Maya

Binders and pamphlets are fanned out across my mattress as I flip through the pages. I’ve been freaking out all day, my head a mess of Dakota—texting him after dodging lunch, assuring him I wasn’t brushing him off—and wondering what to say to Brogan the next time I see him.

Then the dean’s meeting came out of nowhere. I’d walked in braced for a lecture, convinced I’d already fucked something up but instead he dropped an opportunity I never saw coming: assistant coach for the Northvale Hawks. My heart’s been racing ever since, torn between panic and a flicker of something I haven’t felt in years.

He’d leaned back in his chair, explaining it like it was a given that I had been a consideration. “I knew your father personally, Maya. Not just acquaintances—we were good friends. Went to school together, hell, we were roommates at one point. We kept talking even after he left coaching, and you were all he could brag about—how proud he was of you.”

I’d blinked at him, stunned, and confused by my father in all his stories hadn’t really given names to go with the faces. “How could you possibly know what I’d bring to the table?”

“He showed me your first hockey plays, Maya. Some were wild, others damn smart—plays that’d work. He told me you’d do great things, and I want to fulfill his wishes. He gave me a chance on that ice, so now it’s my turn to give you yours.”

His words echo in my head as I dig through the journals I hauled to Northvale—my father’s cramped handwriting, my old sketches of plays scribbled in the margins. Stuff I haven’t touched since Nox swallowed my life whole. I trace a faded diagram—a breakout play with a stretch pass to the weak side—and excitement bubbles up in my chess like it used to.

I can see it: players gliding over the ice, sticks cracking against the puck, the loud chaos of a game in full swing. I’ve watched enough games to see everything in my head, my plays being used on the ice, games being won because of my expertise and guidance. For a moment, I imagine standing in the same place my father did, grinning as the Northvale Hawks won the championship.

The fantasy is shattered as a thud against my door jolts me upright. I glance at my phone—8:07 p.m. No texts, no party noise filtering through the walls, no chatter from the other girls in the dorm who’ve mostly left me alone the past few days. Another knock lands, harder this time, and a flood of pheromones slams into me, lighting my body up like a live wire. The floral scent immediately puts my body on edge because it’s not just a whiff like before. It’s overwhelming, wrapping around me, tugging at instincts that I’ve left neglected.

I scramble off the bed, binders sliding to the floor, and yank the door open to see Dakota leaning against the frame, sweat glistening on his forehead, his eyes glazed over. He’s in sweats and a loose tee, hair a damp mess as he sways like he’s about to collapse. “Aya,” he rasps. He’s a mess—delirious, stumbling over the threshold, tugging his sweatshirt over his head in a frantic jerk. The fabric catches on his arms before falling, and then he’s on me, crashing his lips against mine.

His hands settle on my neck, before mumbling a ‘sorry’ against my lips, his arms then sliding around my back, yanking me flush against his chest. My hands press into him, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. “What’s wrong?”

I guide him to the edge of my bed, easing him down as I cup his face, thumbs brushing over his flushed cheeks, and realize how unfocused his eyes are, pupils blown wide. He’s burning up, a moan slipping from his throat as he clings to my waist. “I’m so fucking uncomfortable,” he groans, “and I’m leaking.”

My brows knit in confusion until I glance down and see the obscene bulge straining against his sweats, a small wet spot darkening the fabric between his thighs. “Kota,” I urge, tilting his chin up, “where did you come from? Look at me. I need you here with me for a second. Where did you come from?” My nostrils flare as his scent boldens, that lavender twisting into something syrupy and overwhelming, flooding the room.

He groans louder, pulling me closer between his spread knees, and licks a stripe up my neck. I shudder beneath the movement, torn between hating it and wanting to lean into it. “Fuck,” he rasps against my skin, “I think I’m slicking.”

Slicking? I can’t smell him like I should, not fully, but the pheromones hit me hard, a tidal wave threatening to drag me under. Especially with how he’s handling me, possessive and needy, like he can’t stop himself.

His mouth moves lower, lips brushing my chest, and then he sucks my tit into his mouth through my tank top, fabric pulling taut. An involuntary cry pulls from my lips as I dig my fingers into his shoulder to snap him back. “Kota!” I gasp, shoving at him, but he’s lost in some kind of haze that I don’t understand. “Let me call the nurse.”

“No, fuck, I shouldn’t have come here.” His words slur, heavy with regret, but I lean in, cupping his face again. “But you did because you found me safe. Who do I call?”

He doesn’t answer, just lets out a low growl and latches onto my tit again, sucking harder through the thin cotton, a wet spot blooming under his mouth. My body arches, heat pooling between my thighs despite the panic. God, this is bad. This is so fucking bad. I reach down, fumbling in his pockets for his phone, my fingers finally closing around the device. Seconds later, I hold down the number two, a number under the name of Holt coming up on the screen. Dakota’s still sucking on my tit, his hands moving down my back, past my ass , and then wrapping around the back of my thighs.

