Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chris's pov:

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“And Chris, your assigned seat is next to Matthew Sturniolo,” the teacher announces with absolute finality, scanning the classroom like he’s expecting applause for the decision.

“Matthew, please raise your hand.”

He pauses and scans the rows of students again, clearly still trying to connect names to faces.

The second Matt’s name leaves his lips, my entire body stiffens. Like a cold jolt of electricity shooting down my spine. I don’t even need to look to know Matt’s reaction—he probably looks like someone just told him his birthday’s canceled.

Slowly, reluctantly, I glance across the room—and yep. There he is.

Matthew Sturniolo .

Brooding. Tattooed. Annoying as hell.

He’s already glaring at me with the same look of disdain he’s had since freshman year, like I kicked his dog or murdered his entire bloodline. His usually blank expression now carved into a scowl so sharp it could cut glass.

We lock eyes.

And everything goes still.

It’s not the usual hate-filled stare we always exchange. This one feels different. Charged. The hair on my arms rises. For half a second, there’s something else beneath the loathing—something that makes my breath catch in my throat.

No. No way. I look away first, refusing to acknowledge it.

Matt, of course, scoffs dramatically and turns his head to the teacher, voice already dripping with attitude. “Teach,” he drawls, already leaning back in his chair like he owns it, “no offense, but my birthday’s tomorrow, and I don’t really… do Chris.” He gestures lazily toward me, like I’m some kind of nuisance. I raise a brow, unimpressed.

“So,” Matt continues, flashing a smile so fake it should be a crime, “you might wanna rethink that seating chart before someone ends up in the nurse’s office.”

Mr. Taylor looks up from his clipboard, blinking slowly like Matt’s not even speaking English.

“For everyone else’s sake?” Matt adds, gesturing to the rest of the class with both hands like he’s some kind of martyr.

To my irritation, half the class actually nods. Some even exchange looks like, Here we go again.

It’s not like our feud is a secret. Ever since freshman year, Matt and I have had this weird, borderline obsessive animosity toward each other. He struts through school like he’s above everyone, and honestly, maybe he is—he’s smart, absurdly attractive, and carries himself like a guy who knows way more than he should.

Still doesn’t stop him from being an ass.

To be fair, I’ve thrown more than a few punches of my own. We’ve been kicked out of classrooms for shouting matches, nearly got suspended once after a cafeteria incident involving a tray of mashed potatoes, and had the entire football team break us apart during a gym class brawl last semester.

“You’re all going to have to deal with it,” Mr. Taylor says flatly. “This is not my problem.” He turns back to the board like he didn’t just drop a bomb on the room.

I sigh, loud enough for Matt to hear, and grab my bag. The walk to his side of the room feels like slow-motion torture. Each step closer, the air gets thicker, like something heavy’s pressing down on my chest.

Matt watches me with narrowed eyes, arms crossed, jaw clenched. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip—a nervous habit I’ve unfortunately noticed before—and I can’t help but watch.

Focus.

I drop into the seat beside him, dragging it out for extra emphasis. “Way to go, tiger,” I mutter, shooting him a sideways glance. “Maybe if you’d asked instead of acted like a spoiled little mafia prince, he might’ve actually listened.”

Matt scoffs and leans back, his hoodie bunching around his shoulders, showing the curve of a tattoo inked across his forearm. “Okay, well, at least I said something. Didn’t hear you talking.”

I roll my eyes. “Because there’s no point arguing with a teacher who clearly hates his job. And watching you fail was entertainment enough.”

His lip twitches. A smirk? A snarl? It’s hard to tell with him. But then his arms shift again—and I get another glance at the tattoos twisting around the muscles of his forearms. Dark ink. Sharp lines. Veins running just beneath the skin.

I look. Just a second too long.

Damn tattos are my thing.

Matt notices.

“The fuck are you looking at?” he snaps, turning toward me abruptly.

Tattos are definitely not my thing.

“Nothing, mop,” I say quickly, knowing it’ll get under his skin. It does.

Matt grits his teeth. “Stop calling me that.”

He says it too loud, loud enough to earn another glare from Mr. Taylor. Matt instantly shuts his mouth and fidgets with the drawstrings of his hoodie like a kid who just got caught swearing in church.

I grin. The boy who acts like he doesn’t give a damn about anything suddenly getting flustered? Golden.

I chuckle quietly, but it echoes. Mr. Taylor glares at me now, but I just blink back innocently. Go ahead. Write me up. I dare you.

In my head, I’m already plotting how to get out of this class. No way in hell am I doing an entire semester next to Matt. I’d rather eat chalk.

 “Anywaysss,” Mr. Taylor drawls, turning back to the whiteboard and launching into some half-hearted lecture on functions and variables.

I glance over, fully intending to whisper another insult, but Matt’s not looking at me. He’s frozen.Completely still, eyes squeezed shut, body rigid as if he's in pain.

The veins in his arms stand out starkly beneath his skin, his knuckles white where his fists clench under the desk. Muscles straining. Breathing shallow.

Something’s wrong.

“Um… what the hell are you doing?” I ask, eyebrows furrowed.

Matt blinks, as if snapping out of a trance. His voice is low, clipped. “Mind your business.”

But there’s something in his tone—tight, panicked, almost.

I narrow my eyes, watching him carefully as he shifts in his seat, breathing uneven. For a second, just a second, I swear I see something flash in his irises—something not quite... human.

I shiver.

This is going to be a long year.

And for some reason, I can’t wait.

Chapter Text

Matt's pov

-------

The second Chris walks into the room, my body tenses like I’ve been hit with a live wire. My spine goes rigid. My breath catches. And my senses—already sharper than human—lock onto him with terrifying precision.

I smell him before I see him.

Warm skin. Citrus soap. A hint of sweat from rushing down the hall. He smells like summer storms and adrenaline and a cheap body spray he insists on wearing that drives me insane and floods my senses instantly.

He drops into the seat next to me--thanks to Mr.Taylor--like he owns the damn room, his shoulder brushing mine for half a second too long, and I almost flinch. Almost. But I don’t flinch. Because I’m too busy trying not to freak the fuck out.

Why the hell is my heart racing?

I stare straight ahead, knuckles white around the edge of my desk. He hasn’t said anything yet—thank god—but I can feel the weight of his presence like a magnetic field pressing against my skin.

This has been happening for weeks now. Every time Chris is near me, it’s like my entire body short-circuits. Heat floods my veins, my chest tightens, and my fangs ache for no damn reason.

