DID NOT KNOW HE WAS MY MATE

Synthia “I’ll say this once, rookie,” Devon said, circling me like a goddamn hawk with abs. “If you’re gonna pretend to be a guy, at least don’t wear a bra that clings to your heartbeat.” My fists clenched at my sides. The locker room was empty—because of course it was. It always is when he wants to provoke me. No cameras. No witnesses. Just me, him, the walls, and my dwindling sanity. “I’m not wearing a bra,” I lied. He tilted his head, his tongue grazing the inside of his cheek like he was weighing his next insult—or planning it like a felony. “No? Then what’s this?” He reached out before I could dodge, grabbed the hem of my shirt and pulled it taut. My breath stilled. My binder underneath was soaked from training. Wet, clinging. Unforgiving. His fingers brushed down the line of it, featherlight. “So… what are you hiding here, rookie?” His voice dipped lower, teasing—like he already knew the damn answer. “Muscle fat,” I said sharply. “You got a problem with that?” Devon raised a brow, smug smile stretching wider. “Oh, I love fat. I love grabbing it. Especially when it fits right in my palm like this—” He cupped my left chest through the soaked shirt, and I swear the world paused. Twice—twice—he rubbed my n****e with his thumb. Two small circles. Precise. Deliberate. I hated the way my body reacted. Traitor. That flicker of heat ran from my chest down to my— “Hmm,” he said, smirking. “Hard.” My eye twitched. “Because I’m freezing, asshole.” “Oh yeah? Guess I’ll have to warm it up then.” He leaned in, his breath teasing the shell of my ear like a fire I didn’t want but couldn’t back away from. “You know what they say about cold n*****s,” he murmured. “They’re either horny… or lying.” I slapped his hand away. Hard. “Back off, Maddox. This isn’t your goddamn pack, and I’m not one of your slaves begging for ‘executive mentoring.’” He laughed—a loud, arrogant sound that bounced off the lockers like it owned the acoustics. “You wish you were my slave. They get benefits. You? You get me free of charge.” “Yeah, well, I want a refund.” He took a lazy step forward again, towering over me. “No refunds. Pack policy: once you touch me, you’re f*cked.” “You touched me first!” “And you didn’t stop me. I felt your chest push back. Don’t gaslight me, sweetheart.” My jaw dropped. “I pushed you because your damn hand was on my tit, you pervert!” “Which you clearly enjoyed,” he said coolly, his eyes dipping again. “You’re staring,” I growled. “You’re bouncing,” he shot back, deadpan. “Fix it or I’ll fix it for you.” I saw red. Without thinking, I pinched his n****e through his shirt—hard. His body tensed. His eyes widened in surprise—and then he laughed. “Damn. You’re feisty,” he said, rubbing his now erect n****e like it was some sort of badge of honor. “You got me stiff and we haven’t even kissed yet. Are you sure you don’t want that CPR practice now? Could save your life. Or mine.” “Are you always this disgusting?” I hissed. “Only when I’m turned on.” His eyes dipped again. My soaked shirt. My thighs pressed tight. My uneven breath. And the bastard smirked. He f*cking knew. “You think you’re in control right now, but that body’s begging, sweetheart. I know when someone’s fighting their own hormones. I practically built my brand on it.” I stepped back, shaking. Heart racing. Skin on fire. Not from desire. From fury. From shame. From this heat that I couldn’t fully understand. And the worst part? He just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I was a game he already mastered. “You’re not gonna last here,” he said finally. “With that scent. That body. That tongue. Someone’s gonna figure you out.” Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “And it better be me.”