Enter the Beta

POV Cleo.

Looking up at the colossal, sprawling brick architecture of the college building, my stomach aggressively bubbles with severe anxiety. The imposing structures stretch out in every direction, casting long, chilling shadows across the manicured courtyards. Thick vines of green ivy crawl up the historic red brick walls, framing massive arched windows that reflect the overcast morning sky. I clutch the worn leather strap of my messenger bag, my knuckles turning stark white as I stand paralyzed at the edge of the sprawling campus.

I am only seventeen years old. I am a full year younger than the vast majority of the incoming freshmen, but the board granting my prestigious art scholarship made their demands perfectly clear. They insisted I start my college career immediately, skipping the final, comforting leg of my normal high school experience.

My artwork exploded on social media over the summer. Videos of my painting process garnered millions of views, pulling in considerable attention from wealthy collectors and snobby gallery owners. People pay a lot of money to buy my original pieces, transferring sums into my bank account that make my head spin. Online, behind the safety of a digital screen, I am a confident, rising prodigy in the modern art scene. But standing here in the flesh, breathing in the crisp autumn air of this elite institution, the illusion shatters into a million pieces.

The idea of leaving my grandmother’s small, quiet town and venturing into this massive, highly competitive environment fills me with suffocating dread. Massive imposter syndrome gnaws at my nerves, making my hands shake. I feel like a total fraud just waiting to be exposed by the real artists.

To make matters infinitely worse, administrative hold-ups mean I am starting a full month late into the fall semester. The sheer dread deepens as I watch large groups of students laughing and walking together across the grass. It feels like I am invading a tightly-knit ecosystem. These people have already formed their exclusive friend groups. They have inside jokes, established traditions, and claimed their favorite tables in the dining halls. I am just the awkward, underage outsider stepping onto their established turf.

"Just get your schedule and keep your head down," I whisper to myself, forcing my heavy combat boots to carry me up the wide concrete steps leading toward the main quad.

I desperately pray I can navigate this day without running into my hulking stepbrother, Dorian Vance. The thought of his terrifying face ties my intestines into painful knots. I recently manipulated the situation back home, effectively getting him kicked out of our luxurious mansion. It was a necessary move for my own sanity, but I know Dorian. He is a ruthless apex predator. I am absolutely certain he is actively plotting his brutal revenge against me right now, biding his time until he can strike.

My breath suddenly hitches in my throat, stalling my footsteps.

Hanging off the side of the towering student union building is a giant, glossy campus poster. Dorian’s handsome, arrogant face is plastered across the heavy vinyl. He is decked out in his dark college football gear, the tight jersey stretching dangerously over his massive shoulders. He is holding a scuffed helmet under one thick arm, striking a stance that screams sheer dominance and unearned popularity.

The bold, block letters beneath his heavy boots read: MEET OUR STAR PLAYER: DORIAN VANCE.

"Star player, huh?" I mumble aloud, a cold shiver racing straight down my spine.

He is not just another student here. He is a local god. The student body idolizes him, worshiping the ground he walks on. The fact that he is a literal celebrity on this campus tells me it is going to be incredibly difficult to pretend the scary bastard does not exist. Avoiding him is my top priority, but his face is everywhere, mocking my attempts to start fresh.

I square my shoulders, refuse to look at the poster for another second, and push my way through the heavy glass doors of the main administration building.

The noise hits me like a physical blow. Hundreds of students pack the wide linoleum hallway. The chaotic hum of overlapping voices, slamming metal lockers, and squeaking sneakers creates an overwhelming sensory overload. It is all too much. A tight knot grows in my throat, threatening to choke me.

Keeping my head down, I nervously navigate the crowded spaces, focusing solely on reaching the administration office to grab my class schedule and student ID. I weave past a group of cheerleaders in matching skirts, sidestep two guys tossing a lacrosse ball, and keep my gaze glued to the scuffed floor. I just need to get my registration papers and find the sanctuary of the art studios.

I turn a sharp corner, moving way too fast.

Suddenly, I accidentally collide hard with a wall of solid muscle.

