Page 23 of Knot Your Romeo

Romeo says something that makes Cerise’s friends exchange uncomfortable glances.

Whatever it is, it’s clearly not what she wanted to hear.

Cerise stands, her posture going rigid, and they walk toward a more secluded area but nearer to the building I’m watching from.

From this distance, I can see the moment their discussion turns heated. Cerise’s voice rises—not enough for me to make out words, but her tone is unmistakably upset. Romeo’s response is quieter, more controlled, but there’s an aggressive edge to his posture that makes my protective instincts flare. Then Cerise gestures wildly toward the main campus building, where Jolie went. Romeo’s response makes Cerise stagger back as if he’s struck her, and her perfectly made-up face crumples with what looks like betrayal.

She says something, then storms off toward the parking lot, leaving Romeo standing alone.

But instead of following her or showing any remorse, Romeo’s attention immediately shifts back to scanning the quad.

Looking for Jolie, I realize.

By mid-afternoon, my concern had escalated into genuine worry. I haven’t seen Jolie since this morning’s class, and the confrontation between Romeo and Cerise has left an ugly tension hanging over the entire campus.

Several students have mentioned seeing Cerise crying in the parking lot, while Romeo has been spotted prowling the grounds like a caged predator.

When my afternoon class begins, I wait for Jolie to take her usual seat. The class is small enough that every absence is obvious, and her empty chair seems to draw my attention like a beacon.

Fifteen minutes into my lecture, there’s a commotion in the hallway. Raised voices, the sound of something splashing, followed by cruel laughter that makes my Omega instincts bristle with protective fury.

Through the glass panel in my door, I glimpse movement. Several figures are clustered around someone on the ground. The scent of distress drifts under the door and it’s layered with that same complex sweetness I noticed from Jolie this morning.

“Please continue reading,” I tell my class, already moving toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

I step into the hallway to find exactly what I feared. Jolie sits on the linoleum floor, soaking wet. Her clothes plastered to her body and her dark hair dripping water onto the tiles. Standing over her are Cerise Hamilton and two other cheerleaders, their faces twisted with the kind of vicious satisfaction that comes from successful humiliation.

“Oops,” Cerise says with mock sweetness, holding an empty water bottle. “So clumsy of me. I hope you’re not too wet, the hired help’s daughter.”

The way she spits out the last words makes it clear this attack was motivated by more than simple bullying. This is personal, targeted, designed to put Jolie in her place according to some twisted social hierarchy.

“Ladies,” I say, my voice carrying enough authority to make all three cheerleaders freeze. “I believe you have somewhere else to be.”

Cerise’s eyes narrow when she sees me, but she can’t quite hide the flicker of fear. Faculty involvement means potential consequences, and Cerise Hamilton has worked too hard to maintain her perfect record to risk real trouble.

“We were just—“ she begins.

“Leaving,” I finish firmly. “Now! Before I call the principal.”

The three girls exchange glances, but they can’t argue with direct orders from a professor. Cerise drops the empty bottle at Jolie’s feet like an ultimate insult before stalking away, her friends trailing behind her like loyal hounds.

Jolie remains sitting on the floor, water pooling around her, her arms wrapped around her knees. She’s shivering—whether from cold or shock, I can’t tell—and the scent of humiliation and distress rolling off her makes my chest ache.

“Jolie,” I say gently, crouching down to her level. “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head without looking up, but I can see tears mixing with the water on her cheeks. “I’m fine,” she whispers, the words so obviously untrue they make my heart clench.

“You’re not fine,” I breathe. “And you don’t have to pretend to be. Come on, let’s get you somewhere warm and dry.”

I help her to her feet, noting how she sways slightly—whether from the shock of the attack or something else, I’m not sure. She’s smaller than I realized, delicate in a way that makes the cheerleaders’ assault seem even more cowardly.

“Your class—“ she starts.

“Can wait,” I finish. “I’ll call someone to take over.”

I guide her down the hallway toward my office, aware of the curious stares from other students, but more concerned with getting Jolie somewhere private. The wet clothes clinging to her body make her vulnerability even more obvious, and despite being an Omega too, my protective instincts are screaming at me to shield her from any more exposure.

My office is small but warm, lined with books and comfortable furniture that invites confidence. I grab a clean towel from my emergency supplies and hand it to her. Years of working with emotional students have taught me to be prepared.

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