Page 2 of His Drama Queen

The words hang in the air between us, stark and ugly. His face cycles through emotions—confusion, understanding, rage—before settling on a carefully controlled calm that's somehow more frightening than anger would be.

"They forced a bond on you." Not a question.

"Three bonds. A pack bond. It's supposed to be biologically permanent."

"But you broke it?"

"I rejected it. There's a difference." I touch Dorian's mark unconsciously, immediately regretting it when electricity shoots down my spine. "Breaking would mean it's gone. Rejection just means I'm refusing it. The bonds are still there, trying to pull me back. My body thinks I'm dying without them."

"Are you?" The question is soft, frightened in a way I've rarely heard from him. As a Beta, these things must be hard for him to understand.

"Maybe." The honesty feels strange. "Rejection sickness from a true mate bond can be fatal. With three bonds... I don't know. There's not exactly a lot of research on this."

Dad takes my hand, his fingers rough from years of handling tools and lumber, building sets that transport audiences to other worlds. "Your mother—"

"Please don't." The words come out sharper than intended. "Not today."

He nods, but the weight of unspoken history sits heavy between us. Dad never talks about Mom since she left. But sometimes I wonder if she was omega too. If that's why understanding seems to flicker in his eyes when he looks at me now, when he sees the marks I'm trying to reject.

"I made some calls," he says, changing the subject with practiced deflection. "Marcus says the Columbus Summer Theater program still has spots. Six weeks, professional company, full immersion. Far enough away that..." He trails off.

"That they won't find me?"

"That you can heal," he corrects, though we both know what he meant. "The program starts in two weeks. Marcus owes me enough favors to get you in, plus a work-study position to cover costs."

"Dad, we can't afford—"

"We can't afford not to." He squeezes my hand. "You need to get away from here, away from whatever pull those... Alphas have on you. And you need to be on stage again. It's who you are."

He's right. Even through the fever and pain, the itch to perform burns steady—to disappear into someone else's story where biology doesn't determine destiny.

"I'll think about it," I say, which we both know means yes.

"Good. Now eat your soup."

I manage a few spoonfuls while he sits with me, telling me about the theater's production of Our Town, how the new apprentice doesn't know a fly rail from a pin rail, how the board is fighting him about replacing the ancient light boardagain. Normal things. Safe things. The kind of mundane theater problems that used to be my biggest concerns.

"Mrs. Patterson asked about you," he says casually. "Wanted to know if you'd be interested in assistant directing the fall musical."

"Mrs. Patterson who told me I'd never make it in professional theater because omegas don't have the stamina?"

"That's the one." His smile is grim. "Funny how success changes people's memories."

"A full ride to Northwood's theater program counts as success?"

"It did." The past tense hangs between us. "But what matters is you're talented, Vespera. With or without Northwood, with or without..." He gestures vaguely at my neck. "This. You're going to make it because you're good. Not because of your designation or who claims you or any biological bullshit. Because you're good."

The certainty in his voice almost makes me believe it.

After he leaves, I lie in bed watching shadows lengthen across my ceiling. The same ceiling I've stared at through childhood illnesses, teenage heartbreaks, college acceptance celebrations. The glow-in-the-dark stars I'd stuck up there at age eight are still visible if I squint—a cheap astronomy kit Dad bought at a yard sale to encourage my "scientific phase" that lasted all of two weeks before I discovered theater.

He kept them up anyway. Just like he kept every drawing, every report card, every playbill from every show I've ever been in.

I touch the marks again. They're healing physically—the initial tearing pain faded to this constant ache—but the bonds themselves are still very much alive. When I close my eyes, I can feel them pulling like compass needles pointing toward Northwood. Toward the Alphas who claimed me.

Dorian's bond burns hottest. Possessive, demanding, furious that I dared to leave. I imagine him pacing his family's estate, that dramatic intensity turned inward, plotting how to get me back.

Oakley's bond aches with guilt and longing. The healer Alpha who should've known better, who probably tells himself he was trying to help, trying to save me from rejection sickness. As if claiming me against my will was somehow mercy.