DID NOT KNOW HE WAS MY MATE

“Pretty Boy”

I was going to kill him.

No—scratch that.

I was going to peel his skin off with my nails, marinate him in his own ego, slow-roast him over a bonfire made of his fan girls’ love letters, and eat popcorn while his abs melted.

“You’re not a boy, are you?”

That whisper still rang in my ears like a bullet that missed on purpose.

And now, here I was—late for my first Tactical Combat Theory class, sweating through my binder, heartbeat punching a full-metal symphony inside my ribs.

The lecture hall was built like an arena. Concrete rows. Steel chairs. A long, sloped aisle that made every step feel like a spotlight. Dominant scents hung in the air like a thick fog: sweat, smoke, testosterone, and danger.

Every head turned when I entered.

Too fast. Too harsh. Too obvious.

“Wow. Cain decided to show up,” someone muttered from the left.

I ignored it. My jaw was locked so tight I could’ve cracked a tooth.

I dropped into a chair in the back row, eyes scanning for one person and one person only—

Devon wasn’t here.

Thank the gods.

But someone else was.

l

He sat four rows below me. Long dark hair in a low tie. Black uniform half-unzipped to show faint claw scars across a tan collarbone. A Beta, by scent—but the kind that made Alphas shift uncomfortably in their seats.

His eyes met mine. Amber. Cold. Calculating.

I blinked and looked away.

“Late again, are we, Mr. Cain?” the instructor said from the podium. “One more time and you’ll be fetching meat for the Omega kitchens.”

“Yes, sir,” I croaked.

My voice sounded wrecked. Not masculine. Not feminine. Just broken.

I cleared my throat. Devon. Freaking. Devon.

He got under my skin, in my veins, and now I couldn’t breathe right.

Why did he have to say that?

Why did it matter?

Why did it make me want to cry and kiss him at the same time?

“Now then,” the instructor barked, drawing a diagram of a territorial war map on the board. “Let’s discuss Alpha pack dynamics during siege protocol. Who can tell me what the First Bloodline doctrine demands during a forced surrender?”

Hand raised.

Him. The guy with the claw scars.

His voice was quiet. Smooth.

“The doctrine allows for public claiming if a female of Alpha lineage is taken during wartime. Especially if unmarked.”

The room went silent.

The instructor nodded. “Correct.”

But all I heard was unmarked.

Devon’s words slammed into my skull again.

“You’re not a boy, are you?”

His eyes. His breath on my neck. The way he made my knees shake like I was twelve and full of moonlust.

“Cain.”

I looked up.

Everyone was staring.

The instructor’s arms were folded. “Are you with us, or fantasizing about licking someone’s feet?”

Laughter.

I flushed. “Sorry. Yes. I mean—I’m here.”

He grunted. “Then tell me, what’s the protocol for scent override in close-quarters combat between rival packs?”

I stood. My knees were still jelly.

“Scent override is… it’s when a dominant Alpha masks their scent to confuse the enemy. Often used during pack infiltration or when dealing with unclaimed bonds—”

The word slipped.

Bond.

Someone snickered.

“Sit down,” the instructor said. “Try not to pass out next time.”

I sat. My fists were trembling. My mouth tasted like rust.

He made me feel exposed. Devon. That bastard. One word, and my whole armor cracked.

I used to be sure of everything.

My mission. My disguise. My hate.

But now?

I didn’t know who I was anymore—just that I smelled like prey, and everyone in this room was a predator.

After class, I rushed for the exit. I didn’t even look back.

But a voice caught me at the stairwell.

“Cain, right?”

I turned. It was the Beta from earlier.

His stare was unreadable. His presence? Unsettling.

“You smell… wrong,” he said.

I tensed. “Excuse me?”

“Not bad. Just… layered. Like a storm pretending to be drizzle.” He paused. “You ever shift?”

I swallowed. “Why do you care?”

He stepped closer, nose tilted slightly.

“Because I think Devon Maddox isn’t the only one playing games.”

Before I could respond, he walked off.

When I got back to the dorm, Devon was waiting on my bed—shirtless, legs sprawled, grin locked and loaded.

“You’re late, Pretty Boy,” he said.

Then he patted his lap.

“Sit. We need to talk about that heat of yours.”