Mark of Sin: Bound to the Cruel Alpha

"I’m sorry, but I can’t give you my number," I said quietly, packing my salad container back into my bag.

I needed to get out of here before this turned into a full-blown spectacle. My fingers were trembling so hard they could barely handle the simple task of pulling the zipper. The container slipped from my grip, dropping to the bottom of my backpack with a heavy, muted thud.

In the dead silence of the cafeteria, the sound echoed like a gunshot. I could feel dozens of eyes pinned to my back—sharp, pryingly curious, and ravenous for drama. The air around our booth was growing suffocatingly thick, heavy with the sharp, aggressive musk of the Alpha sitting across from me and the sheer, collective tension of the room.

"Why?" Dean asked, his dark eyes refusing to release mine. His baritone dropped an octave, turning darker, more threatening. "Are you seeing someone?"

He tilted his head, and a cold shiver ran through me as his gaze dragged slowly down the exposed length of my throat. He was hunting for something. Marks. Scratches. The telltale scent or shadow of a dominant claim on my skin.

An icy chill snaked down my spine, forcing my hand up to instinctively tug the oversized collar of my hoodie higher, even though I knew my skin was entirely bare.

"Why does refusing to give out my number automatically mean I belong to someone else?" I countered, pushing back from the table and slinging my backpack over one shoulder.

As I adjusted my grip on the chair’s backrest, my trembling hands slipped, dragging the legs across the stone floor with a sickening, metallic screech that officially guaranteed every single eye in the room was pinned on us.

Damn it.

Dean rose from his seat as well. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, like a predator making sure not to spook its prey. His looming shadow completely engulfed me, and I prayed under my breath that he wouldn’t follow.

Staying here to debate him in front of half the student body wasn’t an option either. It was pure fuel for the campus rumor mill, which always spread like wildfire.

"So you’re an unmated breeder?" he summarized, his dark eyes locked onto mine with unsettling precision.

His gaze was sharp and unnervingly perceptive. It lacked Magnus’s unhinged volatility, replacing it with something entirely different: a cold, calculated interest.

That didn’t make it any less terrifying.

"I never said that."

I spun on my heel and took off toward the exit at a brisk pace. My heart was hammering as if I had just sprinted a marathon, my pulse thumping wildly in my temples.

I needed to get to Professor Graves’s lecture—the miserable bastard was practically salivating at the prospect of finding a reason to expel me.

I hadn’t stayed up until the early hours of the morning copying lecture notes just to give him an excuse to throw me out. Omegas were booted for the slightest infraction, especially if they bore a bond mark. And if the administration cross-referenced the registry and found out I had a fated match...

They’d hand me a courteous discharge notice and advise me to stop wasting time on higher education so I could enroll in homemaking courses, motherhood prep, and the fine art of foot massages to relax my Alpha after his hard day’s work.

Just like that, my future would vanish. I’d be left without an education—without that flimsy slip of paper that represented my only desperate shot at independence.

"Hey, hold on. We aren’t finished."

Without warning, a heavy, iron grip clamped around my waist, bringing me to a dead halt mid-stride. A high-pitched gasp tore from my throat at the sudden, violent intrusion into my personal space. His fingers seemed to burn right through the thick fabric of my hoodie.

"Let go of me! You... I didn’t give you permission to touch me!"

He yanked his hand back, but he didn’t retreat. I scrambled backward three quick paces, gripping the strap of my backpack so tightly my knuckles bled white.

"So you’re saying there’s a chance you might give me permission later?" he asked, a subtle, mocking smirk playing on his lips.

"No. Absolutely not. I don’t give my number to strangers."

"Then let’s fix that. Dean Nyland. Alpha. Unmated."

He slid his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers, eyeing me from beneath heavy lids. His posture was relaxed, almost indifferent, but his eyes glittered with a dangerous, razor-sharp focus. It was obvious he wasn’t accustomed to hearing the word no.

I took a deep, steadying breath, desperately trying to quiet the tremble in my voice.

"Jane Lang. Omega Breeder. Not available. And you’re still not getting my number."

His dark eyebrows shot up. He began to slowly circle me, sizing me up from every angle like a buyer inspecting goods. The ambient air around us grew suffocatingly dense, heavy with the sharp pressure of his dominant aura.

"You’re making that up just to get rid of me. You’re not in a relationship. There isn’t a trace of another person’s scent on you."

A hot, humiliating blush flooded my cheeks, spreading like wildfire down my neck. God, he had actually been scenting me. It was crude, invasive, and a total violation of basic decency. An Alpha wolf could easily pick up another male’s lingering scent on a breeder—it served as a territory marker, an undeniable sign of ownership. But I...

"I haven’t awakened yet, so I don’t carry a distinct scent," I stammered, my ears burning under his intense gaze.

Dean let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

"Even if you haven’t awakened yet, you’d still be drenched in his scent if you were actually fucking the bastard," he drawled, his tone dripping with patronizing arrogance. "Hell, even if you were just kissing him, it’d be all over you. But you carry nothing. So either you’re lying to get me off your back, or your boyfriend is an absolute idiot for leaving a claim like you untouched."