Page 20 of My Freshman Mate
Looking at Braiden, curled against me and finally safe, I realize with cold certainty that I'm not just protecting my mate anymore.
I'm protecting our entire future. And I'll tear down anyone who threatens it.
Braiden
The claiming mark on my neck is a constant, pleasant thrum of heat against my skin, a brand that announces to the world that I am his. I walk into my first Biology lecture, and every head I pass seems to turn. Noses twitch. Eyes drop to my neck and then widen. Their thoughts and questions hang in the air. They're catching the mingled scent of alpha and omega, of sweat and sex and something so uniquely us it has no name. They smellclaimed.
The lecture hall is a massive, tiered cavern of faces, and my stomach clenches. So many eyes. I slide into a seat near the back, pulling out my color-coded notebook and arranging my pens in a neat row. The familiar ritual is a flimsy shield against the weight of a hundred stares, but it's all I have.
A whirlwind of motion drops into the seat beside me, making me jump.
"That seat taken? Great, thanks!" The words are a rapid-fire burst, leaving no room for a response. "I'm Sam. You're new, right? I mean, obviously you're a freshman, but you're also, like, newly claimed, andwow, that's a mark, isn't it? Sorry, I talktoo much when I'm nervous, and the first day of classes always makes me nervous, even though this is my third year, and I should be used to it by now, but—"
"I'm Braiden," I cut in, blinking against the verbal onslaught. "And yes. New to both."
Sam grins, an explosive smile full of a sunshine-after-the-rain brightness. He's an omega, I can tell—his scent is a warm mix of coffee and cinnamon gum—with expressive dark eyes and an energy that makes the air around him vibrate.
"Well, Braiden-who's-new-to-both, welcome to Hell Week. That's what we call the first week of Westergaard's Bio class. He likes to weed out the weak ones early." Sam leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But don't worry. I've got notes from last year. I'll hook you up."
I wait for the questions, the prying about Wes, the gossip. But they don't come. Instead, Sam is already showing me his note-taking system on a tablet, and a warmth unfurls in my chest. Is this what making a friend feels like? I've been so focused on grades and plans that I forgot what it's like to just… connect with someone.
"You use a five-color system too?" My own smile feels real for the first time.
"Six, actually." Sam brandishes a neon green pen. "This one's for when Westergaard contradicts the textbook, which happens approximately every twelve minutes."
A laugh startles out of me, loud and rusty in my own ears. It feels good. Real.
"So," Sam continues, "pre-med?"
I nod. "How'd you know?"
"The haunted look in your eyes." He grins. "Plus, you've got that 'I must maintain a perfect GPA or die trying' vibe. I see it in the mirror every day."
The professor strides in, and for the next hour, I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of scribbling notes and highlighting key points. God, this feels good—like putting on my favorite hoodie. This is my world. This I understand. For once, I'm not feeling the weight of Wes's mark on my neck or the stares following me across campus. I'm just me—with my color-coded highlighters and bullet-pointed notes—the same Braiden who won the state science fair with a project on cellular regeneration.
When class ends, Sam turns to me, his smile just as bright. "Library? I can show you where all the good study spots are before they get claimed by the English lit majors. Those poetry people are territorial as hell."
"That would be amazing, actually." I hear the relief flooding my voice and wince at how obvious it sounds. "I was dreading trying to find it on my own."
We head out into the September sun, Sam keeping up a steady stream of chatter about campus life. It's so… normal. For a few precious minutes, I'm just a college student, not the centerpiece of the biggest gossip storm to hit Westbridge in years.
"So," Sam says, holding the heavy library door open for me, "what's your academic nemesis situation?"
I blink. "My what?"
"Your academic nemesis! The one person in your major who's always competing with you for the top grade? The one who makes you want to set fire to the curve?" He gestures for me to follow, leading me up a flight of stairs and plunging us into a maze of towering bookshelves. "Everyone has one."
"I've been here two days," I remind him. "I haven't had time to make enemies yet."
Sam laughs. "Just you wait. Mine found me in Freshman Comp. Devan Morse. Tall, dark, perpetually scowling." The way he says the name is a mix of frustration and something else I can't quite place—something that sounds a lot like reverence.His scent, which has been a bright, bouncy mix of coffee and cinnamon, deepens for a split second, a flicker of something richer and more complex, like burnt sugar. It's the scent of an omega reacting to an alpha, even one who isn't here. "This semester, he's going down."
He leads me to a secluded corner table by a window, bathed in golden light. "Best spot in the house," he declares, puffing out his chest.
"This is perfect," I say, a warmth spreading through my chest. "Thank you, Sam. Really."
He waves it off. "Us pre-med omegas have to stick together. The alphas in our program think they own the place." He glances at my neck, and his eyes widen in panic. "Oh shit, I didn't mean—your alpha's probably not like that. I just meant—"
"It's fine," I say, laughing. "Wes is… different." That was putting it mildly.