The impact knocks the breath straight from my lungs. The folder tucked under my arm slips, and my registration papers scatter across the linoleum floor. They swirl around our feet like a chaotic white blizzard, covering the ground in printed schedules and loose charcoal sketches.

"Oh, crap," I hiss, my face burning with immediate, searing embarrassment. I drop to my knees, frantically scrambling to collect the flying sheets before hundreds of boots trample them.

The tall, dark-haired stranger I slammed into smoothly crouches down beside me. His large, calloused hands gather the scattered pages with easy grace. He does not seem annoyed in the slightest.

"I am so sorry," I mumble, reaching for my printed schedule.

The stranger hands me a neat stack of papers, flashing a brilliant, charming, incredibly easy smile. His teeth gleam white against his tanned skin, and his warm, chocolate-brown eyes crinkle at the corners. He exudes a calm, inviting aura that immediately puts my racing heart at ease.

"No worries," he replies, his voice warm and rich. "Are you the new art student? Cleo Fairchild?"

I freeze, blinking up at his sharply chiseled features. "Yes. How do you know my name?"

His smile widens, revealing a hint of something feral yet deeply restrained. "Because we belong to the same pack, Cleo. I am the Beta, Gideon Slater."

I stand up, clutching the papers to my chest. Gideon rises with me, towering over my smaller frame. He is shockingly tall, easily hitting six foot four, and built with lean, dangerous muscle. He is a werewolf, radiating the quiet strength of his kind, but since he is not a Lycan like my stepbrother, he lacks Dorian's terrifying, hulking mass.

A dark shadow crosses Gideon's handsome face. He shifts his weight, sliding his large hands into the pockets of his dark denim jeans.

"I am sure you have heard the rumors," Gideon continues, a trace of deep resentment lacing his smooth tone. "I was meant to become the Alpha. Then your stepbrother beat me in a duel and took the title."

He grimaces slightly at the bitter memory, the thick muscle in his jaw ticking.

I let out a dry, awkward laugh, shifting uncomfortably under the harsh fluorescent hall lights. "I may have heard a thing or two about that. But I am not an official member of the Ember pack. Not yet, anyway."

Gideon tilts his head, assessing me with knowing eyes. "You will be. After your first hunt with us."

I try to ignore the nervous flutter in my chest at the thought of running through the woods with giant wolves. "I highly doubt Dorian would appreciate it if I showed up for a pack hunt," I reply, my voice tight.

Gideon raises a dark eyebrow. He leans a broad shoulder against the row of metal lockers, projecting a casual, effortless confidence. "He wouldn't? And why is that?"

I shift my weight, deeply uncomfortable under his penetrating gaze. I do not want to air my dirty laundry in the middle of a crowded hallway, but Gideon's easy demeanor makes me want to drop my guard.

"Let’s just say my personal relationship with Dorian is highly complicated," I admit, offering a tight, guarded smile.

Gideon chuckles softly. The sound is rich and musical, and it does wonders for my frayed nerves. His dark eyes gleam with a look of knowing amusement, suggesting he understands the chaotic dynamic of my toxic family far better than he lets on.

"I see," Gideon murmurs, his tone dripping with subtle meaning. "Well, Cleo, trust me when I say that pack dynamics can be exceptionally challenging at times. But you are not the only one who doesn't get along with our esteemed Alpha."

Another soft laugh escapes his lips. It is a soothing sound that effectively eases the tight knot in my throat. Gideon is charming, charismatic, and he clearly shares my deep disdain for the arrogant tyrant ruling my life.

"Really?" I ask in disbelief, arching an eyebrow.

Gideon nods, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. "Dorian has a very particular, forceful way of doing things that simply doesn't sit well with everyone in the ranks."

The massive understatement does not escape me. I let out a genuine, breathy laugh, feeling the tension finally bleed out of my rigid shoulders. "I am getting the feeling you are being highly diplomatic right now."

His smile broadens, lighting up his handsome face. "Speaking ill of your Alpha isn't exactly wise. Not that it stops me from doing it anyway."

Gideon winks at me, the playful gesture instantly disarming my remaining defenses. More laughter bubbles up past my lips. Gideon seems genuinely nice, and finding someone on this massive campus who understands the nightmare of dealing with Dorian feels like finding a sanctuary.

