The sunlight hit my eyes like a slap, and my phone blared the truth I couldn’t ignore: I’d missed class. For the first time in my life.

10:21 AM.

I blinked at my phone, half-dazed, trying to make sense of the numbers. It was bright outside, too bright. My blinds weren’t drawn all the way, and the sunlight stabbed at my eyes like a physical attack.

My Genetics lecture started at 8:00. My Neuroscience seminar at 9:45. Both were gone now. Irretrievable. A void in my carefully structured day. I stared at the screen, hardly breathing, my brain whirring with how fast I’d need to scramble to salvage the rest of my routine.

I sat up too fast, the ache in my hips and thighs flaring in protest. My entire body felt like it had been run through a gauntlet—sore, stiff, trembling. My knees wobbled as I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

Then it hit me. The smell.

Him. My stomach twisted and I shoved the covers off me and stood on shaky legs, nearly tripping over the crumpled duvet in my rush to escape the room. Except there was no escaping it, not really—it was everywhere, a mix of alpha and slick and sweat, clinging to my sheets, my skin, everything.

I stumbled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. My reflection in the mirror was a mess—hair sticking out in every direction, my skin pale and blotchy, and my neck—

Oh my God, my neck.

Bruises bloomed dark and angry across the pale skin, trailing down to my collarbone. Hickeys. Everywhere. I pressed a trembling hand to the biggest one, wincing at the faint sting, and nausea churned fresh in my stomach.

I turned the shower on, scalding hot, and stepped in without waiting for it to heat up fully. The water hit my skin like a slap, but I didn’t care. I washed methodically at first, then more furiously as the scent of him swirled like a ghost in the confined space.

I scrubbed myself raw, my nails digging into my arms and chest, desperate to exorcise last night off me. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t get rid of the phantom sensations—his hands, his mouth, his scent. The way he’d looked at me. The way he’d wanted me.

The way I’d wanted him back.

I tried to tell myself that it was just biology. He’d triggered my heat with his idiocy and everything that had happened after that had been inevitable, like dominoes falling. But still, the memories were like a punch to the gut.

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Max’s weight pressing me into the mattress. Max’s hands gripping my hips. Max’s voice, low and rough, as he growled, “You’re mine.”

I hated him.

But not as much as I hated myself.

I wanted to blame him. God, I wanted to. But the truth clung to me, heavy and inescapable, like the smell of him on my skin—I’d taken my scent patch off. I’d let this happen.

Leaving the soothing warmth of the shower, I set about restoring some semblance of order to my room. The sheets were an absolute disaster. Stained, wrinkled, damp in places I didn’t want to examine too closely. I balled them up and shoved them into my laundry basket, tying the bag shut as tightly as possible.

The smell still lingered, faint and cloying, clinging to the air. I yanked the window open and threw on my thickest turtleneck. It was itchy and hot, but it covered the bruises. Small mercies.

I spotted my phone on the desk, screen lit up with missed calls and text notifications. Max’s name flashed across every one of them. Because of course.

I locked the screen without reading a single message. I would not read them. Absolutely not.

There was no use wallowing in it. My midday classes were waiting, and I needed to be the version of myself that wasn’t falling apart. I shoved my books into my bag, adjusted the collar of my turtleneck to hide the evidence, and stepped into the sunlight, determined to hold myself together.

The campus was alive with its usual hum—voices in passing, bikes rattling over cobblestones. None of it reached me. My own steps felt heavier with every breath.

The two morning classes I’d missed were my favorites—one of them a seminar I’d looked forward to all weekend. The thought made my stomach twist again, but not as much as the knowledge that my professors would notice. They’d email me. Check on me. Because I was the student who never missed class. The responsible one. The professional one.

Professor Meyers would email by noon, no doubt. It would be polite, concerned—‘Is everything alright, Ainsley?’—but I’d feel the unspoken weight behind it. I wasn’t supposed to miss class. I wasn’t supposed to falter.

Being the highest-rated tutor on the Tutor Council came with its perks, sure—respect from professors, endless requests for help, and the unspoken title of Ridgeline’s academic celebrity—but it was also a constant weight.

My professors relied on me to keep discussions alive in class, often glancing my way to ensure someone would break the silence with a question or a theory. My classmates saw me as a role model, the perfect student who always had the right answer, the one to emulate.

But what they didn’t see was the pressure to maintain that image—to always perform, always excel. It wasn’t just about being good at what I did; it was about being the best, and anything less felt like failure.

And I was definitely failing now.

So much for being a professional, I thought bitterly as I walked across campus, my steps too slow, my muscles protesting every motion. You don’t let alphas get to you. You don’t take your scent patch off. You don’t…

But it didn’t matter how much I scolded myself. The memories came anyway, flooding through every crack in my resolve. The heat of his skin against mine. His growl in my ear. The way his hands had trembled when he touched me, like I was something fragile, precious—something his.

Max had looked at me like I wasn’t just something to have but something to hold. That should’ve made it worse. Instead, it made it…

Impossible to forget.