I’ve gone too long without feeding. That’s the logical answer. It's just bloodlust. Sensory overload.

Except...It only happens around him. And that’s not normal. Not for me. Not for any vampire.

I clench my jaw as he shifts in his seat, his thigh brushing against mine for a second. The contact lights a fire low in my gut and I jerk away like I’ve been burned.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Chris looks over, like he felt the tension. His brows knit together, studying my face. “um....what the hell are you doing?” he asks brows furrowed. 

His voice. That voice. I’ve heard it a thousand times, usually saying something that makes me want to break his nose, but right now it sounds lower, more cautious.

Concerned?

“Mind your business,” I snap, too sharp, too fast.

His lips curl into a half-smirk. “Chill, bad boy.”

I want to growl. Actually growl. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and look away. I can hear his heartbeat. It's fast. Steady. Human. But for some reason it calls to me, like a song I can't unhear. It's driving me insane. It’s not attraction. It’s not hate. It’s something else.

Something I don’t understand, and that makes it worse. Because if it was simple lust or rage, I’d know what to do with it. I’d shove it down and bury it under a mountain of spite like I’ve always done.

But this? This is different. And I don’t like different.

Especially when it comes with thoughts I can’t control—like what his pulse might feel like under my mouth, or how his breath hitched when I leaned too close last week.

I’m too busy trying to keep myself from unraveling in a room full of humans, right next to the one person I shouldn’t be reacting to this way.

Whatever this is, it’s not normal. And if it doesn’t stop soon, I’m going to do something reckless. Something irreversible.

Chris leans back in his seat, tapping his pen against the desk with just enough rhythm to drive me insane. I shoot him a glare. He just smirks and keeps tapping, like he knows exactly how close I am to losing it. And I do.

I snap my head toward him , I've had enough. “Are you trying to piss me off?” 

He blinks, mock-innocent. “I don’t have to try. You’re like a walking storm cloud—one look and thunder cracks.”

“I’m two seconds away from making it lightning,” I hiss.

His eyes flash, something unreadable flickering behind the usual cocky glaze. There’s a beat. A pause. Long enough for his gaze to drop to my mouth—then snap back to my eyes like nothing happened.

Then Mr. Taylor claps his hands at the front of the room. “Alright, pairs. Dissection time. Grab your gloves. Lab tables. Let’s go.”

Fuck.

I stand up so fast my chair screeches against the floor, dragging eyes toward me. Chris follows, sauntering like this is all a game. He even waits for me, the bastard.

“C’mon, Matt,” he says with a mocking grin. “Don’t want to get blood on your funeral clothes.”

"Screw you,” I mutter, and shoulder past him.

The lab smells like formaldehyde and stainless steel. Cold tile underfoot, harsh lights overhead. It should help. Usually it does.

But he’s still beside me. Still too close.

Chris grabs our tray and flops onto the stool like this is no big deal. I can’t sit. Not yet. I grip the counter instead, white-knuckled, grounding myself.

"Don’t pass out on me,” he says without looking up. “Would ruin your whole dark , bad boy aesthetic.”

“I dare you to keep talking,” I grit out, slipping on gloves.

He just snickers. “Man, you’re tense. Maybe if you got laid—”

The scalpel slips.

“Shit—!”

Everything stops. The scent hits me instantly. Blood. Warm. Human. Fresh. Mine. 

Wait-mine?

I freeze. The world tilts.

I stare at the single bead of red blooming on his fingertip, and everything else disappears.

My throat burns. My vision sharpens. The sound of the classroom fades to static, and all I can hear is his pulse—racing from the sting of pain. Fast. Hot. Alive.

His blood calls to me. Not like normal prey. Not like a student who got a paper cut or some random injury. It’s his. Chris’s blood. And it’s like my body knows.

My fingers dig into the edge of the table. Fangs press against my lips, demanding to drop. My heart slams against my ribs with a speed that shouldn’t even be possible for a vampire.

“Yo, you good?” Chris asks, holding a paper towel to his hand.

I can’t look at him. If I do, I’ll move. I know I will. Toward him. His blood. His neck. what's wrong with me?

I nod stiffly. “Yeah,” I manage. My voice is low. Rough. Wrong.

“You look like you're gonna pass out,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at me. “Wasn’t expecting you to be squeamish.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Not because I’m squeamish. Because I want to bite him.Right here. Right now. In front of a full classroom.

What.The. Fuck.

This isn’t bloodlust. Not the normal kind. It’s worse. Hungrier. Possessive. Violent. Like something ancient in me just woke up and said that’s mine.

And I don’t do possessive. I don’t want anyone. Especially not him. But I want to touch him.I want to taste him. And I want to rip apart anyone who gets within six feet of him.

I stumble back from the table. My stool screeches against the tile floor. Heads turn. Chris looks up at me, startled, but all I can focus on is the roaring in my ears.

I need to get out. Now.

“Bathroom,” I mutter, already moving toward the door without waiting for permission.

Once I’m in the hallway, I sprint — not walk — to the nearest empty room and slam the door shut behind me. My breathing is ragged. My fangs drop fully now, sharp and aching.

The mintue door slams shut , I collapse against It like my legs can't hold me up anymore.

I’m shaking.

Not trembling. Shaking. Like something inside me has snapped loose, and now there’s nothing but wild, raw instinct filling in the cracks.

I can still smell it—him—like the scent clung to me and won’t let go. That blood. That perfect drop of heat and copper and Chris.

It wasn’t just hunger. It was possession.

I squeeze my eyes shut, grip the edge of the sink so hard the porcelain creaks beneath my fingers. I don’t breathe. Don’t move. Because if I do, I’ll lose whatever paper-thin control I’m clinging to.

My body is buzzing—with rage, lust, panic, need. Like I’ve been rewired and someone flipped the switch all the way up.

I can still see it. That bead of blood, blooming red on his skin like a promise. My fangs throb just thinking about it. Not for the blood itself—but because it was his. And that’s what’s making me unravel.Because this isn’t just a craving. This isn’t hunger. Hunger I know. Hunger I can manage. Hunger is easy. Predictable.

This is something else. Something ancient. Something wrong. Or worse—something right.

I stare at myself in the mirror. Pale skin. Bloodshot eyes. Fangs fully out, sharp and gleaming. My pupils blown wide like I’ve just fed, but I haven’t. Not in days. I was fine until he walked in. Until his scent wrapped around me like a noose. Until his blood hit the air and my whole body decided it belonged to me.

