Chapter 3- insufferable

I was more than twenty minutes late for my English class. Of course, my English class was on the other side of the school. Fantastic. The universe clearly has it out for me.

Don’t get me wrong! I’m not exactly dying to sit through class; I just… I’ve never been late before. The thought of showing up late, even if it wasn’t completely my fault—okay, scratch that—it wasn’t my fault at all, made my chest tighten and my stomach knot up like a nervous Omega on the verge of scenting a nearby Alpha.

I sprinted as fast as my legs could carry me, claws metaphorically digging into the asphalt, wind whipping my hair, and my heart pounding like it was trying to escape my ribcage. But guess what? Miss Eliot wasn’t even there. Not a single shadow of her. There I stood, panting like a desperate Omega caught in a mating frenzy. Responsibility? Yeah, thanks for that cosmic joke.

As I pushed the classroom door open, the murmuring conversations cut off like someone had silenced the room with a wave of an Alpha’s paw. Every head turned toward me, all noses sniffing, all eyes assessing. And when they realized it was only me—thankfully, not the teacher—they quickly dropped back into their little bubbles of gossip, group whispers, and subtle pack dominance games.

I scanned the room for an empty seat. There was only one option left—the seat right in front of Fitch Jones. And there he was, the infamous Alpha playboy, practically devouring some girl’s face with that signature, predatory intensity.

I swear, the guy had serious hormone problems. Seriously, like full-blown, uncontrolled Alpha instincts.

And to top it off, it wasn’t even Diana, the poor girl from the janitor’s closet earlier this week. Oh no, this was a different girl. Diana. Another victim in the endless cycle of teenage desire and Alpha dominance. I literally wanted to scream.

Could he be any more insufferable?

He didn’t even attempt subtlety, didn’t try to be discreet. His tongue was practically invading her throat, the girl straddling his lap like she belonged there, moaning his name between desperate kisses, lost in the heat of his Alpha pheromones. Even from a distance, I could tell he was grabbing too hard, leaving marks on her chest and back, and yet—she didn’t even seem to care. The audacity. The entire campus apparently had collective amnesia about decency when he was involved.

If only I had a safe corner of the room to curl up in, far from the radiating pheromone storm that was Fitch Jones. Honestly, any corner, preferably in a different building.

I slammed my bag down on the nearest desk and claimed the last empty seat in front of him. Reluctantly. I felt like a small prey caught in a predator’s den, forced to observe the feeding rituals firsthand.

Up close, I could hear every sigh, every shallow breath, every barely contained moan. It was… mortifying. My stomach twisted. My skin crawled. Social suicide doesn’t even begin to describe it.

The universe had officially lost it.

I fished my phone out of my jeans pocket, plugged in my earbuds, and cranked the volume as high as it could go, hoping to drown out the pheromone-infused chaos of lust unfolding in front of me.

Two songs in, and the door slammed open. Miss Eliot entered, her face flushed, her cashmere sweater wrinkled like she’d wrestled with a storm, buttons undone, hair sticking out at a million angles. Seriously, was there drool on her side profile? Had she literally just woken from a closet encounter? Professionalism—or utter chaos? Probably both.

She was still breathing a little hard, flipping to page 320 and attempting to smooth the wrinkles of her sweater like she could somehow erase the Alpha residue in the air. I rolled my eyes at the sheer absurdity of the scene.

I shoved the earbuds back into my pocket, bracing myself.

“Shh.”

“Shh.” Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned. Fitch. Leaning back in his chair, grinning like a predator who had just claimed a new territory.

“What?” I hissed.

“You have a pen?”

I exhaled slowly. Not worth arguing. Not worth the breath, the energy, the wrath of an Alpha who clearly thrived on ignoring boundaries. I rifled through my bag and tossed him a pen like tossing a scrap to a wolf.

Two minutes later, his hot breath swept across my neck. The subtle scent of Alpha dominance, tinged with testosterone and a hint of mischief, wafted over me.

“Shh.”

“What now?” I muttered without turning around.

“Hi. Fitch,” he said, that infuriating, smug smile plastered across his face—the one that said he could toy with anyone, anytime.

My God. He’s serious. He’s really doing this. Right now. In the middle of class. Right after devouring some poor girl’s soul in front of me.

“Yes, I know,” I ground out. I wanted this interaction to be over as quickly as possible, if a few words of sarcastic annoyance could even count as an interaction.

I turned my attention back to the front of the room. Miss Eliot was prattling on about the novel in our syllabus—something about Holden Caulfield and teenage angst, I think. Irony of ironies.

“Shh.”

I ignored him.

“Shh.”

Ignored.

“Shh.” Light tap.

“Shh.” Light tap.

“Shh.” Light tap.

“Shh.”

“Seriously, Fitch? What the hell?” I hissed, keeping my voice low enough to avoid attention, sharp enough to make my annoyance toxic.

A wicked grin tugged at the corner of his lips. Green eyes glittering with a teasing, mischievous light—the light of a pure Alpha predator. “Not my fault. You ignored me.”

Yes, asshole. Message received loud and clear. I ignored you because I didn’t want to interact with you. Are you even capable of understanding that, or are you just a walking ego wrapped in pheromones?

“Could you, you know… pretend I’m invisible, like you’ve done the past few years?” I snapped.

“Oh, come on. You’ve caught my attention now. I’m making up for lost time.”

I didn’t turn my head, but I could feel the grin linger. The kind of grin that makes Omega knees weak and Alphas smirk with ownership. My eye twitched. I forced myself to stay silent, resisting the urge to growl low in frustration.