Page 10 of The Drama King

Before I could respond, Cruz called for attention again. "Excellent demonstration. Now everyone try the exercise with your own partners."

Dorian's hands lingered a moment too long before he stepped back, but not before leaning in to whisper: "You're going to be so much fun to break."

The rest of class passed in a blur of barely controlled panic. Whenever I managed to focus on an exercise, one of them would appear. Dorian adjusting my arm position with unnecessary intimacy, Corvus demonstrating breath control with his body pressed too close behind me, Oakley making crude comments disguised as technical feedback.

By the time Cruz dismissed us, my uniform shirt clung to my back with nervous sweat, and I could feel the uncomfortable evidence of my body's traitorous responses. Worse, I knew all three Alphas had been tracking my biological reactions with evident satisfaction. There's nothing quite like having your involuntary physical responses used as entertainment for entitled assholes.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the door as quickly as dignity allowed, desperate for fresh air and distance.

I wrapped my arms around myself, still feeling phantom touches from Dorian's hands. Fighting the ridiculous urge to scrub my skin where he'd touched me, as if his fingerprints had left physical marks. For all I knew, maybe they had—Alpha pheromones could linger for hours.

This was just the beginning. They weren't going to stop. And I was completely alone against Northwood's elite Alpha pack, with faculty who either couldn't see the harassment or chose to ignore it. Money talked and I had no voice.

And underneath my fear was something even more disturbing. The way my body had responded to Dorian's touch, the biological programming that made me crave his dominance despite my mind's revulsion. It was like housing a traitor inside my own skin—one that would sell me out for a whiff of Alpha pheromones.

As I walked back to my dorm room, I couldn't shake his whispered promise:You're going to be so much fun to break.

But I hadn't come this far, fought this hard for my scholarship, just to be broken by rich boys with too much power and too little supervision. If they wanted to hunt me, fine. But they'd soon learn I wasn't easy prey.

The hunt had officially begun, and while I had nowhere to run, I sure as hell could fight back.

four

Dorian

Mahogany,leather,andpower.The study smelled like old money—as it should. My fingers traced the rim of my brandy snifter, the aged single malt burning pleasantly as I reviewed the intel Corvus had compiled on our newest target. He sat across from me with that typical rigid posture, tablet balanced on his knee, organizing surveillance notes with typical precision.

"Your fixation is showing," Corvus said without looking up. "More than usual."

No point denying it. After a decade, he could read my moods with irritating precision. "She's different."

That earned a raised eyebrow. "The great Dorian Ashworth, intrigued by a scholarship case? Should I alert the theater department newsletter?"

"Your sarcasm is noted and unwelcome." There was no heat in my rebuke—pack dynamics allowed for this. His strategic mindhad proven itself too valuable to waste energy posturing. "But she is different. More aware. More resistant."

Oakley chose that moment to join us, dropping into his favorite leather chair with his usual ease. Fresh from the gym, his cedar scent mixed with sweat hit my nostrils, familiar and right. His fitted t-shirt clung to broad shoulders still damp from the shower, a sight that stirred a different kind of heat than my anger: the instinctive recognition of pack bonds that ran deeper than friendship.

"The scholarship Omega?" he asked, helping himself to my brandy. "I was just thinking about Cruz's class."

My jaw tightened. "What about it?"

"The way she responded to your scent," Oakley said, his expression more curious than predatory. "There was a genuine connection there, beneath the resistance. Her body recognized something her mind isn't ready to accept yet."

Something dark and possessive surged through my veins. A visceral urge to remind Oakley exactly who had first rights to that particular reaction. I forced it down, kept my expression neutral while my blood burned.

"Focus," I commanded, injecting enough Alpha tone to make both packmates straighten reflexively. "This isn't about immediate gratification. Strategy first."

I moved to the desk where Corvus had arranged his materials. Photos taken with telephoto lenses, class schedules mapped against location patterns, financial records obtained through carefully cultivated administrative sources. The precise documentation of a life about to be thoroughly disrupted.

"Tell me," I ordered, feeling a familiar tightening in my groin as I studied her captured in unguarded moments. The thought of her completely unaware of being watched triggered a primal satisfaction I couldn't deny.

Corvus shifted into analytical mode. "Vespera Levine, eighteen, full scholarship from Franklin, Ohio. Father works at community theater. Steady income but barely middle class. Mother has been absent since she was ten."

He swiped to financial data. "Current account balance: $127. Work-study income: $240 monthly. Budgeting down to pennies. Dining hall shifts around class times, using campus laundry during off-peak hours to save money."

"Excellent." Financial pressure—always a useful lever. My mind was already calculating exactly how to apply it for maximum effect. "Support network?"

"Complicated." Frustration edged into Corvus's clinical tone. "Roommate, Stephanie Shaw. Significant family wealth. Father in private equity, mother owns a gallery. They live in Havenhill Estates. Eight figures, minimum."