No.

No, no, no.

I punch the wall. Not hard enough to break it. Just hard enough to feel something that isn’t this pulling. This ache.

I’m not supposed to want someone like him. I’m not supposed to want anyone, period. I’m not built for it. Not wired that way. Not since I turned. And especially not Chris Owen.

We’ve spent years hating each other. Hating. That’s real. That’s safe. That’s what keeps me grounded. Every snide comment, every fight, every goddamn stare-down across a hockey rink—I live for it. I know how to handle rage. I like it.

But this? This is something I have no idea how to survive. Because under the rage, under the instinct, under the fangs and the heat and the hunger, there’s something worse. Something soft. Something terrifying.

It hit me the second he cut himself. That split-second moment when time stopped, and all I could think was: mine.

Not prey. Not blood. Mine.

Like some ancient part of me looked at him and decided. Decided he was it. That I wouldn’t ever be able to walk away from him again. That his blood would be the only kind that would ever feel like home. That his skin was the only thing I’d ever want to touch. That no matter how much I hate him, how much he drives me insane—I’d tear the world apart to protect him.

And it’s horrifying. Because I don’t want this. I can’t want this.

I’d rather chew glass than admit it, but I already know. Deep down, something inside me is screaming it over and over again, louder with every heartbeat.

He’s mine. He’s mine. He’s mine.

I slam my fist against the sink. “Shut up,” I snarl at myself. “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.”

But it won’t. My body is still vibrating with the aftershock. With the scent. With the possibility.

Because I’ve heard of this happening. Once. Maybe twice. Never firsthand. Always rumors. Stories whispered between vampires like ghost stories: Fated mates. A blood bond. A soul thread. Something older than choice. Something that decides for you.

It’s rare. Obscenely rare. Dangerous. People who get hit with it—they never come back the same. And if it’s true—if this is what’s happening to me—then Chris Owen isn’t just the guy I hate.

He’s the only person I’ll ever crave again. Body, blood, soul—every part of him.And I’m going to destroy both of us if I don’t get the hell away.

I drag my hands down my face, forcing myself to breathe. To think. I need to talk to someone. I need to figure out if this is real. If I’m losing my mind or if fate just decided to play the worst fucking joke imaginable.

Because if this is a bond—if he really is my mate—Then I don’t know if I want to rip his throat out or fall to my knees and beg him to never leave me.

And that scares me more than anything else.

The scent. The blood. The pull. The burning need to rip anyone apart who so much as looks at him the wrong way.  

I sink to my knees.  Breathing hard. Chest heaving. Hands gripping my hair.  

“Fuck,” I whisper. “No, no, no, no—”  

I hate him. I hate him.  

He’s obnoxious. He never shuts up. He calls me Mop, for god’s sake. He has this stupid smirk that makes me want to punch a wall, and he acts like he owns every room he walks into.  

I’ve spent years trying not to throw him through a locker. And now my body is screaming mine every time he looks at me? It’s not fair.  

It’s not fair.  

Chris Owens might be my mate.  

And he doesn’t even know what I am.

Chapter Text

Matt's pov

---

I don’t know how I get home.

One second, I’m bolting from class with my fangs halfway down and bloodlust making my hands shake—and the next, I’m crashing through the front door of our house like I’m the final boss in a horror movie. The door bangs against the wall with a crack, echoing through the hall. I barely notice. I’m burning up from the inside out, still breathing like I just sprinted across the county because, well... I did.

“Nick!” I bellow, not even bothering to close the door. “Get your ass down here right now or so help me—”

A pause.

Then: “Could you scream a little louder? I don’t think the next county heard you.”

“I’m serious!” I shout, kicking off my boots. One flies halfway across the hall and nails the wall with a loud thud. “Nick, I swear to god!”

Another pause. Then footsteps. Heavy. Thudding. Nick appears at the top of the stairs, shirtless, in grey sweatpants, holding a protein shake like he’s the cover model for Lazy Vampires Weekly. His hair sticks up like he’s been electrocuted. “What, did you murder someone again?”

“Don’t test me, Nicholas. I’m this close—” I hold up two fingers, trembling— “this fucking close to losing it!”

Nick groans and jogs down the stairs with all the urgency of someone whose little brother routinely has temper tantrums with fangs.

Nick sighs and takes one last sip of his shake before descending the stairs. “Alright, murderface. What happened?”

I pace the living room like a caged animal, running both hands through my hair, tugging hard enough that it hurts. I hate this. I never panic. But I’m spiraling, and I need answers, and Nick is the only person who might actually know what the hell is happening to me.

When he gets close enough, I grip his wrist and yank him toward the couch.

“Whoa—okay. Personal space. What the hell, Matt?”

“I smelled his blood,” I hiss.

Nick raises an eyebrow. “...Okay? You smell blood all the time. You’re a vampire, remember? Comes with the whole nocturnal predator gig.”

“No. His blood,” I say, staring him dead in the eyes. “Chris. Owens.”

Nick pauses.

Then squints. “Your rival hockey boy nemesis? Tall, annoying, floppy hair? The one you tried to break a stick over two months ago?”

“Exactly,” I say tightly. “He cut his finger during class. One tiny drop of blood. Just one. And I lost it.”

Nick slowly lowers into the armchair across from me, his expression starting to shift from teasing to concerned. “Define ‘lost it.’”

I throw my arms out. “I almost bit him! In the middle of class! My fangs dropped, my heartbeat went crazy, I couldn’t look away, I ran out like I was about to combust. And it wasn’t just hunger. It was—fuck, I don’t know—possessive. Like something inside me decided that his blood was mine. That he was mine.”

Nick blinks.

Then takes another sip of his shake like he needs the protein to emotionally process this.

“I wanted to bite him, Nick,” I growl. “I wanted to pin him against the lab counter and—” I stop myself. “Never mind.”

He stares. “You realize how insane this sounds, right?”

“Oh, I’m very aware,” I snap. “Trust me. No one is more upset about this than I am.”

Nick shifts. "Holy shit its definitely the bond" , he says with wide eyes. “You think this is the bond kicking in?.”

“I don’t think,” I mutter and i sigh. “I know.” 

There’s a long silence. Nick studies me, all signs of teasing gone. For a second, I think he’s going to say something helpful.

Then: “Wow. You’re really in love with him.”

“I will set you on fire.”

Nick grins. “Come on. You practically growled ‘mine’ like a rabid raccoon in class.”

