Devan Morse. My academic rival. The guy I've spent two years trashing to my friends. The guy I'm competing against for the only thing that could make my career.
He's my mate.
"We're supposed to be enemies," I whisper.
Devan looks at the bite mark on my neck, visible just above the collar of my hoodie. A dark, possessive smirk touches his lips, the first real smile I've ever seen on him.
"Not anymore," he says. "Now, we're a problem."
Before I can ask what that means, the doorknob rattles.
"Hello?" a voice calls from the hallway. "Is someone in there? I have this room reserved for eight."
I freeze. I look at my unbuttoned jeans. This room smells like an orgy.
Devan stands, pulling me with him. He buttons my jeans with efficient, steady fingers, then pulls my hood up to hide the mark.
"Let me handle it."
I stand there, clutching my sleeves, and realize that my life as I knew it ended the moment that lock clicked shut.
I'm mated to Devan Morse.
I have to tell my friends.
Also, I'm pretty sure I have come drying in my boxers and I have to walk across campus like this.
Cool.
Devan
My hands shake so much, I fumble with the key to my dorm room.
"Let me," Sam says, taking it from my fingers. His voice is raspy.
I can't stop staring at the mark on his neck. My mark. A dark, purpling bite just above his collar. After two years of silence, of watching, of wanting—I claimed him.
The door swings open and we stumble inside. I kick it shut behind us. My dorm is a single, a perk of being a junior with a perfect GPA.
Sam pauses in the center of my room, taking it in. I see it through his eyes: sparse, minimalist. A desk with a laptop and neat stacks of textbooks. A twin bed with navy sheets pulled taut. No posters, no photos, nothing personal except a single picture of my parents.
And the three empty energy drink cans I forgot to throw away and the laundry pile I shoved in the corner this morning.
"It's very... you," Sam says with a small smile.
"Is that good or bad?"
"It's just... clean." He runs a finger along my desk, then looks up at me. "Like, suspiciously clean. Do you actually live here, or is this a front for your secret spy operation?"
"I cleaned this morning," I admit. "Before class. I had a... feeling."
Sam's eyebrows shoot up. "You stress-cleaned before our study session? That's the most adorable thing I've ever heard."
"It's not adorable. It's preparedness."
"It's adorable," he repeats, grinning. "You're adorable. Big scary alpha with the murder face, stress-cleaning his dorm room because he had a 'feeling.'"
I don't know what to do with adorable. No one has ever called me adorable. Terrifying, yes. Intense, frequently.
