Page 11 of My Defiant Mate
The woman with him takes a half-step back, her eyes wide, probably wondering if I'm about to lunge.
"Just fine," I say through clenched teeth. "Thanks for your concern."
I force myself to turn and walk away before I do something I can't take back, like smashing Henderson's smug face into the pavement. I push through the glass doors of the union and back out into the quad, the coffee in my hand forgotten. I breathe in the fresh air, but it does nothing to cool the furnace in my chest.
My alpha is screaming at me, the same raw words on a loop:protect him, find him, claim him. Henderson isn't just coming for me. He's coming for what's mine. Forwho'smine.
I scan the quad, my eyes sweeping over the crowds of students on the grass, a blur of faces and colors. And then, I see him.
Toby.
He's crossing the lawn, heading for the library. He's still wearing my hoodie, the dark gray fabric swallowing his lean frame. Even from a distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's hunched over, trying to make himself invisible. Seeing him in my clothes makes my gut clench with possessiveness, but that feeling is quickly choked by a surge of white-hot rage.
He looks haunted. Stressed. And an instinct I didn't know I had, a vicious, primal thing, screams:Protect him. The fury I felt toward Henderson suddenly has a name. It's not just anger; it's the rage of knowing a threat got too close to what's mine. Tohim.
I don't call out. I just follow, my eyes locked on him. He's a beacon in the crowd, pulling me forward with a tether I couldn't break if I tried.
The library is a huge stone building, all columns and grand stairs. A temple to all the rules I hate. Of course this is wherehe'd go. I take the steps two at a time, slipping through the heavy doors just before they swing shut behind him.
Inside, it's cool and quiet. It smells like old books and furniture polish. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust. Toby is already disappearing down a long aisle, his steps quick. I follow, keeping my distance, tracking him through the maze of shelves.
He turns into an aisle marked "Philosophy." I slow down. This section is dead, tucked away on the third floor. Perfect.
When I round the corner, he's standing with his back to me, his fingers tracing the spines of old leather-bound books. He hasn't heard me. I take a second just to watch him, to drink in the sight of him.
He's beautiful in a way I never saw before yesterday. How he stands so straight, how his hands move so carefully, the way his neck curves into the collar of my hoodie. Knowing what's under there—my marks on his skin, how he blushed when I touched him—makes my mouth go dry.
"Hiding from me?"
He jumps, spinning around. He's clutching a book to his chest like a shield. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, and for a split second, I see pure want there before he tries to hide it.
"Jionni," he says. My name on his lips makes something tight in my chest loosen. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you." I take a step forward. He takes one back.
"I told you I needed space. Time to think."
"And I'm giving you space." I take another step. He takes another, his back hitting the bookshelf. Trapped. "I'm all the way over here."
"This isn't funny," he whispers, looking nervously down the empty aisle. "Someone could see us."
"No one's here." I close the distance, planting a hand on the shelf next to his head, caging him in. "Just you and me."
He swallows hard, and I watch his throat move. "Jionni, please. I've been thinking about this all day, and I really think we need to establish some professional boundaries. What happened was… intense, but we need to be rational. My position as an RA—"
"Stop." I press my finger to his lips, cutting him off. His mouth is soft, warm. "Just stop thinking for one second."
His eyes are huge, dark pools behind the wire rims. I can see the pulse hammering in his throat. I can smell him—that sweet, anxious scent rising to meet me, calling to me.
"Found you," I say, stepping closer.
Before he can argue, I slide my hand into his hair, my fingers tangling in the soft, neat strands. I fist my hand and tug his head to the side, baring the long, pale line of his neck. He gasps, the book tumbling from his hands and landing with a soft thud on the carpet.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck and inhale, dragging his scent deep into my lungs. It's him—clean linen and fresh paper—mixed with the faint smell of my own hoodie. But it's not enough. It's contaminated. I can smell the dusty library, Henderson's cheap, bitter cologne, the sharp tang of his own anxiety. It's all wrong.
"You don't smell like mine anymore," I growl against his skin. "You smell like books and fear. Let's fix that."
His hands come up to my chest, pushing weakly. "Jionni, someone could come—"