I hiss at him, pacing again. “I hate him, Nick. I hate him so much I fantasize about dropkicking him out of moving vehicles. And now I want to lick him. What the hell is wrong with me?!”

He nods solemnly. “Yes. And you hate him so much that you fantasize about biting his neck while pinning him against a desk.”

“That’s not—”

“—Hot? Because it is.”

I groan and collapse onto the couch, dragging my hands through my hair. “There has to be a cure.”

Nick blinks. “A what now?”

“A cure,” I repeat, teeth gritted. “A way to undo the bond. There has to be something. A spell. A ritual. A full moon, a blood sacrifice, I don’t care. I’ll burn sage, I’ll chant in Latin, I’ll eat raw garlic for a month—

“There is no cure.”

“Then a spell. A reversal. A goddamn ritual.”

Nick leans back. “Matt, mate bonds are biological. You can’t just... undo them with a lavender bath and a chant.”

“There has to be something.”

Nick sighs. “There’s the Ritual of Severance, but it only works if the bond isn’t fully cemented yet. And even then, it’s... risky.”

“How risky?”

“Like... you might die. Or lose all vampire instincts. Or forget who you are.”

I stare. “That’s it? Those are the options? Death or magical lobotomy?”

Nick shrugs. “Or you could stop being a coward and just admit you like him.”

“I don’t like him!”

He raises a brow. “You sure? Because you’re acting like a jealous boyfriend.”

“I’m acting like a vampire with a chemical malfunction!”

I leap to my feet. “I refuse to believe that fate thought it would be funny to soul-chain me to my worst enemy!”

Nick shrugs. “Well, fate is a bitch.”

“I don’t want him!” I shout. “I want to strangle him!”

Nick looks mildly interested. “With or without kissing?”

I throw a pillow at his head. “You’re useless.”

“I’m hilarious,” he says, catching it with one hand. “And hey, maybe this is good. Maybe the universe is trying to soften you up.”

“I don’t want to be softened! I want him dead!”

“Okay, but hear me out,” Nick says, raising a finger. “What if you kissed him instead?”

I hiss. Actually hiss. Like a goddamn feral cat.

Nick’s laugh echoes around the living room. “You should’ve seen your face. You look like someone offered you a ketchup.”

“This isn’t funny,” I growl. “I can’t eat, I can’t think, I can’t even stand being near him without wanting to punch something or crawl inside his shirt.”

Nick raises both brows. “Inside his shirt, huh?”

I freeze. Then point at him. “That was metaphorical. And you know it.”

“Sure it was.”

“I hate you.”

“Nick,” I whisper. “We’ve spent years fighting. I threw him into a snowbank last December.”

“Yeah,” he says, not missing a beat. “You also tackled him shirtless during practice and wrestled for twenty minutes. Sounded suspicious even then.”

I blink. “That wasn’t—!”

“—Gay?” Nick says, deadpan. “Because it was.”

“Shut up!”

Nick’s lips twitch. “Look. If he’s really your mate, then we’ll know for sure soon. There’s always one final sign. Something undeniable. Something fate uses to slam the door shut.”

“What is it?” I ask hoarsely.

He grabs his laptop and flips it open, already typing. “Let’s see what the elders of the internet have to say.”

I flop back on the couch and watch him pull up an ancient-looking vampire forum with neon green text and sparkly gifs from the 2000s. It looks cursed. Perfect.

He clicks on a page titled: “Symtoms that fate has sealed your mate and Undoing a Mate Bond: Tips, Tricks, and Total Failures.”

“That doesn’t sound very hopeful,” I mutter.

Nick snorts and reads:

> “Vampire mate bonds are designed by nature to be irreversible. However, several myths exist involving temporary suppression methods, such as memory wiping, blood binding to another vampire, or prolonged distance…”

He clicks a link.

> “Warning: prolonged separation between fated mates can result in nausea, fever, hallucinations, or in rare cases…death.”

I stare. “I’m sorry. What?”

Nick turns the laptop toward me. “Says right here. If you try to sever the bond without going through the official Ritual of Severance—which has a 12% success rate—you risk psychic backlash.”

"What do you mean?" , i frown.

“I mean: stomach pain, fever, hallucinations, insomnia, migraines. And if you try to separate from him for too long after the bond fully cements?”

He doesn’t finish.

“Say it.”

He grimaces. “Your body might shut down. Permanently. The bond doesn’t take rejection well.”

"Oh for fucks sake" , i groan and shake my head. But then he speaks again as he reads the symptoms:

> “Symptoms include: intense physiological arousal upon contact with the mate’s blood…”

“Check,” I mutter.

> “Hyper-awareness of their presence, heartbeat, scent, and well-being…”

“Big check.”

> “Overwhelming protective urges, often mistaken for aggression…”

"Punched a locker thinking about someone flirting with him once,” I admit.

Nick shoots me a look. “We’ll unpack that later.”

He keeps reading:

> “Strong sexual and emotional confusion, particularly if the vampire previously disliked or felt neutral toward the mate…”

I bury my face in my hands. “This is a nightmare.”

But then Nick’s voice lowers.

> “The final confirmation of a vampire mate bond is the Echo Effect—a moment of mirrored pain or sensation. If the human feels pain, the vampire physically experiences it as well. Or, vice versa. It’s fate’s way of sealing the bond.”

I slowly look up. “That hasn’t happened yet.”

Nick nods. “Yeah. That’s the last domino. You feel his pain—then it’s real. No turning back.”

I go still. Chris. If he gets hurt... I’ll feel it.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter. “So I can’t avoid him, I can’t drink anyone else’s blood, and I can’t break the bond without possibly exploding and now if he's hurt I'll feel it too?”

“Basically,” Nick says cheerfully. “Welcome to hell, population: you.”

“This is not happening,” I moan, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. “This can’t be real. I’m not... I’m not built for this.”

“For feelings?” Nick asks.

“For Chris,” I snap. “He’s obnoxious. He’s loud. He smells like spearmint and trouble. He leaves his stupid hoodie everywhere and smiles like he’s the sun incarnate. He calls me ‘princess’ just to piss me off. And he’s... he’s hot, okay? And infuriating. And I want to ruin his life and also maybe hold his hand, and I hate it.”

Nick is absolutely beaming now. “Wow. That was beautiful. Do you want me to write your vows?”

“I’m going to bite you.”

“You’re gonna have to get in line behind Chris.”

“Nick!”

He wheezes laughing, falling backward on the couch with tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But you are so, so doomed.”

