Page 67 of False Catch

And there's no going back.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Reese

The concealer isn't working.

I dab another layer over Jackson's bite mark, wincing at the tender skin. Four days since he claimed me in that tangle of limbs and heat with Eli. Four days since Gray discovered it and our carefully constructed team dynamic shattered like glass.

My phone buzzes with another message in the group chat. I've been watching them pile up all morning while getting ready for class.

Zane: anyone seen Reese? she missed breakfast

Bo: Give her space, Z

Beckett: she's probably just avoiding the testosterone parade

Tyler: At this rate, we'll be lucky if we can even field a boat by Saturday

Eli: Not helpful, Ty

Jackson: She's fine. Saw her heading to the library last night

Cameron: anyone else notice Gray hasn't said shit in here for days?

Zane: yeah that's not ominous at all

Gray's silence speaks louder than any of their messages. The captain who orchestrates every detail of our lives has gone radio silent since Sunday's confrontation. After Jackson claimed me. After everything fell apart.

I adjust my scarf higher, checking my reflection one more time. The mark throbs beneath the makeup, a constant reminder of how monumentally we've screwed up. Not that I regret it—God, I can still feel Jackson's teeth sinking into my neck, Eli's hands on my skin, that moment of perfect rightness before reality crashed back in.

But Gray's fury, the team fracturing, the way they can barely look at each other now...

My phone buzzes again. A DM this time.

Bo: You okay, sugar? Haven't seen you since Sunday. Getting worried.

I type back quickly: Fine. Just need space to think. See you at practice.

Another buzz.

Jackson: Stop hiding. It's done. Can't change it now.

Typical Jackson. Blunt and unapologetic. Three days ago I'd have been annoyed. Now, claimed by him, I feel the pull even through a text. My body responds to just seeing his name on my screen, warmth spreading through my chest.

I grab my bag and head out, grateful for the early morning quiet in the dorms. Most students are either in class or still sleeping off their Tuesday night adventures. Less chance of running into—

"Reese!"

Quinton Whitmore's voice carries across the quad, warm and friendly. I slow, actually grateful for a distraction from my spiraling thoughts. He jogs to catch up, flashing that easy smile that probably works on everyone.

"Missed you in study group yesterday," he says, falling into step beside me. "Professor Hawthorne actually made a joke about his star student playing hooky. I think he might have a crush."

Despite everything, I find myself almost smiling. "Professor Hawthorne is seventy-three."

"Age is just a number," Quinton grins. "Besides, have you seen how his face lights up when you answer questions? It's adorable."

"Had some team stuff to deal with." The words come out easier than expected. Something about Quinton's casual humor feels like a break from the intensity of the past few days.