Still handsome, objectively speaking.
That seems to be a Laurent family trait.
But man.
Who pissed this guy off? Or is he just perpetually furious at the world?
He is radiating hostility like a space heater radiates warmth. His jaw is clenched. His hands are shoved in his pockets in a way that looks less casual and more like he is restraining himself from punching something.
His scent is aggressive, too. That sharp evergreen overwhelmed everything else, trying to dominate the space between us. Trying to make me feel small.
Alpha posturing at its finest. Delightful. Just what I needed to cap off this wonderful day.
"I recognized you in the cafeteria," he says, his voice a deeper, rougher version of his brother's accented French-Canadian lilt. The words carry that same musical quality, but they come out harsh instead of melodic. "Thought I was seeing things at first. Could not quite place the face."
He tilts his head, studying me like I am a specimen under a microscope. Like I am a puzzle he is trying to solve.
"But to think you are actually Nerdy MaeBell..." A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face. "That is a puzzling surprise."
The nickname hits me like a slap.
Nerdy MaeBell.
Thirteen years, and it still has the power to make my stomach clench. To make that scared little girl inside me want to curl up and hide. To make my hands tremble with remembered fear and shame.
No.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.
I roll my eyes, forcing my voice to stay steady through sheer force of will.
"What? Do I need to bring my glasses next time so you can remember what an ass you were?" I tilt my head, matching his posture. "Or did the double held-back years damage your memory along with your academic record?"
His eyebrows shoot up.
For a split second, genuine surprise flickers across his face. Like he expected me to cower, and got a cat with claws instead.
Then he whistles, low and mocking.
"Oh, would you look at that." His lips curl into a smirk that makes my skin crawl. "She has a voice now. The little mouse learned to squeak."
Little mouse. Squeak.
The rage that floods through me is hot and immediate and deeply, deeply satisfying.
I open my mouth to deliver what would surely be a devastating comeback, but I do not get the chance.
A growl cuts through the tension.
Low. Dangerous.
The kind of sound that bypasses your brain and goes straight to your survival instincts. A sound you hear in nature documentaries right before something gets its throat ripped out.
My eyes dart forward to find Etienne standing at the end of the pathway, both recovered wheels clutched in his hands like improvised weapons. His entire posture has transformed. Gone is the shy, gentle goalie who laughed at my broken luggage and called my naming habits endearing.
In his place is something primal. Protective. Something along the lines of being ready to tackle his own copy of a brother into the ground and start throwing punches without a single regret.