“I’m going to fix this,” I insist. “There has to be something. A curse-breaker. A vampire doctor. Hell, I’ll make a deal with a demon.”

Nick wipes his eyes. “Matt. You’re bonded to a human. Not cursed by a troll. There’s no easy fix.”

“There better be,” I mutter, standing. “Because if there’s not, I swear to god I’m going to end up writing love poetry on his locker in pig’s blood.”

Nick grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

I flip him off and storm toward the fridge.

He tosses me a blood bag. “Here. Drink. Calm your horny little murderbrain.”

I glare at the bag. It feels wrong in my hand. Off. I hesitate.

Nick watches me, smile slowly fading. “What?”

“It’s not gonna help,” I say quietly. “I already know. It’s not his.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Nick smirks, infuriatingly smug. “You’re so fucked, bro.”

I hiss and throw the blood bag at his head. It explodes all over his shirt.

“Matt!”

“Oops,” I mutter. “Guess I’m just so emotionally compromised.”

Nick glares at me. “I hope Chris punches you in the face.”

I stare at the mess, then mutter under my breath: “He already has.”

I need to do something about this before it gets late. 

Chapter Text

Chris's pov 

---

Matt bolts out of the classroom like he’s being chased by literal hellhounds.

Which—okay. Dramatic much?

I glance down at my finger again. It’s a paper-cut. A microscopic bead of blood, barely even visible now that I’ve wiped it off. You’d think I stabbed him with a scalpel the way he reacted. Eyes wide, face pale, hands shaking like he just saw a ghost.

Weird.

But then again, Matt is weird. Broody, angry, 90% caffeine and 10% seething resentment. I’ve made it my personal mission to push his buttons until he snaps, and usually he does—gloriously, violently, hilariously—but this time?

This time, he looked… scared. Like really scared.

Which is not his brand. And that’s honestly more unsettling than the whole “storming out without asking permission” part.

Mr. Taylor glances at the door Matt just burst through, then back at me. “Is your partner coming back?”

I shrug, twirling the scalpel between my fingers. “Doubt it. Pretty sure I traumatized him with my devastating finger wound. Guess Mr. Edwardo scissorhands couldn't handle a little blood.Tragic, really.”

There’s a quiet ripple of laughter from nearby tables, and I bask in it like the smug bastard I am. If Matt wanted to bail on class, he could’ve at least committed to the bit. Faked a fainting spell. Made a dramatic declaration about the futility of the modern education system. Something Matt-like.

Instead, he just… ran.

Whatever.

I finish the dissection myself, stabbing the poor frog a little too enthusiastically and imagining it has Matt’s stupid face. It helps. A bit.

By the time the bell rings, I’m still thinking about it, though. Not obsessing. Not worried—I don’t care about Matt Bernard. I care about winning against him. And this whole "haunted-panic-exit" definitely feels like a loss on his end.

Still. Weird.

I toss my gloves in the biohazard bin, grab my bag, and head toward the cafeteria. I’ve got a free period before practice, and if I don’t eat something soon, I’m going to pass out mid-ice, which would be dramatic, but not in the sexy, mysterious way.

----------

Lunch is chaos, as usual. Everyone’s fighting over seats and cutting in line and trying to one-up each other with stories about how much homework they didn’t do. I dodge someone flinging mashed potatoes like a grenade and slide into my usual spot next to Madison with a tray of fries in my hands.

She’s halfway through inhaling a granola bar and arguing with her brother over FaceTime. Which she’s doing on speaker. Because of course she is.

“No, you absolute clown,” she says with a full mouth, “you can’t borrow my car just to impress some girl who thinks Lord of the Rings is a book series.”

“Uh, it is a book series,” her brother argues, squinting at the camera.

“That’s not the point, dumbass!”

I reach over and end the call with a single press. “You’re welcome.”

Madison blinks at me. “Chris. Rude.”

“He was dragging you into Mordor. I saved you.”

She sighs dramatically and shoves the rest of the granola bar in her mouth. “I swear, if I get one more Hobbit meme from him, I’m driving to his dorm and breaking his wifi router.”

“Violence solves everything.”

“I knew we were friends for a reason.”

We fist bump, which ends in me getting crumbs all over my knuckles. Worth it.

“So.” She leans in, eyeing me. “What’s with the cryptid vibes today?”

“Cryptid?”

“Yeah, you’re usually like, funny asshole™. Today you’re like, under-caffeinated asshole who’s haunted by the ghost of his ex-boyfriend.”

I snort. “I don’t have an ex-boyfriend.”

“Exactly. That’s why it’s weird.”

I glance across the cafeteria instinctively, like Matt might appear just to flip me off or throw a milk carton at my head. But nope. No sign of him. Probably still brooding in a supply closet.

“Matt had a meltdown in bio,” I say casually, picking at my fries.

Madison pauses mid-sip of her drink. “He what?”

“He was being weird all class. Like... twitchy. Jumpy. I touched his shoulder, and he looked like I stabbed him. Then I made a dumb joke, cut my finger, and—bam. Gone. Vanished like Batman.”

Madison raises a brow. “Weird. I mean, yeah, you’re annoying, but he’s usually all ‘punch first, ask never.’”

“Exactly! This time he didn’t even threaten to shove a scalpel up my—”

“Okay, let’s not finish that sentence.” We both giggle out like some immature teenagers we are.

But then she snorts. “God, the tension between you two is insane. Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you guys hate-fuck each other every night.”

I choke on a fry. “Excuse me—what?!”

“I said what I said,” she says, totally unbothered. “You fight like divorced parents trying to one-up each other at a PTA meeting."

“That’s not even a real scenario.”

“It is if you have imagination.”

“Okay, well, you clearly don’t understand the ancient art of strategic hatred.”

“Oh, right, forgive me. How silly of me to confuse your undeniable sexual tension with anything else. Or maybe…” She leans in, eyes wide and mock-serious. “He’s in love with you.”

I gag loudly. “Ew. Take that back. That’s illegal. I will sue.”

“Oh come on,” she teases. “You two bicker like an old married couple. You’ve got that sexy hate thing going on.”

“Yeah, and I also have functioning survival instincts. The guy looks at me like he’s picturing fifty different ways to commit a homicide with a pencil.”

“Hot.”

'You need better taste.”

“Hypocrite,” she sing-songs, waggling a fry at me. “You’re the one always poking the bear. Or whatever animal he is. Brooding possum.”

“I poke him because he deserves it. He called me ‘discount deodorant boy’ last week.”

