Page 101 of The Drama King

Perfect compatibility. Genetic alignment. Fated match.

No. No, no, NO.

I jerked back, the movement sharp enough to make Vespera stir with a soft sound of distress against the silk pillows. My heart was suddenly hammering against my ribs, my hands shaking as I stared down at the sleeping girl I'd just spent months systematically tormenting.

No. It can't be.

Fated mates were rare. Legendary. The kind of miracle that happened once in a generation, if that. Perfect genetic matches that transcended the ordinary Alpha-Omega bonding process, creating connections so deep and profound they were considered unbreakable by biology or law.

I'd always dismissed the stories as romantic nonsense. Fairy tales for Omegas desperate to believe that something more than hierarchy determined their fates.

But the scent didn't lie. Couldn't lie. Beneath all the other markers—the claiming, the heat, the pack bond—was the unmistakable signature of perfect compatibility. Of a match so rare and precious that even thinking about it made my chest ache with primitive possessiveness.

My fated mate. My one perfect match.

And I'd spent months breaking her.

The realization hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath and making my vision blur at the edges. Every cruel word, every boundary violation, every carefully orchestrated humiliation—I'd inflicted them all on the one person biology had designed specifically for me.

What have I done?

Beside me, Oakley stirred, his cedar scent shifting as he sensed my distress. His eyes opened, immediately alert despite the exhaustion of the night's activities.

"Dorian?" he murmured, voice rough with sleep. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't find words, couldn't process the magnitude of what I'd discovered. Instead, I gestured mutely to Vespera's throat, to the claiming bite that had revealed the truth I'd never imagined possible.

Oakley frowned, then leaned closer, inhaling deeply at the spot I'd indicated. I watched his expression transform from confusion to shock to something like awe.

"Holy shit," he breathed, eyes wide as they met mine. "Is that—"

"Fated match," I confirmed, my voice barely recognizable in the spacious luxury of my suite. "She's my fated mate."

The words hung in the air between us, impossibly heavy with implication. Around us, the trappings of wealth—imported marble, crystal, mahogany—seemed to fade into insignificance beside this revelation.

Oakley's scent shifted again, carrying notes of confusion and something that might have been guilt. "But we..." he started, then stopped, seemingly unable to voice the obvious.

But we spent months tormenting her. Breaking her. Forcing her into submission.

"I know." The words scraped my throat raw.

Across the room, Corvus was awake now, those calculating dark eyes taking in the scene with analytical precision from his position in the leather chair. "What's happened?" he asked, his voice perfectly controlled despite the obvious tension.

"Scent her," I instructed, gesturing to the sleeping Omega between us. "Beneath the claiming markers. Beneath the heat."

Corvus approached the massive bed with characteristic caution, his movements precise as he leaned down to breathe deeply at Vespera's throat. When he straightened, his expression was unreadable, but his scent had gone sharp with surprise.

"Fated match," he said quietly, confirming what I already knew. "One in a million genetic compatibility. But not just you, Dorian." His dark eyes met mine with something approaching wonder. "All of us. The entire pack. Your bond is primary, dominant, but Oakley and I are secondarily compatible."

I stared at them, trying to process this new revelation. Not just my fated mate, but our pack's perfect Omega match. The rarity of such a thing was beyond calculation: a statistical impossibility that had somehow manifested in the very girl we'd selected for systematic destruction.

"We need to adjust our strategy," I said, the Alpha in me already shifting to protective mode now that the truth was known. "Everything is different when she wakes."

Corvus's analytical mind was already working, I could see it in the slight narrowing of his eyes. "Or perhaps this simply confirms what we already knew on some instinctive level. Why else would we have been so drawn to her, so fixated on claiming her specifically?"

"We tortured her for months," Oakley said, giving voice to the guilt that was clawing at my insides. "Psychologically broke her. Forced her into heat through sustained stress. Our fated mate."

The words made my stomach twist with something unfamiliar: regret, perhaps. Or shame. Emotions I'd rarely encountered and never with this intensity.