone. “The subject of today’s yap is: me, my linebacker, and a series of texts so atrocious that I’m obsessed.”
I didn’t need a reminder of Theo’s ongoing saga with the alpha linebacker, but he thrust his phone at me anyway. The screen displayed a text thread filled with typos, misplaced punctuation, and a sea of emojis.
“You so pritty,” I read aloud, squinting at the screen. “Want 2 c u again sooo bad. Heart emoji, fire emoji… peach emoji?” What did that even mean?
Theo beamed, clearly delighted by my horror. “Isn’t he adorable? Like a caveman with a smartphone.”
“He’s illiterate,” I muttered, but my lips twitched despite feeling myself lose IQ points just having read it.
Theo scrolled to another gem. “Oh, you’ll love this one. ‘Plzz answr my txt. Im dyin over here. Skull emoji with crying face emoji.’ He’s got the emotional range of a Shakespearean tragedy, doesn’t he?”
I rolled my eyes, but something about the earnestness of the texts—ridiculous as they were—made my stomach flip uncomfortably. My fingers suddenly itched for my own phone, to finally look at the messages I had avoided all day, and I squeezed the edge of the table to stop myself. And of course Theo noticed.
“You okay?” Theo asked, tilting his head. “You’re quieter than usual. And by that, I mean you look like you’ve swallowed a brick.”
“I’m fine,” I mumbled, lowering my gaze back to my laptop and pretending the blinking cursor was suddenly interesting.
But Theo was having none of it. He leaned closer, peering at me like he was trying to x-ray my soul. “Oh no, no, no. I know that look. Something’s up. Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill,” I said quickly, turning my laptop slightly to block his view of the screen.
Theo’s sharp gaze lingered on me for a beat too long. Then his eyes zeroed in on my neck.
I froze.
“Ainsley…” His voice dropped into a low, dangerous drawl.
I yanked at the collar of my turtleneck, trying to pull it higher, but Theo’s hand darted out, grabbing my wrist and pulling it away. “Oh, it’s something,” he said, his tone gleeful now. His sharp gaze scanned the edge of a bruise that had slipped into view. “Are those—oh my God, are those hickeys?”
“No,” I lied, my voice cracking.
“Yes, they are!” Theo exclaimed, far too loudly for the library. A nearby student shushed him, and he waved them off impatiently. “You’re covered in them. Ainsley Kerrigan, who mauled you?”
“It’s not what it looks like,” I hissed. Fuck.
“Oh, darling, it looks like someone thought your neck was a buffet.” Theo leaned closer, his grin wicked. “Was it Evan? Please tell me it wasn’t Evan.”
“It wasn’t Evan,” I snapped before I could stop myself. Then I winced, realizing my mistake as Theo’s eyes gleamed with predatory delight.
“Oh, so it wasn’t Evan,” he purred. “So Evan’s old news. Fascinating. Was it… Francis?”
I didn’t even dignify that with a response, instead making a face at him that was a cross between disgusted and what is wrong with you?
“Good, because that would’ve been weird.” Theo tapped his chin, his grin growing. “Was it someone from class? Or—oh my God, don’t tell me it was your Neuroscience professor. You’ve always had a thing for him.”
“I have not,” I hissed, glaring at him. “His class just so happens to be one of my favorites.”
“Hmmm. Did you finally hook up with that philosophy TA? The one with the tragically bad haircut but great cheekbones?”
I glared harder, which only made Theo lean back in his chair and regroup, eyes glittering with unholy glee. His finger tapped against his chin again, a gesture that signaled his chaotic brain was about to unleash something entirely unhinged. I braced myself.
“You know…” Theo began, dragging out the word like he was savoring it.
“No,” I said flatly, even though I had no idea what he was about to say.
He ignored me entirely. “I had the most fascinating conversation last night.”
“Oh, God,” I muttered, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Theo, please don’t.”
But he was already off, his grin widening like a cat spotting a mouse. “I was at this party—classic Wednesday-night tequila-fueled chaos, you know how it is. Anyway, Brody was there. And you’ll never guess what he told me.”
I don’t want to guess, I almost said, except I knew he’d just ignore me. Again. There was no waylaying Theo when he got into sleuth-mode or thought he knew something.
Sure enough, Theo leaned in like he was about to share a state secret. “We were drunk—like, tequila-straight-from-the-bottle drunk—and for some reason, we decided to see who could do the dumbest cartwheel off the pool table.”
I stared at him, horrified. I hated everything about this already.
“Brody’s cartwheel was atrocious,” Theo continued, unfazed. “But that’s not the point. The point is, while we were sprawled on the floor, probably concussed, he mentioned the most fascinating thing.”
“I really don’t want to hear this,” I finally managed aloud, though my voice wavered, betraying my curiosity.
Theo smirked, sensing blood in the water. “He said—get this—that his team captain, Whistler Vaughn—you know, Ridgeline’s golden boy, quarterback, and alpha poster child—is being tutored by the best omega tutor on campus.” He paused for dramatic effect, tilting his head as he studied me. “Care to comment, Ainsley?”
He may as well have yanked the table and chair out from under me. I tried to control my violent eye twitch, but it was too late. He’d already seen it.
