"Somewhere quiet."
His body is warm against the evening chill as we pull away from campus. I hold on tighter than necessary, grateful for the excuse to press against him. My mind should be on the threatening note I found in my dorm three days ago. On my dwindling supply of suppressants. On Riverside and all the ways my world could implode in the next four days.
Instead, all I can think about is the solid feel of his muscles beneath my hands and the memory of his lips on mine.
We bypass my dorm, heading toward the lake. For a moment I think he's taking me back to our secret beach, but he turns onto the road leading to the boathouse instead. The building sits dark and silent, the team's evening practice equipment already stored for the night.
Cameron pulls around to the maintenance entrance at the back, kills the engine, and produces a key I didn't know existed.
"How did you get that?" I ask as he unlocks the door.
"Coach gave it to me last year. For extra training."
The maintenance area is small but dry, housing tools and spare parts for boat repairs. Cameron flips on a single light, casting the space in shadows. An old space heater sits in the corner, which he switches on immediately.
"That sweater needs to come off," he says, practical rather than suggestive. "You'll freeze."
He's right. The fabric is soaked through, clinging uncomfortably to my skin. Cameron turns his back without being asked, giving me privacy as he rummages through a storage cabinet.
I peel off the wet sweater, standing in just my bra and jeans, shivering slightly in the cool air. The bruises on my wrist stand out starkly under the bare bulb light, along with a matching set on my upper arm that I've kept carefully hidden.
"Here," Cameron says, still facing away. He holds out what looks like team merchandise, a Sable Ridge Rowing hoodie that would be oversized even on him.
"Thanks." I pull it on quickly, the dry fabric a relief against my chilled skin. "You can turn around now."
Cameron turns around, and I take a moment to really look at him. In the dim light of the maintenance room, his features seem even more striking than usual. High cheekbones, strong jaw, and those slate gray eyes that miss nothing. His raven-black hair, always slightly too long, falls across his forehead when he moves, giving him a predatory appearance that's both intimidating and magnetic. The tattoos peeking out from under his shirt sleeve just add to the allure.
At six-foot-three, he towers over me, but unlike Gray's broad-shouldered bulk or Bo's powerful frame, Cameron's body is all sinewy strength with whipcord muscles built for endurance and speed rather than raw power. It suits his position in the bow, where accuracy matters more than brute force.
What always catches me off guard is his mouth, surprisingly full lips that seem at odds with his otherwise severe features. Lips that I now know can curve into the rarest of smiles, and can kiss with both unexpected gentleness and searing heat.
His eyes track over my face and down my body, immediately landing on my wrist where the sleeve has pulled back. His expression darkens.
"Who did that?" he asks, voice deadly quiet.
I tug the sleeve down. "It's nothing."
"Doesn't look like nothing." He steps closer, reaches for my hand but stops short of touching me. "May I?"
The request, so careful, so unlike the demanding Alphas I'm used to, makes my defenses waver. I extend my arm, allowing him to gently push up the sleeve.
His fingers trace the edge of the bruise, touch feather-light. Five distinct fingermarks wrap around my wrist, deep purple against pale skin. His eyes lift to mine, question clear.
"Olivia and Madison," I admit. "Kinsley's friends."
"When?"
"Two days ago. After morning practice."
I don't tell him about how they were waiting in the stairwell of my building, how they backed me into a corner, how Olivia held me still while Madison delivered Kinsley's "message." I don't mention the other bruises hidden beneath the oversized hoodie. And I definitely don't tell him about the note they left afterward.
But I see his eyes track to my upper arm where the fabric bunches oddly over another bruise.
"There's more," he says like he already knows.
I swallow hard. "It's handled."
"Is it?" His voice stays calm, but his scent shifts, takes on the sharp edge of Alpha anger. "Doesn't look handled to me."
