Page 118 of The Drama King

She looked up at me then, tears streaming down her face. "That's when I realized I'd chosen to be friends with people who could hear about your situation and think 'how lucky' instead of 'how horrifying.' And I hated myself for it."

"So what do you want from me?" I asked. "Forgiveness? Or to feel better about yourself?"

"I want to be your friend again," she said simply. "If you'll let me. I want to be the person I should have been from the beginning."

"And if I can't forgive you?"

"Then I'll have to live with that," she said, wiping her eyes. "But I'll still be here if you need me. Even if you never trust me again."

Something in her voice made me believe her. Not the calculated apology I'd expected, but genuine regret.

"I need time," I said finally.

"I know." She stood up, shouldering her bag. "But Vespera... how are you? Really. Not the polite version you probably give everyone else."

The question broke something open inside me. "I'm fucked," I said bluntly. "Like, completely fucked. Every second of every day feels like I'm fighting not to go back to them. My body wants their touch so badly it's physically painful, and my brain keeps whispering that it would be so much easier to give in."

Stephanie's face went pale. "That sounds awful."

"It is awful," I continued, surprised by how good it felt to say it out loud. "Everyone keeps talking about how 'lucky' I am, but it's like being addicted to heroin except the heroin used to beat the shit out of you for fun. My body craves them, but my mind remembers every single thing they did to me."

"Jesus, Vespera."

"The worst part?" I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Sometimes I catch myself thinking maybe they're right. Maybe I should be grateful. Maybe this is better than fighting every day for the rest of my life. And that terrifies me more than anything."

"But you're still fighting it."

"For now," I said, touching the claiming bites at my throat unconsciously. "But I don't know how long I can keep it up. The pull gets stronger every day, and I get more tired of resisting."

Stephanie was quiet for a moment, processing this information. "What would happen if you stopped fighting? If you... accepted the bond?"

"I'd lose myself," I said with quiet certainty. "I'd become whatever they needed me to be. Grateful Omega, perfect mate, willing participant in my own subjugation. The bond would make me happy about it, make me crave their approval, make me forget why I resisted in the first place."

"And if you keep fighting?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe I'll find a way to maintain some autonomy while managing the reality. Maybe I'll drive myself insane trying to resist an unresistible force. Maybe I'll break."

The honesty of the admission hung between us, stark and frightening. This was the reality behind the romantic mythology of fated mates. Not destined love, but coercion dressed up in prettier language.

"There has to be another option," Stephanie said, her voice carrying determination I hadn't heard from her before. "Some way to preserve who you are while managing the physical reality."

"Maybe," I said, though I wasn't convinced. "But it would mean fighting every day for the rest of my life, constantly battling my own biology to maintain independence. I'm not sure that's sustainable."

"You're the strongest person I know," she said with quiet conviction. "If anyone could find a way to make it work, it would be you."

The faith in her voice was both comforting and terrifying. I wasn't sure I was as strong as she believed, wasn't sure I could maintain this level of resistance indefinitely.

"Will you help me?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. "If I decide to keep fighting this, will you be there? Really be there this time?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "Whatever you need, whatever the social cost, whatever anyone else thinks. I'll be there."

The promise felt different from her previous casual offers of support. This carried weight, conviction, the kind of commitment that couldn't be easily abandoned when things got difficult.

After she left, I sat alone in my room, processing both the conversation and the emotions it had stirred up. The bond pulled at me constantly, a physical ache that made concentration nearly impossible. But for the first time since the claiming, I felt like I might have an ally who wasn't compelled to care about my wellbeing.

Later that night, I sat alone in my room, feeling the constant pull of the bond but also something else. The warmth of genuine friendship, freely given rather than compelled. It reminded me of who I'd been before Northwood, before the systematic breaking, before fated mates and claiming bites and imperatives.

I'd been someone who made her own choices. Someone who valued autonomy over security, independence over belonging. Someone who wouldn't surrender her agency because biology suggested it was easier.