Oxford Heat: A soft and steamy non-shifter omegaverse romance

by Hannah Haze

  A bouncer kneels down and hooks Zach’s good arm around his neck, leading him away, while another sweeps away the glass and two more push away the gathered gawkers. Rose rushes towards Cora, flinging her arms around her neck.

  "Oh god, Cora! Are you okay?"

  "Yes," she stutters, "yes I'm fine."

  But she's not fine. She's anything but as she races after Zach.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cora doesn’t like hospitals. She doesn’t like the stark strip-white lighting or the strong acid and metallic smells. She doesn't like the fierce ripping sound the curtains make when people drag them around cubicles or the hard touch of the straight-backed chairs. She doesn’t like the scent of fear, pain and death that hang in every molecule of the air or the concern etched on grey, tired faces.

  The shock that had grasped Zach as they’d raced across town in a taxi has faded and he is back to his loud and cheerful self, talking animatedly to the skinny male nurse who is cleaning his wound.

  Cora tries to focus in on their good-humoured banter, smiling when Zach makes a joke and nodding when he turns to her for confirmation, but it’s difficult when this place feels like a time warp, as if it's sucking her back to places she doesn't want to go.

  A hard-backed chair; only it was larger then, almost swallowing up her tiny frame. The same scents, the same faces plus hushed voices, people swirling around the bed, her mother laid out motionless, her face almost unrecognisable through the swollen flesh.

  It’s how she had found her. After the shouting stopped and the front door slammed, she had crept down the stairs and found her mother lying on the cold kitchen floor. For a long moment, an endless moment, that was the very worst of her short, little life, she’d thought her mother was dead, but then her mother’s head had snapped towards her, battered and sore, and murmured her name.

  She’d known what to do (it wasn’t the first time she’d needed to find a phone and dial 999), and then she’d curled up against her mum, taking her big hand in her own and listened to the rasps of her breath.

  The two paramedics had argued with the police officers in hushed tones about what to do with her. In the end, she’d been allowed to sit in the front of the ambulance and press the button to turn on the siren and the blue flashing lights. At the hospital an elderly nurse, round like a pudding, had checked her over and read her a story about a friendly tiger. But she’d gone and they had left Cora to wait alone in the hard, cold chair.

  "All done," says the nurse to Zach, tying the ends of the bandage together. "If it’s giving you any pain, you can take some ibuprofen. It will help with any swelling too. Take the bandage off in a day or two and keep the wound cleaned but dry. Any strange smells or pus or sudden temperatures, go see your GP."

  "Thanks mate," says Zach, holding his bandaged hand out towards Cora. "I look like a Zombie."

  "You smell like one too." Cora grins.

  They catch a taxi into town and silently they watch darkened houses and empty streets flash past the window, listening to the drone of some talk show host on the car’s radio. Cora rests her head on Zach’s shoulder and threads her arm through his uninjured one.

  "I’m sorry," she says.

  "For what? It wasn’t your fault."

  The next day Cora rises late to find her WhatsApp chat has been streaming nonstop with discussions about what happened the night before. What starts as a tale of a bit of a push in a bar evolves into a full out unprovoked assault, and Zach’s brief trip to the hospital to have his cut glued together becomes a dash in an ambulance, an emergency operation to save his hand and the need for a blood transfusion.

  Sitting at her desk, trying to read the books she needs to finish before she can start her essay, she's continually distracted by the vibration of her phone. The buzz starting as a slow rhythm and becoming faster and more frantic, her mobile skimming across her desk; the screen flickering with message after message.

  She opens her drawer and shoves the device inside where it continues to chirp incessantly. She reads a line. Stops. Realises she took nothing in. Then reads again. The phone is too tempting. Her fingers keep flicking to the drawer before she stops herself.

  It's better not to know. It will all blow over soon enough. Surely.

  She wants to put things right, to explain what really happened, but the story has already run away from her in the hours she’d been at the hospital and sleeping. She can't catch it back. By the end of the day it's on Twitter and there are photos on Instagram. People are calling for Noah's head. There are long rants about Alpha aggression and privilege, the vitriol growing angrier and angrier. The few voices that try to intervene, to offer a different perspective, are engulfed in flames of abusive fire and swiftly retreat. She's frightened to get involved, to expose herself.

  Soon the old stories about him are pulled out. The rumours swirl and swell, gathering such pace she's left breathless. She hardly recognises the man they describe; he's a demon, a monster, a maniac. Not her Noah at all.

  Noah himself is silent. Just one message sent in the minutes after the event.

  It was an accident.

  That's all. She was at the hospital and had never replied, and as the minutes turn to hours turn to days, her own anger gives way to guilt.

  Yes she'd been furious. How could he let that happen? How could he do that? Why couldn't he just walk away? Yes, Rose had been in his face, downright rude and insulting, but he could've turned away. Instead, he let his anger get the better of him once again. She was so disappointed in him. And scared — it was all too familiar.

  But now there's this guilt. He's right. It was an accident. She knows that. And she never returned his message. Never checked he was alright, didn't defend him, hasn't tried to clear up this mess. Those aren't the actions of someone who is meant to care about you.

