Page 119 of The Drama King
The bond thrummed constantly at the edges of my consciousness, promising relief from the struggle if I'd stop fighting. But as I touched the claiming bites at my throat, I realized something had crystallized during my conversation with Stephanie.
I'd rather suffer than surrender. I'd rather fight my own biology than lose myself to it. And if that meant a lifetime of resistance, of daily battles against drives, of choosing the hard path over the easy one, then that's what I'd choose.
Because some things were more important than biology. Some things were worth fighting for, even when the fight seemed impossible to win.
My autonomy. My right to choose. My refusal to be grateful for beautiful chains because they came with justification.
The bond could pull at me all it wanted. I wasn't going anywhere willingly.
forty-two
Dorian
Icouldfeelherpulling away.
Two weeks of carefully managed interactions. Brief meetings in public places, minimal scent exchange, rigid boundaries I respected with physical pain. Had done nothing to strengthen our bond. If anything, the connection felt more strained with each passing day, the invisible tether between us stretching dangerously thin despite my desperate attempts to maintain it.
It wasn't just affecting me. The entire pack dynamic was fracturing under the strain.
Oakley had stopped sleeping entirely, his usual gentle demeanor replaced by sharp-edged anxiety that permeated our shared spaces. I'd find him at three in the morning, pacing the apartment kitchen with red-rimmed eyes, his cedar scent sour with guilt and withdrawal symptoms that were becoming increasingly severe.
"Maybe we don't deserve her forgiveness," he'd said yesterday, the admission scraped raw from his throat. "Maybe what we did was too much to come back from, fated mates or not."
Corvus was handling it differently. Burying himself in research with the kind of obsessive focus that meant he was close to breaking. His laptop was permanently open to academic databases, browser tabs full of studies on bond rejection rates, separation syndrome fatality statistics, psychological impacts of forced claiming. The clinical precision that usually defined him was cracking at the edges, revealing something desperate underneath.
"The probability of successful bond rejection in fated pairs is 0.03%," he'd recited to me this morning, his dark eyes lacking their usual analytical calm. "But she's already demonstrating resistance patterns that fall outside normal parameters. If anyone could statistically beat those odds..."
He'd trailed off, but the implication hung between us like a death sentence. Our Omega. Our rare, precious, irreplaceable fated mate. Was actively working to destroy the very connection that should have been unbreakable.
The pack bonds that had once provided stability were now sources of shared agony. Every moment of Vespera's absence hit us threefold, amplified through our connections to each other until the separation anxiety became a feedback loop of misery none of us could escape.
We'd tried different approaches. Oakley had attempted gentle apologies, bringing her favorite coffee to their brief meetings, trying to rebuild trust through consistent small gestures. She'd accepted the coffee politely and maintained exactly the same emotional distance, treating his kindness like a transaction rather than an olive branch.
Corvus had offered intellectual solutions. Research on bond management, academic papers on successful Alpha-Omega pairings with complicated histories, carefully reasoned arguments about compatibility overriding circumstantial conflicts. She'd listened with that focused attention I knew so well, asked a few pointed questions, and then used his own data to research bond rejection techniques.
My attempts at dominance had been equally futile. Every time I tried to assert Alpha authority, to remind her of the realities connecting us, she'd withdraw further. The claiming bites at her throat had healed to pale scars that she covered with high-necked clothing, as if trying to erase the visible evidence of our connection.
She was fighting it. Fighting us. Fighting what should be impossible to resist.
And it was making me fucking insane.
The thought made my hands clench as I paced the empty classroom. This wasn't how it was supposed to work. I'd found my fated mate. I'd claimed her. She should be grateful, compliant, eager to please me the way biology demanded.
Instead, this stubborn little Omega was acting like she had a choice in the matter. Like biology was optional. Like she could decide to reject what nature had made inevitable.
The door opened, and her scent hit me like a fucking freight train. Even through the suppressants, I could smell her. Jasmine and defiance and mine. She was wearing her school uniform, the pleated skirt that had driven me crazy during months of watching her in class, the white blouse that clung to curves I'd claimed but hadn't conquered.
She stood in the doorway like she was ready to bolt, those green eyes scanning the room with obvious suspicion.
"You said McArthur Hall, room 237," she observed, making no move to enter fully. "But you didn't mention it would be empty."
"I needed privacy," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady despite the desperate relief flooding my system at the sight ofher. The separation symptoms that had been building all day. The hollow ache in my chest, the constant awareness of exactly which direction would lead me back to her. Eased fractionally with her proximity.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Our agreement was public spaces only."
"A classroom is public," I countered, gesturing to the institutional setting around us. "Temporarily empty. The doors remain unlocked. Anyone could walk in at any moment."
She hesitated, clearly debating whether this violated the letter or merely the spirit of our agreement. Finally, she stepped inside, though she remained near the door, maintaining maximum distance between us.