“Well…do you still wear that one body spray that smells like melted gum?”

“It’s citrus!”

“It’s a crime.”

I lean back in my seat, grinning despite myself. It’s always like this with Madison—chaotic, rapid-fire, hilarious. She makes everything feel like less of a mess.

We talk about everything and nothing for the next half hour. Homework we’re not doing. Rumors about someone streaking through the locker room last week (it was Kyle, we all know it). The lunch meat conspiracy. The usual.

Eventually, conversation winds back around to the one thing always looming on the horizon.

“Anyway, are you coming to the rink tomorrow?” , Madison asks nudging me.

I blink. “What?”

“The hockey match. Tomorrow afternoon. You do remember we have one, right? I mean, I know you’re not technically the team captain, but you act like it, and if you don’t show up, the world might stop spinning.”

“Of course I know about the match,” I say, offended. “I’ve been dreaming about crushing Eastbrook’s team since last semester.”

“Let me guess. Because Bernard’s their forward?.”

I grin. “Ding ding ding."

“You’re hopeless.”

“I’m focused. There’s a difference.”

She cocks her head. “Sure. Just don’t lose your mind if he shows up to the game bleeding or something. You might faint.”

“Oh ha ha,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “I’m not the one who ran out of class like it was The Exorcist.”

She rolls her eyes and crumples her wrapper, flicking it expertly into the trash can five feet away. It bounces off the rim.

“Close,” I say.

“I wasn’t trying,” she lies.

We lapse into a companionable silence while I finish the rest of my sandwich with the enthusiasm of a prisoner on their last meal.

“Anyway,” she says, happily munching on fries again, “if you two don’t make out by the end of the semester, I’m suing for emotional damage.”

“I will file a restraining order on your behalf.”

“Romance! Violence! Blood! You know I live for drama.”

I shake my head and stand up, grabbing my tray. “You are so lucky you’re my friend.”

She grins, scooting out of the booth. “Ha-ha , tell Matt I said hi.”

I groan. “Why are you like this?”

“Born this way, baby.”

She hip-bumps me on the way out, and I laugh again, despite myself. Madison has that effect on people.

—

The rest of the day passes in a blur of half-listened-to lectures, hallway chaos, and my undying desire to escape before fifth period gym. I’ve perfected the art of pretending to stretch just long enough to not be yelled at, but today Coach traps me before I can start my act.

“Owens! Match tomorrow. You ready?”

“Born ready, sir.”

“You keeping your temper in check?”

“As much as one can when surrounded by idiots.”

Coach squints. “I’m watching you.”

“You always are. It’s part of my charm.”

He walks off muttering something about “smartass teenagers,” and I head toward the locker room, already plotting which playlist I’m going to blast before the game tomorrow. Something obnoxious. Something loud.

Then I see Matt’s empty locker.

What’s his deal?

The whole hating each other thing—it’s our thing. Our dynamic. It works. We fight, we bicker, we make weird, aggressive eye contact during games, and then we go back to ignoring each other like normal people.

But this? This freak-out? It’s throwing me off my game.

Because if he’s not reacting the way he usually does—if he’s scared of me or something—then what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

I slam the locker shut, maybe harder than necessary.

Tomorrow’s game better knock some sense back into him. Because I need that fight. That tension. That fire. It’s like... part of me depends on it. Which is a weird thing to think.

I head to practice, shake it off, and focus on the puck. On speed. On slamming into the boards and pretending it’s Matt’s face.

Still. The image sticks with me longer than it should—Matt pale and breathing hard, his eyes locked on my hand like I’d just ripped it off and offered it to him as a gift.

It was a paper cut.

And yeah, okay, maybe the dude looked like he was about to eat me, but I’m not gonna dwell on that.

Probably just low blood sugar.

—

Later that night, I’m lying on my bed scrolling through TikTok while my dog snores dramatically at the foot of the mattress, and my brain decides—against all logic—to wander back to Matt.

Not in a gross way. Not in a I-want-his-babies way.Just… curious.

He really did look freaked out today. Pale. Sweaty. And yeah, okay, we’re enemies or whatever, but I’ve never seen him look scared before. Not like that.

He’s usually all fire and sharp teeth and cutting glares. The kind of guy who talks with his jaw clenched like everything in the world is an insult to his existence. But today?

Today something cracked.

And not just when I cut myself—though, yeah, that part was especially weird. His whole body stiffened like he’d been tasered. And for a split second, I swear I saw his eyes go red now that i think about it.

Like, movie-vampire red.

But… no. That’s dumb. Obviously. He probably just has some rare blood phobia or an iron deficiency or something.

I close my eyes, thinking back. The way he looked at my cut. Like it hurt him. Like it scared him. No. Not scared.

Hungry.

My eyes snap open.

Nope. Nope nope nope.

I sit up, throw a pillow at the wall for no reason other than to reset my brain, and mutter, “Get it together, Chris.”

I mean, yeah, he’s weird. Yeah, he’s been acting strange. Yeah, his eyes were a little red and he flinched when our thighs touched like he’d been branded—but that doesn’t mean anything....Right?

I groan into my hands. “This is what happens when I let Madison get in my head.”

Still, something’s off. And I know myself well enough to admit it’s going to bother me until I figure it out.

I grab my phone.

Chris: U alive or did u get eaten by your own drama?

Delivered.

I stare at the message.

Then I roll over, chuck the phone onto the nightstand, and mutter, “Tomorrow’s game is gonna be fun.”

Because if Matt thinks he can run from whatever the hell that was today—he’s in for a surprise.

I’ll make sure of it.

Chapter Text

Matt's pov

---

I don’t sleep. Not even a little.

I pace for hours—upstairs, downstairs, in circles around the kitchen like a vampire version of a Roomba with unresolved emotional issues. Every time I sit down, I jolt back up like I’ve been electrocuted. My brain is chewing on itself. My body’s tense enough to snap. My fangs still haven’t fully retracted.

And no amount of blood in the fridge tastes right.

I feel off. Like my skin’s one size too small. Like I’m overheating and freezing at the same time. I want to bite something. Break something. Scream.

Instead, I yank my phone off the counter and search:

"How to undo a fated mate bond"

"Symptoms of Echo Effect vampire mating"

"How to punch fate in the throat"

No answers. Just the same nightmare forum from earlier and a Reddit thread full of unhelpful comments like “lol you’re doomed” and “just kiss already.”

I throw the phone across the room. It bounces off the wall and lands in the sink.

