I recognize them immediately. Alphas from the senior hockey team. Bastien's teammates. The kind of guys who wear their varsity jackets like armor and think their athletic status gives them permission to hit on every Omega they encounter.
Miguel Webb and Tyler Ross Denim. Both of them are tall, muscular, and radiating that particular brand of confidence that comes from never being told no.
They're standing too close to her. Invading her space in that way Alphas do when they're trying to establish dominance. Their scents are probably washing over her, sandalwood and pine andwhatever else they douse themselves in, trying to overwhelm her senses.
Mabeline's expression is carefully neutral, but I've learned to read people. It's a survival skill, cataloguing micro-expressions and body language to predict threats before they materialize.
The slight tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers grip the strap of her bag a little too tightly.
The almost imperceptible lean backward, creating distance without retreating.
She's not impressed.
Or interested in the matter…
And based on the set of her jaw, she's about thirty seconds from telling them to fuck off in increasingly creative ways.
Should I intervene?
She's not my Omega. She's not my anything. I have no right to?—
I'm walking toward them before I consciously decide to move.
My feet carry me down the hallway with purpose, my posture shifting from relaxed to alert. The Alpha in me, the one I thought was broken, rises to the surface like a creature emerging from deep water.
My scent sharpens, snow-dusted evergreens taking on an edge that warns without words.
Her eyes move first.
Those gorgeous hazel eyes, full of guarded intelligence, slide past the two idiots in front of her and lock onto mine.
Recognition flickers across her face. Surprise, then uncertainty, then a calculation so quick I almost miss it.
She's deciding whether I'm a threat or an ally.
And I feel it again. That pull. That spark. That recognition.
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, dropping into the space between us like a gauntlet thrown.
"Qu'est-ce que vous faites avec ma copine?"
What are you doing with my girl?
I don't realize how threatening my voice sounds until I see the two Alphas jump. They whip around, their confident postures deflating like punctured balloons the moment they recognize me.
"Oh shit." Miguel's face goes pale. "Laurent. H-Hey."
I don't respond. Don't smile. Don't give them anything to work with.
Just stare.
It's a trick I learned from Coach Moreau. The power of silence. The way it makes people uncomfortable, forces them to fill the void with whatever guilt or fear they're carrying.
Tyler clears his throat nervously, shuffling his feet like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"We were just, uh... asking if she needs help. You know. With her bags and stuff. Being gentlemen."
"Gentlemen." I let the word hang there, flat and unimpressed. My eyes don't leave his face. "Why would she need help when she's waiting for me?"
