College Story

The clang of metal on metal was the only sound that could compete with the blood roaring in Will’s ears. He slammed his locker shut, the vibration rattling through the steel and up his arm, a tremor of his own barely contained violence. Fury, raw and acidic, churned in his gut, threatening to spill over. The air in the locker room was thick with the familiar post-practice smells—sweat, cheap deodorant, and the faint, coppery tang of effort—but today, to Will, it all smelled like the bitter rot of humiliation.

Mike, his grin lazy and infuriatingly smug, leaned against the neighboring locker. “Hey, champ, I think you can skip putting on your shorts today.” The words were a casual jab, but they landed like a punch to Will's already bruised ego.

A low growl rumbled in Will’s chest, a feral sound he barely recognized as his own. “Hey, back off!”

His voice was a razor blade, meant to cut, to warn. But they were sharks who’d scented blood in the water. His blood. They weren’t backing off. Not now. The pack was closing in.

That’s when the heavy doors burst open, crashing against the stoppers, and the chaos found a new, horrifying focal point. Scott and Robert, their faces twisted into masks of cruel glee, were dragging Hailey into the locker room. They had her by the upper arms, her sneakers skidding uselessly against the slick, tiled floor, leaving faint black marks.

“Let me go!” Her voice was a ragged scream, laced with a pure, sharp terror that sliced right through Will’s anger and struck something deeper, something protective he refused to name.

“No, you b*tch,” Scott snarled, his grip tightening, his knuckles white. “You’ll pay for everything!”

With a final, brutal shove, they threw her forward. She stumbled, her balance gone, arms flailing for a moment before she fell in a heap at Will’s feet. A wave of derisive laughter washed over the room, a brutal, ugly sound that echoed off the hard surfaces. Hailey scrambled to her feet, her oversized gray sweater rumpled, her face pale and streaked with fresh tears. But her eyes, when they met his, weren’t just scared. They were filled with a betrayal so profound it felt like a physical blow, an accusation that hit him harder than any fist could.

Will’s own fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “Why did you drag her in here?”

Robert scoffed, wiping a fake tear from his eye with a theatrical flourish. “What do you mean ‘why’? We thought you might want some revenge after what she did to you.”

Revenge. The word tasted like ash in his mouth. He spun around and slammed his fist against the wall. A sharp, searing pain shot up his arm, a welcome distraction from the war raging inside him. The drywall dented under the force of the blow, a small crater marking his loss of control.

“Just leave her alone,” Will bit out, his voice dangerously low, each word a carefully controlled piece of his splintering composure. “Leave her in peace.”

Scott stepped forward, invading his personal space, getting right in his face. His breath was sour, his eyes manic and shining with a zealot's fire. “In peace? What d*mn peace? It’s time for payback!” He scanned the locker room, a predator sizing up his audience, feeding off their energy. A low, rhythmic chant began to build, a guttural ‘Ooooh’ that vibrated through the floor.

“Spit in her face,” Scott commanded, his voice ringing with the absolute authority of the pack leader. “Clear your name. Prove you’re worthy of returning to the fraternity.”

The chant shifted, gaining a vicious, percussive rhythm that pounded in Will's skull. “Spit! Spit! Spit!”

Will’s eyes locked with Hailey’s. The whole world narrowed to the supercharged space between them. The jeering of the guys, the cold tile under his bare feet, the throbbing in his knuckles—it all faded into a dull background hum. All he could see was her face, the tears tracking clean paths through the dust on her cheeks, the desperate trembling of her lower lip.

He took a step forward. A collective, predatory hiss of approval rose from the team. He was complying. He was one of them again.

Hailey began to sob, a broken, desperate sound that was nearly swallowed by the noise. “Will, please don’t.”

Her plea was a whisper against the deafening roar of the crowd.

“SPIT! SPIT! SPIT!”

He was a foot away from her now. Close enough to see the terror swimming in her wide, brown eyes. Close enough to smell the faint, clean scent of her hair, a scent that was jarringly out of place in this foul, hate-filled room. He felt a strange, violent pull, an instinct to shield her, to shove the other guys away and get her out of there. But another, darker impulse took hold—the primal need to reclaim his place, to wash away the shame she had branded him with, to prove he was still one of them. To prove he was an Alpha.

He drew a sharp breath, his gaze hardening into a mask of unforgiving steel. He gathered saliva in his mouth, the act feeling foreign and vile, the taste of his own disgust coating his tongue. He could feel the eyes of every single person in that room on him, waiting. Judging. Demanding.

Hailey flinched, squeezing her eyes shut as if bracing for the final, unforgivable violation that would shatter them both.

Two Weeks Earlier

The air in the basement was stale, thick with the ghosts of forgotten things—broken furniture, old textbooks, shattered dreams. It carried the damp, earthy smell of old concrete that had never seen the sun. This was a space designed for storage, a tomb for the unwanted, not for the bizarre, almost sacred ritual unfolding in its center. A single, bare bulb hanging from a frayed wire cast long, dancing shadows that twisted the familiar shapes of the fraternity brothers into something more sinister, more primal, like a congregation of ancient priests preparing a sacrifice.

Will stood in the middle of it all, half-naked and blindfolded. The rough, cheap fabric of the blindfold scratched against his skin, plunging him into a disorienting world of muffled sounds and imagined shapes. He could feel the cool, damp air on his bare chest, raising goosebumps despite his forced composure. He kept his arms crossed, a deliberate, physical manifestation