With a rough tug, he pulls me onto his lap, straddling him, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side. I string my free hand to his long, damp hair as he buries his face against my shoulder, whining, “It hurts so fucking bad.”

The phone rings in my ear, Dakota’s breath hot and ragged against my skin, my beautiful tortured Beta trembling beneath me.

Dakota digs his fingers into my hips, hard enough to bruise, and starts pumping up against my pussy, both of us still fully clothed. The friction’s rough, desperate, his sweats grinding into my shorts as the dial tone continues to ring in my ear. I bite my lip, trying to keep my own sounds quiet, a shaky whimper slipping out as a low baritone voice finally answers, “Hey, sweetheart, where are you? We came back to the room…”

I cut him off, before it becomes too hard to talk. “He’s in my room and he’s completely out of it. I think he needs an Alpha. I can’t help him.” The line goes silent—just long enough for a little squeak to fall from my lips. Dakota follows it with a loud purr, like my sounds are spurring him on, his thrusts hitching faster.

The voice on the other end sharpens. “Is this Maya?”

I swallow, nodding even though he can’t see. “Yeah,” but it comes out breathier than I mean it to, laced with the heat pooling low in my belly.

“Which dorm?” he demands and I rattle off the building and room number, my brain scrambling to keep up. “We’ll be right there,” he promises before the call cuts off. I drop the phone, hands flying to Dakota’s shoulders, as his thrusts turn urgent, hips snapping up with a frantic edge.

“Fuck. I’m going to come, Aya. Fucking shit.”

“I’ve got you, baby,” I whisper, holding his gaze, his eyes wild and unfocused. “It’s okay. They’re going to come and help you.” My fingers dig into his shirt, anchoring him, and then he lets out this guttural sound—half-growl, half-moan—his body locking up against mine. I feel the flood of his release as he comes hard, soaking his sweats and seeping through my shorts, drenching me completely. He trembles, shaking like a leaf as I wrap my arms around him, pulling him close.

His forehead presses into my shoulder, another whimpering tearing from his throat, part pain, part pleasure. “I need more. Aya, I don’t… I don’t know what’s going on but it hurts so fucking bad.” His voice breaks, terror running through it, my chest aching because there’s nothing I can do while he’s falling apart in my arms.

I open my mouth to say something when the door flies open, two men stepping inside, ones I recognize from glimpses around campus. I don’t have time to feel embarrassed as I try climbing off Dakota’s lap. The taller one, all broad shoulders and brown eyes—Holt, I presume—rushes forward, catching Dakota as he slumps. I stumble backward, crashing into the other guy, a Beta, leaner with dark brown hair and blurt out what is absolutely obvious at this point. “He’s having a spike, I think? I don’t know. He just came in here and I…”

My voice falters as the Beta steadies me, hands softly wrapping around my arms. “You can’t smell him?” he asks, brow furrowing.

I glare at him before looking back to Dakota. His face twists in pain, a whine tearing from his throat as Holt kneels in front of him, murmuring, “Sweetheart, we can’t do this here. We need to get back to our dorm, okay?”

Dakota’s hands desperately claw at Holt’s jacket, the Beta holding onto me cutting in. “He’s not going to make it across the quad, Holt.”

“There’s an empty room beside mine,” I offer, pulling free from the Beta and hurry down the hall, them half-carrying Dakota behind me. My shorts are uncomfortably damp but without drawing attention to it, I can’t exactly change. I press open the adjacent room’s door, two mattresses with thin sheets covering them, empty desks alongside the edge. “I don’t know what he needs,” I admit, twisting my hands in front of me, “but I know it’s not me. Just… take care of him, okay?”

Holt nods, guiding Dakota inside, barely paying attention to me but why would he when he’s got an Omega in his arms? “Yeah, I got him. Roman, can you,” Holt breaks off and turns his attention back to Dakota. “Hey, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” Dakota’s scratching at Holt’s clothes now, whines pitching higher, and I turn back toward my room. Confusion swirls with worry, but what hits me hardest is this—I’m more scared for Dakota being okay than I am about Holt taking him from me.

I slip inside, shutting the door, and shuck off my soaked shorts and panties, the damp fabric clinging to my thighs. I grab sweatpants from my dresser, tugging them on, just as another needy moan filters through the wall. My stomach twists as I fumble for the little speaker I brought, turning on music loud enough to drown it out, some thumping bass that shakes the floor.

Holt’s got him. His Beta is there. They’re his pack, his anchor, and I’m… what? The girl he ran to, the one he soaked with slick, the one who’s terrified of how much she cares. I tell myself that as long as Dakota is okay, I’ll be alright if he isn’t mine.

I’m lying.