I open my mouth to thank him for his help and finally ask for directions to the art block.

A sudden, deafening commotion rips through the crowded hall.

The overlapping chatter of the student body dies in a heartbeat. People scramble backward, pressing their spines frantically against the metal lockers. A wide, empty path clears straight down the center of the linoleum floor, born from sheer, unadulterated fear.

A hulking, terrifying figure barrels down the corridor.

It is Dorian.

His face is flushed crimson with absolute, unadulterated rage. He moves like a massive freight train, his broad, heavy chest heaving beneath a tight white t-shirt. The sheer size of his muscular frame eclipses the fluorescent lights overhead. He aggressively scatters the human students in his path like bowling pins, shoving past a stray freshman without breaking his lethal stride.

My heart kicks into a frantic overdrive. Panic floods my veins, turning my blood to ice. I knew Dorian would be angry about being kicked out of the mansion, but I never expected him to attack me in the middle of a crowded college hallway.

His furious, icy blue eyes zero in directly on us. The sheer, primal intensity in his gaze makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He stalks closer, his heavy combat boots thudding ominously against the floor. Every step radiates dangerous, territorial dominance. Next to Gideon's tall frame, Dorian is a colossal titan of sheer muscle and lethal force.

"Cleo," Dorian grunts, his deep voice vibrating through the tense, suffocating air.

I lift my chin, fighting the desperate urge to shrink back. I will not let him see me sweat. "Dorian."

His burning gaze snaps away from me and zeroes in on the Beta standing by my side. The sheer rage rolling off my stepbrother is palpable. It turns the oxygen in the hallway thick and heavy.

"What the fuck are you doing with my stepsister?" Dorian grits out. His menacing tone echoes loudly off the metal lockers, bouncing down the corridor and making several nearby students flinch in terror.

Gideon does not cower. The Beta lazily leans back against the wall, completely unfazed by the Alpha's lethal, wrathful glare. A mocking smirk plays on Gideon's lips, his arms crossing over his chest.

"I was simply helping Cleo pick up her dropped papers," Gideon replies, his tone infuriatingly calm. "Nothing more."

Dorian’s eyes flash with dangerous, primal jealousy. The muscles in his massive arms jump beneath his skin. He strides right up to me, his sheer bulk seeming to take up all the available space in the hallway.

"Cleo doesn't need your fucking help," Dorian snaps viciously, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack bone.

Without a second of hesitation, Dorian lunges forward. His massive hand shoots out like a striking snake. His thick, calloused fingers wrap around my fragile wrist in an iron-clad grip. The searing heat of his skin burns right through my long sleeve.

"Hey!" I gasp, stumbling forward as he roughly yanks me away.

"You are coming with me," Dorian growls, not looking back.

He forcefully drags me down the crowded hallway, his long strides forcing me into a frantic jog just to keep from falling onto the linoleum floor. Behind us, Gideon's mocking, arrogant laughter rings out, slicing through the heavy silence of the terrified student body.

"I am afraid she already had my help, Alpha!" Gideon calls out, his voice dripping with deliberate provocation.

"Shut the hell up, Gideon!" Dorian roars over his broad shoulder. His booming voice rattles the glass windows lining the corridor.

I dig the rubber soles of my sneakers into the polished floor, frantically trying to yank my hand free from his crushing grip. It is like pulling against a solid steel beam. Dorian does not even break his punishing stride. The students continue to part like the Red Sea, staring at us with wide, gossiping eyes. My cheeks burn with fresh, boiling humiliation.

"Let go of me, you psychotic jerk!" I demand loudly, twisting my arm in a desperate bid for freedom. "Dorian, where are you taking me? Stop dragging me!"

Dorian completely ignores my frantic struggles. His massive strides eat up the distance. He hauls me around a sharp corner, dragging me away from the administration offices and into a deserted, older wing of the building. The chatter of the students fades away, replaced by the heavy thud of his boots and my own panicked breathing.

He spots an empty, abandoned classroom at the end of the shadowed hall.

He shoves the heavy wooden door open, yanks me inside, and kicks the door shut behind us with a deafening slam.