  He must hate her. He should. She hates herself. Despises her own weakness, and her cold heart. She is ashamed of herself.

  Rose doesn't seem to notice Cora's despondency. She's right in the thick of it all, loving the chance to launch an attack at the Alpha community and its poster boy.

  Four days after the event, Rose is still riding the wave of outrage.

  "We're launching a petition," she tells Cora as she pours muesli into a white bowl, shaking the packet violently so that the flakes fall out in clumps. "Demanding the university investigate — you know the police aren't interested despite it being assault. I bet his mother knows someone in the department or something. So it's up to the university to take action."

  Cora lowers her piece of toast. "Rose! That's —"

  "I know you’re intimidated, but you've been really quiet on Twitter. You've got to be vocal, Cora. Otherwise these Alphas will continue to get away with this bullshit."

  Cora knows this is nothing to do with Noah or Alphas. It’s her dad Rose is angry at and she’s finding something to take that anger out on. It had been the week before that they had sat at this table, eating ice cream together, when Rose’s phone had beeped with a message. She’d paused halfway through her story to read it, her eyes flicking across the screen and then the smile on her face slipping and her skin turned white.

  "What? What is it, Rose?" Cora had asked, unease in her stomach.

  "It’s my Dad."

  "Your dad? Is he okay?"

  "He’s fine... he’s having a baby. I mean, Melanie’s having a baby."

  "She’s pregnant?"

  "Yes. More than six months pregnant, apparently. And he’s only telling me now. By text. By text." She’d laughed bitterly. "He’s 54. He’ll be 75 by the time the kid is our age." Then tears had slid down her cheeks and she’d buried her face in her hands. "I can’t believe he’s doing this. I always wanted a brother or sister growing up. I used to beg them all the time for one. My mum wanted more children, you know. It was him who didn’t."

  Cora had crouched down beside her and rubbed her hand up and down her back.

  "My mum is going to be a mess. I need to tell her b
efore she finds out from someone else."

  This anger of Rose’s has had nowhere to go. Her father is on the other side of the ocean. She can’t shout at him. She can’t yell at him. Instead, Rose has channeled this fury into this campaign and they've had the same argument every day; Rose trying to rally Cora into action, Cora attempting to make her see reason. It's no use. Rose isn't listening and Cora is tired.

  Cora takes her plate to the sink, treading down on the pedal of the bin so that the lid lifts with a snap and sliding her toast into the waiting bag.

  "I'm going back to bed."

  "What? Don't you have a tutorial this morning?"

  Cora shrugs and heads to her bedroom, shutting the door on the concerned enquiries of her friend. She climbs into bed and pulls the covers around herself. There's a temptation to reach for her phone and see what everyone is saying today, but she resists. It'll only add to the sickness in her stomach. She flips onto her back and stares at the ceiling. A thin fissure crack traces from one corner to the next and the bland lampshade hangs at a crooked angle.

  She remembers he'd huffed at it once and stood on her bed, naked, and tried to straighten it. When he'd failed, every movement angling it more acutely, she burst into a fit of giggles and he'd pinned her to the bed and blew raspberries on her stomach, their laughter switching to lust as he'd hardened and rubbed against her.

  She closes her eyes and flops her arm over her face. The day passes. The shadows shift across the room as the sun loops up into the sky and then down to the horizon. She hears Rose leave, her boots clicking in the hallway, and return much later with a rattle of the front door. At some point, as her room darkens, the aroma of baking potatoes wafts down the hallway and Rose knocks on her door to ask if she wants anything to eat.

  "No," she mutters, rolling onto her side, burying her face into the bed. She can almost convince herself that there's still the faintest hint of him lingering in the mattress. If she screws up her eyes and concentrates only on her nose, she can conjure it up, believe it's real. It makes a part of her ache, something inside her tight chest.

  Eventually the house is quiet, the noise of traffic outside subsides and blackness engulfs her room, but she doesn't sleep. Her brain refuses to rest, reliving the events in the bar. Noah's solemn face clear in her mind, as if he's judging her.

  How did she let this happen? How did she let someone get under her skin like this? It's what she's tried so hard to avoid, determined to never let anyone hurt her again. And yet, deep down she knows it isn't Noah who has hurt her, she's hurt herself.

  The night passes in these dark thoughts, her tired head tormented and tortured, and by morning exhaustion finally overwhelms her. When she wakes some hours later, her skin is hot and her neck tingling. Her heat. She’d forgotten all about it. Easter break starts in a week and so does her heat. It's what she deserves; to suffer it alone and miserable.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The corridor, lined in chestnut paneling, is dark and empty. An ancient grandfather clock in the corner ticks loudly, two weights swinging from below its face, and behind one of the doors there's a low murmur of voices and the tapping of keys. Old oil paintings of grim looking men hang on the walls, each seeming to stare at Noah with disapproval.

  It's stuffy and formal — an attempt, he thinks, to remind those waiting outside on the hard wooden seats of the authority and power of the man who owns the office behind him.

  It's not the first time he's sat on one of these chairs awaiting an appointment with the Dean. He's been here before, after the stupid fight that spiralled out of his control at the end of his first term.