Nick, still shirtless and bloodstained, wanders in around 2 a.m., grabs a bag of pretzels, and watches me pace.

“You know,” he says between crunches, “if you keep pacing like that, you’re gonna wear a trench in the tile.”

“I’m strategizing,” I mutter.

“Oh good. What’s the plan? Pretend you don’t want to lick his throat until it kills you?”

I spin on him. “The plan is to avoid him.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “Avoid him. The guy you share every single class with.”

“I’ll switch electives.”

“It’s June.”

“I’ll fake my death.”

Nick pops a pretzel in his mouth. “Sure. Just in time for the hockey match tomorrow.”

I freeze.

My stomach drops through the floor. “What?”

“The hockey match,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Tomorrow. Against his team. You’ve been yelling about it for a week.”

I forgot. I fucking forgot.

My hands clench at my sides. “No.”

“Oh yes,” Nick says, grinning around another pretzel. “You're playing. Against. Him.”

The blood drains from my face. “I’m not going.”

“You have to. Coach will kill you.”

“I’ll fake mono.”

“Matt.”

“I’ll set the arena on fire.”

Nick crosses his arms. “Or you could just face him like a normal emotionally repressed vampire.”

I shoot him a look. “There’s nothing normal about this.”

“Tell that to your raging murder-boner.”

I lunge at him. He laughs and munches on his food again.

The panic stays.

Because I know exactly what’s going to happen tomorrow. The mating bond has been getting stronger by the hour. I can feel Chris already—somewhere, not asleep, pacing like I am, probably being a menace to whoever’s unlucky enough to be around him. And now fate is about to drop us into a full-contact sport where blood and violence are the whole point.

I flop onto the couch, face first, groaning into a pillow. “Why him?”

Nick shrugs. “Fate? Cosmic irony? Some kind of karmic punishment for being emotionally stunted?”

I lift my head. “I hate you.”

He ruffles my hair and dodges the inevitable slap. “You’re welcome.”

I let my eyes close for a second. Just a second.

I wish I could sleep. Vampires don’t need to, not exactly. But sometimes I miss the oblivion. The stillness.

Now, though? My thoughts are a hurricane. All Chris. His voice. His eyes. That infuriating smirk. The way he pokes at me like he wants me to snap.

And I always do.

Except today.

Today I ran. God.

What if he tells people?

What if he knows?

What if he felt it too?

Ding.

My phone buzzes from the sink which i still haven't bothered to pick up.

I ignore it.

Nick picks it up.

“Who’s texting you at this hour?” he says, squinting at the screen. Then his grin grows until he looks like a wolf who just sniffed fresh meat. “Oh. Oh. You got a message from him.”

“Give me that.”

“Not until I read it aloud in my most dramatic voice,” he says, clearing his throat. “Quote: U alive or did u get eaten by your own drama? Unquote.”

I grab the phone from him and read it myself.

Chris. Of course it’s him.

Of course he’s texting me like it’s just another normal day. Like he didn’t nearly send me into a hunger-induced coma by simply bleeding in my vicinity.

And the worst part?

I smile.

It’s small. Pathetic. Automatic.

Like a traitorous flutter under my ribs. Like my stupid, broken vampire body likes the attention.

Nick notices instantly.

“No,” he gasps, pointing at me like I just grew a second head. “You smiled. You got butterflies.”

“I didn’t,” I lie. “That was—gas. Or something.”

“Text him back.”

“No.”

“Text. Him. Back.”

“I am not playing into his smug little trap.”

“You are,” Nick says, smugger still, “already in the trap. He is your potential mate, Matty. You are circling the drain. Just text him back and admit you want to bite his face off in either a sexy way or a murdery way—honestly, I can’t tell with you.”

I groan again and roll over, staring at the message. My thumbs hover.

Eventually, I type:

Matt: What do you care?

I don’t hit send.

I delete it. Rewrite it.

Matt: Still alive. Try harder next time.

No. Too flirty.

Matt: You wish.

Too true.

Finally, I settle on:

Matt: You’re annoying.

Simple. Safe. On brand.

I send it before I can think too hard.

Nick leans over my shoulder. “Awwww. You’re flirting.”

“Fuck off”

He cackles.

A moment later, the typing bubbles appear.

My heart—traitor that it is—leaps.

Then i get a text.

Chris: See you at the game tomorrow Matty ;)

I read the message and groan , shutting off my phone and staring at the ceiling , already dreading about the match tomorrow.

Throughout the night , I pace , cruse my luck and repeat.

This went on and on the whole night  and then at some point near dawn, Nick finds me lying on the kitchen floor with a cold pack on my face and a mug of blood I’ve microwaved twice and still haven’t touched.

“Game day, baby!” he says, way too cheerful for someone who just woke up.

“Kill me.”

He kicks my foot. “Not until after you humiliate Eastbrook on the ice. Then maybe.”

I groan.

He pauses. “Wait. You’re not backing out, are you?”

“No,” I mutter. “I’m playing.”

“Even though your body is a ticking time bomb of hormones, bloodlust, and unresolved sexual tension?”

“Shut up.”

Nick grins. “That’s the spirit.”

----

The hours between breakfast and game time are a black hole of panic.

I try to meditate. I try to read. I try to pretend I’m not dying every time I remember I’ll be seeing Chris again soon, in close proximity, while skating and colliding and sweating. And blood. There’s always blood in hockey.

My fangs itch just thinking about it.

I change into my gear in slow motion, hoping the apocalypse will hit before puck drop.

No such luck.

Nick drives me to the rink, blaring 2000s emo songs and singing off-key like he’s trying to summon demons. I don’t talk the whole ride. Just stare out the window and imagine a thousand ways this day could go wrong.

Spoiler: all of them end with me biting Chris Owens in front of a live audience and getting tackled by a dozen angry humans.

Soon we arrive. The rink is buzzing. Crowds piling into bleachers. Coaches shouting. Teammates hyped.

I walk into the locker room and immediately catch my reflection in the mirror.

Pale. Jaw tight. Eyes just barely not red.

“You look like you’re about to commit arson,” my goalie says, clapping me on the back.

“Great,” I mutter. “Exactly the vibe I’m going for.”

Warm-ups pass in a blur. My skates feel too tight. My gloves feel too loose. I keep checking my sticks like they’ve personally betrayed me.

I haven’t seen him yet. But I feel him.

Somewhere out there, Chris is stretching, smirking, talking too loudly and laughing with that messy, cocky, infuriatingly perfect laugh of his—and it’s driving me insane.

