Chapter 31 The Trap Springs
Wynter's POV
I had accepted the silence.
After Vivian left and our investigation hit a dead end, a strange, heavy calm had settled over me. We couldn't prove Anne’s guilt.
So, I did the only thing I could do: I tried to live.
I forced myself to wake up, to dress, to attend classes. I told myself that surviving was its own form of defiance. My father had wanted me to be educated, to be better than the world that tried to crush us, and I would honor that.
But while my mind had accepted the stalemate, my body was in open rebellion.
The lecture hall for Mate Bond Theory was suffocatingly warm. I sat in the back row, trying to focus on Professor Vance’s diagram of Synaptic Resonance, but the words blurred on the chalkboard.
The Mark on my neck wasn't just hurting today; it was hungry.
It pulsed with a feverish, rhythmic heat that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with Chase. It was a physical craving, a deep, hollow ache in my core that screamed for him.
Every time I breathed, I smelled phantom traces of his scent—pine and frost—and my muscles coiled tight, urging me to run to him, to find him, to complete what we had started.
Thump-thump-need. Thump-thump-Chase.
I dug my nails into my palms, forcing myself to stay seated. Focus, I commanded myself. Just be a normal student.
But I wasn't normal. I was a Beta with a damaged gland and an incomplete Bond that was slowly driving me insane.
Professor Vance, a dry, elderly Beta who usually stuck rigidly to the syllabus, was pacing the aisles today. As he lectured about hormonal feedback loops, he drifted closer to the back of the room.
To my right, Scarlett Hayes was busy taking notes, her posture perfect, likely recording everything to report back to Anne. I kept my head down, staring at my blank notebook, trying to breathe through the waves of heat rolling off my neck.
A shadow fell across my desk.
I looked up to find Professor Vance standing right beside me. He wasn't looking at me, his gaze fixed on the class as he continued to speak about "biological imperatives," but he had paused directly at my elbow.
His voice dropped, the volume low enough that only the immediate vicinity could hear—but pitched specifically for my ears.
"You seem... distressed, Miss Vaughn," he murmured, barely moving his lips.
I froze, my hand instinctively going to the high collar hiding my bandage. "I'm fine, Professor."
"You are perspiring," he noted dryly, still not looking at me. "And your pheromone output is erratic. Typical symptoms of a rejected or incomplete high-level Bond."
My face flushed hot with shame. Scarlett’s pen paused for a fraction of a second.
"There are... methods," Vance continued, his voice dropping even lower, turning into a conspiratorial whisper that slid under the radar of the other students. "Unorthodox ways to dampen the feedback loop. To quiet the noise without completing the connection."
My heart skipped a beat. "There are?" I whispered back, desperation leaking into my voice. "Is it safe?"
"Safety is relative. But it offers peace." He finally glanced down at me, his eyes gleaming with a strange, academic curiosity behind his spectacles. "If the pain becomes unmanageable... come find me after hours. My office door is always open for students with unique physiological challenges."
Hope, bright and sharp, flared in my chest. A way to stop the craving? A way to think clearly again without this constant, maddening need for Chase?
"Thank you," I breathed. "I'll come by to—"
BANG.
The heavy oak door of the lecture hall slammed open, shattering the quiet atmosphere.
Professor Vance straightened up immediately, stepping away from my desk as if we hadn't been speaking at all. The hope that had just sparked in my chest was instantly doused by cold dread.
A student aid from the administration stood in the doorway, looking pale and out of breath. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on me with pity.
"Wynter Vaughn?" he called out.
"Yes?" I stood up, my legs trembling slightly.
"You're needed in the Disciplinary Office. Immediately."
Rosalie, who had been dozing slightly to my left, sat up straight, grabbing my wrist. "Wyn? What's going on?"
"I don't know, ” I said, confused.
"Bring your bag," the aid added, his voice tight. "You probably won't be coming back to class."
The words hung in the air like a sentence.
I looked at Professor Vance, but he had already turned away, erasing any trace of his offer. The lifeline he had just dangled was gone, snatched away before I could even grasp it.
"Go," the aid urged.
I grabbed my bag, the familiar weight of injustice settling onto my shoulders.
---
The Disciplinary Office smelled of lemon polish and judgment. Dean Henderson didn't offer me a seat. He didn't offer a greeting. He simply threw a tablet onto the desk between us. It slid across the polished wood, stopping inches from my hand.
"Academic fraud," he said, his voice flat. "Theft of library archival codes. Selling exam answers to first-years."
I stared at the screen, at the fabricated logs and timestamps. The shock was almost physical. "I didn't do this."
"It doesn't matter what you say," Henderson cut me off, his eyes cold and bored. "The evidence was found in your digital locker. We have anonymous witness statements corroborating the transactions."
"This is a setup," I snapped, my temper flaring over the confusion. "You can't expel me for something I didn't do. I demand a review."