Page 115 of The Drama King
"You can't seriously be considering—"
"Bond rejection?" she finished, and the calm certainty in her voice made something feral inside me snap. "I'm considering all my options, Dorian. Including the ones that don't involve spending the rest of my life as claimed property."
The word "property" hit like a physical blow, mainly because it was so accurate. That was exactly how I saw her. Mine, owned, claimed. The fated bond had transformed her from scholarship Omega to be broken into precious mate to be protected, but the underlying possessiveness remained unchanged.
"It's not ownership," I said, though the words felt hollow. "It's partnership. Compatibility designed to—"
"To what?" she challenged. "To ensure I can never leave? To guarantee my compliance through chemical dependency? To make sure I'll always need you, even if I hate you?"
Each question was a precision strike, cutting through my justifications to the uncomfortable truth beneath. Yes, the bond did ensure she couldn't leave. Yes, it guaranteed a level of compliance. Yes, it would make her need us regardless of her emotional state.
"The bond exists," I said finally, abandoning attempts at justification. "Whether you accept it or fight it, the reality remains unchanged."
"But my response to it doesn't have to be," she said, and something in her tone made ice form in my veins. "I don't haveto be grateful for being claimed by my tormentors. I don't have to pretend this is some fairy tale romance instead of coercion."
"What are you saying?" I asked, though I was beginning to suspect I already knew.
"I'm saying that just because you managed to claim me during heat doesn't mean I have to make it easy for you to keep me." She stood up, moving toward the small window with deliberate casualness. "I'm saying that maybe the separation anxiety you're experiencing is something you need to learn to live with."
The word "property" made something inside me explode with fury. Not the calculated anger I'd wielded for months, but pure Alpha rage at my mate's rejection of our bond, of me, of everything biology demanded should be inevitable.
"You're not property," I snarled, moving closer until she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "You're my fated mate. Mine. And all the research in the world won't change what your body knows to be true."
"My body," she said, standing up so quickly her chair scraped against the floor, "has been chemically manipulated into dependency. That doesn't make it truth. It makes it biology."
"It makes it destiny," I corrected, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl. The space between us was minimal now, close enough that I could smell the spike in her arousal despite her mental resistance, could see her pupils dilate in response to my proximity.
"It makes it coercion," she shot back, but I could hear the slight breathiness in her voice, could smell how her body was responding regardless of what her mind wanted.
Something snapped inside me. The careful control I'd maintained since the claiming, the strategic patience I'd forced myself to display, the pretense of giving her choice. All of it dissolved under the weight of drive and Alpha rage.
She was mine. My fated mate. My perfect match. And she was standing there discussing rejection like it was a viable option, like I would accept losing her because she'd found some academic justification for fighting what should be inevitable.
"Enough," I growled, and moved.
She tried to step back, but the small study room gave her nowhere to go. I caged her against the desk with my body, hands braced on either side of her hips, close enough that every breath brought more of her scent into my lungs.
"Dorian," she warned, but her voice was already changing, becoming breathy with unwanted arousal.
"You want to know what biology really means?" I said, my voice rough with possessive need. "It means your body recognizes its mate regardless of what your mind thinks it wants. It means you're already responding to me, already craving my touch, already producing the pheromones that signal submission."
"I'm not submitting to anything," she said, but the protest was weakened by the way she unconsciously arched toward me when I leaned closer.
"Aren't you?" I asked, and deliberately scented her neck, breathing in the complex cocktail of arousal and resistance and recognition. "Your body is telling a different story."
I could feel the moment her resolve started to crack, the way her breathing quickened and her scent spiked with need she couldn't suppress. This was what I'd been missing during our separation. The visceral confirmation of our connection, the proof that she was mine regardless of her mental resistance.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about," she said, but her voice had gone shaky. "You're using biology against me. Using my body's responses to override my conscious choice."
"I'm reminding you what you're trying to reject," I corrected, pressing closer until she was half-sitting on the desk, her legs bracketing my hips. "I'm showing you what you'd be giving up."
"Dorian, don't—" she started, but the protest died when I deliberately brushed my lips against the claiming bite at her throat.
The effect was immediate and electric. Her back arched involuntarily, a soft sound escaping her that she tried unsuccessfully to suppress. The bond mark was still sensitive from the recent claiming, directly connected to every nerve ending in her body.
"You feel that," I said against her skin, not quite a question. "The bond responding to proximity, to touch, to the recognition of your Alpha's presence."
"You're not my Alpha," she whispered, but even as she said it, her hands came up to grip my shoulders, holding me closer rather than pushing me away.