My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into palms. “What do you want from me?”
“What I’ve always wanted.” He steps closer, invading my space until we stand chest to chest, his shorter height forcing him to angle his chin upward toward me. “Submission from an Omega who needs to be reminded of his place.”
His pheromones intensify, attempting to trigger submission responses, and my body trembles with the effort to resist, cedar notes fighting to break through his oppressive iron scent.
“I’m not yours,” I say, each word costing enormous effort. “I never will be.”
Carson doesn’t react, but all hints of amusement ice over. His hand moves to his pocket, retrieving his phone. With deliberate slowness, he scrolls to an image and holds it up before me.
On screen, Quinn bends in her chair, wrapping both arms around Sprinkles’s neck. The dog responds right away, licking at her chin before settling his head in Quinn’s lap. The moment is soft and comforting, not like the disciplined working animal administrators prefer.
The timestamp blinks in the corner as Sprinkles’s body relaxes against her, a snapshot that captures domestic intimacy and could be recast as “pet behavior” with the right narrative behind it.
“Documentation,” Carson says smugly, “of policy violations that could trigger immediate accommodation review.”
My stomach plummets. “That’s nothing. Normal behavior for any?—”
“Policy doesn’t concern itself with ‘normal,’” he interrupts, pocketing the phone. “Only with compliance. Which brings us back to you, and your persistent difficulty with that concept.”
He steps back, giving me space that’s somehow more threatening than his proximity as his eyes travel over me.
“Tonight was your final opportunity to demonstrate willing cooperation,” he says, his right hand flexing at his side, the subtle movement drawing my eye. “Now we do this the hard way.”
His knuckles whiten as his fingers curl inward, and recognition flashes through me a second too late. No time to raise my arms, no time to step back as his fist arcs toward my face, the blow connecting with my cheekbone in an explosion of white-hot pain that shatters my vision into fractured light.
The force spins me to the side, my hip colliding with the desk, papers cascading to the floor in a paper waterfall. The desk chair catches my falling body, sliding under me before tipping.
Gravity claims us both, and I crash to the carpet with the chair tangled between my legs.
The carpet scratches my palm as I brace myself, head hanging between my shoulders, blood dripping onto the beige fibers, while each heartbeat sends a fresh throb of pain across my cheekbone where bone met knuckle.
Carson stands above me, straightening his tie. There’s no change in his breathing, no flush of exertion colors his cheeks.
“Regrettable,” he says as he stares down at me. “But necessary.”
I prod my lip, pulling my fingers away to find blood smeared across the tips. A metallic taste fills my mouth, my tongue probing the split flesh inside my lower lip where teeth cut into soft tissue. Flashes of Westbrook come back to me. I had seen the potential for Carson’s violence there, but for some reason, I let myself believe I was mistaken, that he wouldn’t go this far.
“Get up,” Carson commands, his tone unchanged from our earlier conversation. “This display lacks dignity.”
My arms shake as I push myself to my knees, untangling from the fallen chair. The room tilts and steadies, tilts again.
Carson withdraws a handkerchief from his breast pocket, the crisp white linen monogrammed with his initials, and drops it beside me, the cloth unfurling like a surrender flag on the carpet.
“Clean yourself.” He walks to the minibar, where he retrieves a bottle of water without asking permission. “Blood on the collar is difficult to explain to housekeeping.”
The normality of his movements, the banality of his concern for my shirt rather than the injury he inflicted, sends a chill through me more profound than the pain. I ignore the handkerchief and raise the collar of my shirt to my lip, soaking up the blood.
“Violence is crude.” Carson unscrews the water bottle cap and sets it on the desk without offering me a drink. “I prefer more sophisticated methods of correction, but you’ve demonstrated a particular resistance to subtlety.”
My tongue finds the split in my lip again, probing the wound, and the pain grounds me in the surreal moment.
“Physical discipline is reserved for those who cannot be reached through intellectual means. Such as animals.” Carson speaks as if delivering a lecture. “Some Omegas respond only to direct demonstration of hierarchy.”
I pull myself up using the bedframe, refusing to remain kneeling before him. My cheekbone throbs in time with my heartbeat, heat spreading across the bruised skin as blood rushes to the injured tissue.
“The faculty handbook has specific language about assault,” I manage, words slurring around my swelling lip.
Carson’s mouth curves in appreciation. “Indeed, it does. Section 4, paragraph 3, addresses physical altercations between staff members. Were you planning to file a complaint?”