By the time the whistle blows and both teams skate out for the match, I’m a live wire. Every muscle coiled. Every sense on edge.

And then I see him. Chris Owens.

Helmet under his arm. Skates smooth and confident. Hair a mess. Mouth tilted in that goddamn smirk that always means he’s about to say something designed to make me combust.

Our eyes lock for half a second across the rink.

I swear the world tilts.

Then he sticks his tongue out at me.

The rage is instant. Familiar. Comforting, almost.

I roll my shoulders and snarl, skating to center ice with enough force to rattle the boards.

I need this. I need the fire. The hate. The adrenaline.

Because if I stop hating him, I’m not sure what I’ll feel next—and I’m not ready for that.

---

First Period

We come out swinging.

Both teams are fast. Aggressive. Trash talk is flying like snow off the ice. Chris’s team scores first—cheap shot, lucky rebound, I will never admit it was clean.

He fist-pumps and grins across the rink at me like he just won the lottery.

I check him so hard on the next shift that he flies halfway across the ice and lands on his ass.

“Oh no, was that me?” I say sweetly, skating off.

He flips me off with both hands. Ten minutes in and I already feel half-feral.

The problem is—I should feel better. Fighting usually helps. The speed. The violence. The excuse to hit him without consequences.

But today? It’s not helping.

Because I can feel him.

I feel every time he slams into the boards. Every jolt of his heartbeat. Every breathless laugh. Every time he winces from a hit, my chest tightens like I’ve been punched.

It’s subtle. Barely there. But it’s him. Inside me.

And that should not be happening yet.

---

Second Period

I’m unraveling.

We’re neck and neck—2–2, ten minutes on the clock—and Chris is everywhere. Spinning past defenders. Shouting orders. Grinning like the smuggest bastard alive.

I hate him. I hate him so much it’s practically religion.

But I also want to—No. No, no, no.

I slam into him again near the blue line. He grunts, twists, grabs my jersey in retaliation. Our helmets bump.

His breath hits my cheek.

“Missed me?” he taunts.

“Fuck off,” I growl.

“I’ll pencil it in after I win.”

I almost bite him. Almost. I shove him off me instead, heart pounding so hard I might actually burst into flames.

He skates away laughing. I can’t take this. I need to get benched. Thrown out. Anything to get me away from him before I—crack.

A scream. The world stutters. Chris is down. Blood. There’s blood.

Someone on his team shouts. The whistle blows. The refs are shouting. Players skate over, calling for a medic.

But I—I drop to my knees.

My stomach twists like it’s been torn open. White-hot agony blooms across my side. My arm. My face. Pain that isn’t mine.

Pain that shouldn’t be mine. I can’t breathe.

Chris is holding his cheek, bleeding, clutching his side like he’s cracked a rib. I hear him curse. And I feel it.

The Echo.

Final seal of the bond. Confirmed. Irrevocable. Real.

I stagger to my feet, eyes locked on him. He looks up at the same moment. Our eyes meet.

And for the first time—he looks scared.

Of this. Of whatever the hell is happening between us. Because I know he felt something. Because our soul are bonded together. Forever.

“Bernard!” someone shouts. “Bench, now!”

I stumble off the ice, barely hearing them. My mind is blank and screaming all at once. The bond is sealed.

Chris is my mate. And he has no idea.

---

Locker Room

I sit in the far corner, still in full gear, staring at the floor like it holds the answers to the universe.

My skin is buzzing. My body aches in places that never got hit. My mouth is dry. My fangs are-Down.

Sharp. Heavy. Wanting. Hoping nobody sees me.

“Matt.”

I look up. Nick. I let out a breath of relief.

He’s standing in the doorway, frowning. “You okay?”

“No,” I croak.

He exhales, walks over, crouches beside me. “You felt it?”

I nod.

He whistles low. “That’s the Echo, alright.”

“He got hurt. Just a cut. Maybe a bruised rib. And I felt it like he stabbed me.”

“Yep.”

“It’s confirmed, isn’t it?”

Nick nods. “He’s yours. No more denying it.”

I laugh. It’s cracked and bitter. “He’s not mine.”

Fuck he's mine.

“Matt.”

“He’s human. He hates me. I hate him.”

I need to protect him. 

Nick shrugs. “Tell that to your Echo.”

I grip my helmet like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

“What the hell do I do now?”

Nick claps a hand on my shoulder. “Well, you could start by not passing out.”

“Too late.”

“Or,” he says, voice gentler, “you could tell him.”

I freeze.

No.

“He deserves to know, Matt. Even if you hate him. Especially if you don’t.”

I can’t answer. Because I don’t know anymore.

Hate. Hunger. Fear. Want.

It’s all tangled up in Chris Owens—and now, there’s no way out.

I feel the bond acting up. Ever since the Echo kicked in. Suddenly I'm not feeling like myself anymore. 

It’s like getting struck by lightning and never recovering. Like every part of me—every thought, every cell—is suddenly wired toward one, singular, blinding instinct:

Get to him. Protect him. Take him. Chris.

He’s off the ice now. Got helped out by their trainer, head down, wincing, blood still smeared across his jaw.

And I’m sitting on this bench like a civilized person while my mate is somewhere behind a closed door, injured, confused, probably terrified, and surrounded by people who aren’t me. People who don’t feel his pain.

People who can’t feel it like I do—right down to the ragged edge of his ribs and the dull throb under his eye and the splintering ache that’s not even mine, but feels like mine because the bond has claimed me.

Because he’s mine.

Mine.

I press my shaking hands to my thighs, trying to stay still, to breathe, to think—but I can’t. The air feels wrong.The noise of the locker room fades into static.

All I can hear is his heartbeat. Too slow. Too weak. All I can think is—He shouldn’t be alone.

Nick’s still beside me, phone in hand, talking to someone—maybe the coach, maybe Mom, maybe a therapist because I am clearly losing my mind—but I don’t hear him.

I stand up.

“Matt?” Nick’s voice cuts through the fog. “Hey—hey, where are you going?”

“To get him.”

Nick frowns. “Okay, wait, you can’t just—”

But I’m already moving.

Down the hallway. Past the water fountains. Past the trainer’s station. Past the “do not enter” sign at the end of the corridor.

My skates are still on. My gloves hang loose in one hand. I look like hell and I feel worse. But none of it matters.

The bond is sealed. And with it comes the oldest vampire instinct of all:

Take your mate.

---