KIT
Theshoulderhitsmesquare between my backpack strap and my collarbone, hard enough to send me stumbling into the row of lockers on my left. My elbow catches the combination lock and pain shoots up to my shoulder, the metallic clang echoing through the hallway as my coffee tips forward and splashes across my knuckles.
Hot. Fucking. Ow.
I don't have to look up to know who it is because the scent hits me before the laughter does, bourbon and cedar flooding the hallway until my stupid Omega biology lights up in response. My thighs clench together on instinct, heat spreading low in my belly, and I hate myself for it. I hate myself for every involuntary reaction this asshole pulls out of me just by existing in the same zip code.
Easton Cole rounds the corner of my peripheral vision with two of his basketball teammates flanking him, all three of themstill in practice jerseys, still damp with sweat, still taking up the entire width of the hallway because god forbid an Alpha walk in a single-file line.
He's got those ridiculous gold-framed glasses perched on his nose and his cornrows are freshly done. The chain at his throat swings as he turns, one hand coming up to stroke his beard, the gesture so deliberate it might as well be choreographed.
He knows exactly what he did and he wants me to know he knows.
"My bad, Kit." His voice carries that low, amused rumble that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "Didn't see you there."
He saw me. Healwayssees me. Six months of hallway collisions and not once has he bumped into anyone else. Just me, every single time, like my locker is a checkpoint on his personal route to being the worst person at Knotlocke Academy.
"Probably hard to see anything past that ego," I snap, shaking coffee off my hand and wiping it on my jeans. The burn is already fading but the anger isn't. "Or maybe you need a new prescription. Those glasses clearly aren't working."
One of his teammates lets out a low whistle. Easton's smirk doesn't waver, but something shifts behind his eyes, a flicker of something that tells me the glasses comment landed closer than he'd like.Good. I catalog that reaction and file it away for next time because there's always a next time with us.
"You know," Easton says, stepping closer instead of walking away, the space between us shrinking until I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. He's got at least ten inches on me and probably eighty pounds and the size difference does something to my body that my brain absolutely did not authorize. "For someone so small, you've got a mouth on you."
"For someone so tall, you've got remarkably little going on upstairs."
His teammate laughs and Easton's gaze cuts to him, sharp enough to kill the sound mid-breath. When he looks back at me, the smirk has shifted into something less practiced, something that sits closer to his actual face. "Careful, Kit. That smart mouth is going to get you into trouble one of these days."
"Promise?" The word is out before I can stop it, dripping with more venom than I intended, and for a split second his nostrils flare, and his eyes drop to my mouth before snapping back up.
Then the mask slides back into place and he's just Easton again, six-foot-three of arrogant Alpha with a God complex and a jersey number. He adjusts his glasses, a signature move that I've seen approximately four hundred times and have memorized against my will, and steps back.
"Wouldn't waste my time," he says, but the words come out quieter than the rest of the conversation, pitched low enough that his teammates don't catch it. Then he turns, falling back into step with his boys, his laugh carrying down the hallway like he's already forgotten I exist.
He hasn't. I know he hasn't because his scent thickened when he leaned in and I could smell it under the bourbon and the cedar, something that didn't match the cruelty on his face. My Omega cataloged it and purred and I want to reach into my own chest and strangle the traitorous little thing into silence.
I stand there for a few seconds too long, my coffee-soaked hand trembling at my side, my pulse hammering in my throat. The hallway fills back in around me as students shuffle past, a few of them shooting me sympathetic looks because everyone at Knotlocke knows about Kit and Easton. It's practically a spectator sport at this point, the basketball star and the Omega who won't shut up, and I'm so tired of being the entertainment.
Milo appears at my side before I've fully unclenched my jaw, his brown hair falling in his face as he leans against the locker next to mine. He's still in his football hoodie, the sleeves pushedup past his elbows, and he takes one look at my coffee-stained hand and the murder on my face before letting out a sigh that says he's seen this exact scene play out too many times.
"Again?"
"Again." I yank my locker open harder than necessary, shoving my ruined notebook inside. The coffee soaked through the front cover and bled into the first ten pages. Wonderful. "He literally goes out of his way. His next class is in the east building, Milo. This hallway is west. He detours just to fuck with me."
"That's either dedication or obsession," Milo says, pulling a napkin out of his pocket and handing it over without being asked. This is a routine we've perfected: Easton ruins something, Milo cleans up, Kit seethes. "Neither option is great, honestly."
"It's neither. It's just him being an insufferable Alpha who gets off on reminding me that I'm an Omega every chance he gets." I scrub at my hand, the napkin disintegrating against my skin. My scent is doing something embarrassing right now, going sharp and sweet at the same time, and I pray Milo doesn't notice.
He notices, but he has the grace not to comment. Instead, he falls into step beside me as I slam my locker shut and start walking, putting as much distance between me and Easton's lingering scent as possible.
"You know, Quentin used to do shit like that to get Iris' attention," Milo says, his tone light enough to pass as casual. "Like he wasn’t an asshole but before we all figured our stuff out. He'd find excuses to be wherever she was and try to act like he didn't care when his scent was practically screaming."
"Don't." I point at him without breaking stride. "Do not compare Easton shoulder-checking me into a locker with your brother’s repressed love language. Those are not the same thing."
Milo raises both hands in surrender, but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth tells me he's not even a little sorry. "I'mjust saying. Alphas are stupid. And Betas, honestly. Quentin was a whole disaster before he admitted what he wanted."
"Easton doesn't want me, Milo. He wants to make my life miserable. There's a difference, and I'm living it."
"If you say so." He lets it drop, which is generous for Milo, who once interrogated Avery for forty-five minutes about a single text message from Declan. "Hey, you coming to the auction tonight?"
