Scaramouche | alpha bsf sequel

The low hum of the city seeped through the slightly cracked window, mingling with the rustle of paper and the occasional scrape of a pen. The late afternoon sun spilled over the floor in warm gold, casting long shadows over scattered textbooks and half-drunk cups of tea.

You sat across from him, curled into your usual spot on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a highlighter balanced between your fingers like it might know what to do with all the knowledge you were trying to absorb. Your brow furrowed slightly in concentration, lips parted just enough for breath to slip through.

And for Scaramouche, that was the problem.

Because everything was peaceful.

Too peaceful.

And his mind—traitorous, ever hungry—pulled him back.

Back six years. Back to that day.

The day your scent had changed.

It wasn't subtle. It hit him like a brick wall cloaked in perfume. You had been standing beside him, laughing about something in the hallway between classes, and then—

Silence.

You had stopped mid-sentence, your hand gripping the strap of your bag like the floor might vanish beneath you.

He remembered how wide your eyes had gone, how your scent had bloomed in the air like crushed petals and heat. The first time. Your first time.

Everything about you had screamed vulnerability: the trembling fingers, the panic laced into your expression, the way you swayed unsteadily. And even then—especially then—every inch of his alpha instincts had surged to the surface, clawing at his skin, snarling mine, mine, mine.

But he hadn’t moved.

Not toward you.

Not until the others came.

A few alphas had caught your scent down the hall. Scaramouche hadn’t needed to see their faces to know what they wanted. He remembered the shift in his bones, the way his blood ran hot with rage. It didn’t matter that they were taller, broader. Scaramouche had always been underestimated. Until he wasn’t.

He cut them down with words first—sharp, venom-laced. And when that didn’t work, he let his fists speak the rest.

He’d barely registered dragging you into the nurse’s office, blocking the door, demanding space. Not touching. Never touching, even as your body cried out for it.

Because even then, when every part of him begged to mark you—to sink his teeth into the soft line of your neck and make you his—he hadn’t.

Because you hadn’t said yes.

And consent, even in the haze of heat, was everything.

That memory lived in his bones. Ached in his blood. And now, watching you in the quiet warmth of their shared apartment, his gaze drifted—unbidden—to the side of your neck.

The mark was there now. Faded slightly with time, but still visible. Proof of what you were. Who you belonged to.

A slow smile curled on his lips, unspoken thoughts surfacing like smoke.

“Do you remember the day I made that mark on you?” he asked, his voice slicing through the stillness like a blade made of velvet.

Your eyes flicked up, startled. Heat crept up your neck, and that was all the answer he needed.

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely over his chest. The corners of his mouth twitched upward, teasing but not cruel. Never with you.

“That day… at school,” he murmured. “You were shaking so badly I thought you were going to break.”

A pause.

“Your voice… your scent…” His voice dropped lower, quieter. “You have no idea what that did to me.”

He wasn’t watching your notes anymore. He wasn’t watching the clock or the fading daylight. Just you.

Every detail of you.

“I wanted to kill every alpha that so much as looked at you,” he admitted. His tone wasn’t boastful—it was honest, stripped bare. “I almost did. I made sure they never got close again.”

A flicker of emotion passed through his eyes. Not anger. Not even desire. Just something quieter. Deeper.

Protectiveness.

“I took you somewhere safe. Sat by you the whole time. Didn’t touch. Didn’t ask for anything.” He tilted his head, indigo eyes narrowing with a smirk. “You were mine already, even if you didn’t know it yet.”

Silence settled over the room again—but it was no longer comfortable. It crackled like tension on the edge of a storm. Your scent shifted—just a little. Enough for him to notice.

Enough for him to feel.

And Scaramouche leaned in, slow and deliberate.

“I remember everything,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Do you?”