  That time he'd perched on this same chair with terror, regret and anger. His mother had been with him, whispering terse words of disapproval, and he'd sweated so hard his shirt had stuck to his underarms beneath his jacket.

  This time he hasn't brought her. He can't bear more words of reproach. He knows what he is — he needs no reminder from her. And anyway, this time he is numb to it all. Like it's happening to someone else and not to him. Honestly, he couldn't care less what happens to him next. He'll state his side of the facts, but it won't matter, they've all made up their minds about him, anyway.

  It's all over social media — he's actually surprised his mother hasn't heard it somehow already — and he's read what they're saying about him. Some of his friends from the rugby team have tried to wade in and back him up, but they were quickly drowned out and attacked themselves. Noah hasn't got involved. He's remained silent. Despite the hate he harbours for himself, he knows it was an accident. He didn't mean for it to happen.

  A short grey man, with glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, takes a step out in the corridor.

  "Ah Mr Wood, come in, please."

  "Yes, Sir," Noah says, following him inside and standing in front of the large oak desk, while the older man sits down. Behind him are two long windows, and the light throws the Dean into shadow so that Noah has to squint to read his face.

  The man keeps Noah waiting, opening a paper file and flicking through some printed pages. Bookcases dominate the room, stuffed with what looks like a combination of ancient leather-bound books and newer, brighter publications. A huge, stone fireplace breaks up the space with another painting hung above, this time a capture of the university from older times, when the surrounding area was greener and more spacious.

  Noah remains still, not fidgeting. He feels nothing. Not nerves, not annoyance. There is no hurry.

  He wonders if Cora knows that he's here. Kyle is the only person he's told, but his coach will know and his tutors and probably someone spotted him heading into the building. It will be all over the university by now, the latest installment in the story. But has it reached her ears yet?

  The end of term is in a week. Usually she'd be timing her heat for the holiday. But he's smelt no hint of it in her scent. Perhaps she's adjusted her suppressants. She won't want to share it with him now. Everything between them is ruined. The moment she told him to go in the club, he'd known. A shifting in the strange connection they share, like the wind suddenly changing direction. A warm southerly breeze giving way to a bitter northerly.

  One message is all he's allowed himself to send her. He may be a fool, but he understands when he's not wanted. She hasn't responded and he won't send another. He doesn't need to be told twice.

  The numbness in his limbs and in his skull crept in soon after, as if a heavy weight had crushed down on him and cut off the blood supply. It's so severe there isn't even the sensation of pins and needles when he massages his arms, rubs his forehead.

  Is it because of her? Or the huge trampling of defeat? The knowledge that he'll always fail no matter how hard he tries — the odds never stacked in his favour and his own faults tripping him up every time.

  He stares at the glint of glass behind the man, counting slowly in his head.

  Finally, the Dean, removing his glasses, gestures towards the seat in front of his desk.

  "Please sit down, Mr Wood," he says.

  Noah starts and then pulls out the chair, the legs squeaking against the polished floorboards.

  "This is the second time you've been called to my office."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Both times with regard to assault."

  Noah says nothing. Not knowing whether to dispute the fact or let it lie.

  The man sighs. "Every few years we go through the same rigmarole. Some Alpha lets his aggression get the better of him and we have uproar from the students and the faculty — calling for exclusions and segregation and god knows what else. Honestly, you folk don't help yourselves."

  Cora wouldn't sit here and take that bullshit. She'd call out the bigotry and prejudice. But he's not Cora and he's so tired of it all. If he argues back, it'll only confirm what the man thinks of him and Alphas already — always up for a fight.

  "A second offence such as this would normally warrant an expulsion." The man places his elbows on the table, leaning a little furt
her forward as if inspecting Noah more closely.

  Noah jerks his head in what is barely a nod.

  The man continues. "But the other gentleman in question has written to me. He says in his communication that he is aware of lots of false information circulating and wanted to put things straight. He is utterly convinced the incident that caused his injury was an unfortunate accident."

  Noah's eyes dart up from his shoes to the Dean.

  "He wrote to you to say that?"

  "Is he correct, Mr Wood?"

  Noah scrubs his hand over his jaw. "I pushed past him — in all honesty, a bit too roughly — I could feel my temper rising and I was trying to leave. I pushed him too hard and he fell, cut himself on some glass."

  "I see," the man lowers his glasses to the table. "It seems you owe this man a depth of gratitude."

  "I'm kind of stunned," Noah says honestly. "Usually," he shuffles on his seat, looking out towards the blank window, "people want to believe the worst of me — are happy to see me condemned."

  "Yes, well," the Dean says, unconvinced. "I am going to have to consider how to handle this — I have a very angry section of the student body, but you have your finals next term and I wouldn't want to deny you your chance in life over what both sides seem to amicably agree was an accident. And Mr Wood, I have to confess that your grades are very good and you have represented the university in Rugby. Your coach speaks highly of you."

  Noah nods again. They're going to let him stay. He can't believe it. Shouldn't he feel relieved, happy even?

  "So on reflection, I won't be excluding you. I will ask the Proctors to carry out an informal investigation to satisfy the mob. But this will be a formality. The other man's word will see to that."