Honestly, I don’t know why I hadn’t predicted something of this sort happening. I’d thought that Ridgeline was a large enough campus, but Theo was well-liked by everyone and managed to worm his way into the most obscure circles. Last semester, he’d gained the entire chess club contact list from a single party. He knew nothing chess-related and cared about it even less, yet somehow he still stayed in touch with them.
I was expressly forbidden from discussing Max with him and I’d broken enough rules already that I refused to break this one, too. Even if I hadn’t been, Theo wasn’t exactly known for giving solid advice. He preferred drama to order.
Aloud, I managed to grit out a flimsy denial, willing him to drop it. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Oh, but it does,” Theo said, his grin turning devilish. “Because you are the best omega tutor on campus. And, oh my God, now that I think about it…” He trailed off for a dramatic pause, leaning forward as his eyes widened. “It’s him, isn’t it? Whistler Vaughn mauled you.”
My stomach dropped. “That’s ridiculous,” I muttered, shoving my laptop an inch closer to the edge of the table, like I could physically barricade myself from his accusations.
“Ridiculous, huh?” Theo wasn’t buying it. “Is that why you’re wearing a turtleneck in eighty-degree weather? Or why you’ve been twitchier than a caffeinated squirrel all week?”
“I’m not twitchy,” I snapped, tugging at the offending collar. “And for the record, it’s called professionalism. Something you wouldn’t understand.”
Theo’s eyes gleamed, and I immediately regretted the jab. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms smugly. “Sure, babe. Professionalism. Or maybe you just didn’t want anyone else to see Whistler’s claim on you.”
I flinched so hard my knee hit the underside of the table, and Theo practically squealed in delight. Goddamn it.
“It’s not like that,” I tried to insist, but my voice was weak and cracked embarrassingly, which made my face burn. There was no way out of this, I realized dimly. Theo knew me far too well, unfortunately.
“It’s exactly like that,” Theo said, wagging a finger at me. “Ainsley Kerrigan, seduced by Ridgeline’s golden boy. You’re living a fanfic right now, and I am absolutely living for it.”
“I hate you,” I gritted out. “I can’t talk about anything to do with my tutees and you know it, Theo.”
“You love me,” Theo shot back, undeterred. “And yeah, babe, I know all about your stupid rules. Professionalism and ethics, yada yada. But you’re like, having the best sex of your life, right? Don’t deny it, the hickeys tell me everything. I mean, come on—the alpha quarterback. A senator’s son.”
I forced myself to breathe, counting backward from ten until the heat subsided. Then I opened my laptop again, resolute. No more hesitation. No more second-guessing. The email stared back at me, as cold and impersonal as I needed it to be, and I didn’t read it again. I clicked the Send button.
There.
The ache in my chest didn’t go away, but it dulled, becoming a quiet, persistent thrum instead of a sharp, twisting pain. I told myself it was for the best. I’d done what I had to do. Max would find another tutor. Someone who could handle him without falling apart. Someone who wasn’t me.
I let out a shaky breath and leaned back in my chair, lifting my gaze to Theo triumphantly. “As of right now, I’m no longer tutoring him.”
Theo snorted. “Oh, darling. What did you just do? Send off a strongly worded email about how much you enjoyed him feasting on your neck and you’re so boring that you can’t bring yourself to let it happen again? Ains, you know as well as I do that alphas don’t take no for an answer when it comes to something—or someone—they want. And judging by your neck, Whistler Vaughn definitely wants you.”
The urge to snap at him that there had been external circumstances rose up but I clenched my teeth around it. I couldn’t even so much as slightly tell Theo about the scent patch incidents or the dorm study sessions or, God forbid, last night. Him knowing that I’d tutored Max and thinking something immoral had transpired was only hearsay without me verbally confirming any of the details.
“It’s no longer my concern,” I said vaguely, glaring at him and willing him to shut up.
“Sure, sure,” Theo said, waving a hand dismissively. “But if Whistler Vaughn shows up outside your dorm with flowers and a serenade, you’d better tell me immediately.”
I wasn’t hungry, but I pulled my sandwich closer, tearing it apart piece by piece as if dismantling it would somehow bring clarity to my own tangled thoughts. Theo droned on, switching from wild theories about my personal life to an increasingly absurd story about Brody trying to serenade him with a karaoke rendition of “My Heart Will Go On.” Apparently, there had been tequila. And crying.
Normally, I would’ve rolled my eyes, maybe even cracked a smile. Instead, I nodded when it seemed appropriate, gave a hum of acknowledgment here and there, and kept my focus fixed on the crumbs I was scattering across the table. My chest felt tight, my skin too hot beneath the weight of my turtleneck, and none of it had anything to do with Theo’s antics.
Eventually—mercifully—he ran out of steam and left, breezing out of the library. Silence settled in again, broken only by the soft hum of the library’s air conditioning and the faint murmur of other students.
I sat back in my chair, staring blankly at my sandwich, then at the blinking cursor on my laptop. The email was gone, sent. I glanced at my phone. The screen was still lit up with notifications, Max’s name glaring back at me like a challenge.
I didn’t open them. Couldn’t. My thumb hovered for a moment before I dropped the phone onto the table, face down.
My gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the trees swayed gently in the breeze, their branches scraping against the glass like they were trying to claw their way in. It felt fitting. I’d spent all day clawing at myself, trying to scrub away his touch, his scent, his voice—
No one else gets this. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to fuck you like this. You’re mine.
Fuck.