The loud click of the lock sounds like a gunshot in the quiet, dusty room. The space is filled with stacked wooden desks and chalk-covered blackboards. Sunlight filters through the grime on the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the tense air.

Dorian finally drops my wrist. I stumble back, rubbing my aching skin and glaring daggers at his broad back.

He turns slowly. He towers over me, blocking the only exit. His massive, heavily muscled frame seems to suck all the remaining oxygen out of the room. The thick veins in his forearms bulge as he flexes his huge hands. He is seething with uncontrollable rage, his broad chest rising and falling in harsh, heavy pants that strain the white fabric of his shirt. Up close, the sheer size of him is intoxicatingly intimidating.

"I don't want to see you interacting with Gideon again," Dorian growls, his voice dropping an octave to a lethal, rumbling timber.

I cross my arms over my chest, masking my intense physical discomfort and racing pulse behind a heavy wall of sarcasm.

"And why is that?" I quip smoothly, arching an eyebrow in fake defiance.

Dorian steps closer, his boots thudding against the dusty floorboards. He eats up my personal space in an instant. "Because he is bad news. He is manipulative, and he doesn't give a damn about anyone but himself."

I let out a harsh, dry laugh, refusing to back down from the hulking beast looming over me. "My, what a glowing review. It almost sounds like someone I know."

Dorian stops dead in his tracks. His icy blue eyes immediately narrow into dangerous, calculating slits. The air between us crackles with volatile, dangerous energy.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he hisses.

I hold my ground, tilting my head back to maintain eye contact with the giant. "You, Dorian. It sounds exactly like you. You are the one currently dictating who I can and cannot interact with. You are the one dragging me into empty rooms against my will. Tell me how that is not manipulative."

In a blur of sudden, terrifying motion, Dorian steps forward. He violently backs me up until my shoulder blades slam hard against the cold plaster wall of the classroom. His massive, tree-trunk arm slams against the wall right beside my head. He cages me in, physically locking me in place.

The trap is sprung. There is absolutely nowhere to flee.

"You think you are so smart, don't you?" Dorian snarls, his face mere inches from mine. His hot, minty breath fans across my sensitive skin, sending a treacherous shiver racing down my spine.

I flat out refuse to cower. I press my palms flat against the wall, staring defiantly up into his furious blue eyes.

"I obviously wouldn't be attending this prestigious college on a full scholarship if I wasn't smart," I snap back, my voice dripping with pure venom.

I wait for the explosion. I wait for the Alpha to roar in my face and tear me down.

Instead, the furious scowl on his handsome face evaporates into thin air. It is instantly replaced by a dark, arrogant smirk. He looks exactly like a mastermind who just cornered his favorite prey and realized the hunt was over.

"You have got a mouth on you, Cleo," he murmurs, his voice transforming into a rough, dark purr. "Luckily for me, I know exactly how to shut you up."

Before my brain can even process the audacious threat, Dorian slowly leans in.

His massive, muscular body presses flush against mine. The hard, unyielding planes of his broad chest crush against my soft breasts. The thick, solid muscle of his heavy thighs cages my legs, pressing deeply into mine. He pins me securely to the cold wall, letting me feel every single inch of his towering, arrogant frame.

My breath catches sharply in my throat. Despite my desperate mental resistance and the deep hatred boiling in my gut for this man, an overwhelming, unwanted heat rapidly pools between my legs. His intense, searing blue gaze drops heavily to my trembling lips. My pulse pounds erratically in my ears, deafening and wild. My body reacts to his physical proximity with humiliating speed. The primal, raw masculinity radiating from his skin triggers a heavy, throbbing ache deep in my core. Moisture gathers between my thighs, fueled by the sheer dominance of his stance.

Through the heavy denim of his jeans, I can feel the thick, rigid length of his sudden erection pressing flush against my stomach. He is fully aroused, the hard ridge of his cock digging into me with claiming heat.

I can feel the blazing warmth radiating off his broad chest. My heart stutters wildly as his lips turn up into a devastatingly sexy, crooked grin. He looks every bit like a dangerous predator who knows exactly what he wants, and knows he has already won.

Without giving me a single second to draw a breath or mount a defense, Dorian crashes his mouth onto mine and kisses me.