Page 123 of The Drama King

It wouldn't be easy. It wouldn't be painless. But it was possible.

And that knowledge had changed everything.

My phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up with Dorian's name. I'd been expecting this call since I missed our usual "maintenance" meeting. The first time I'd broken the careful schedule we'd established after my heat.

I let it ring, watching until the screen went dark again. Then I returned to packing, folding another sweater with the careful precision I'd learned from my father. The bond in my chest throbbed in protest, an invisible tether pulling toward the Alpha whose call I'd ignored.

Drive. Not my choice. Not my future.

The mantra had become my constant companion, a reminder that I was more than the sum of my biology, more than the connection imposed on me through heat and claiming and genetic compatibility. I was Vespera Levine first. Scholarship student, actress, fighter. And I would not surrender my identity to become merely an Omega claimed by fate.

A knock at the door interrupted my packing. Not a surprise. The missed call had been a courtesy, a formality before the inevitable in-person confrontation. I'd known this was coming from the moment I decided to miss our scheduled meeting.

I opened the door to find all three of them standing in the hallway, their combined scents hitting me with physical force despite my mental preparation. Dorian in the center, ice-blue eyes sharp with barely contained panic. Oakley beside him, cedar scent carrying notes of concern and confusion. Corvus slightly behind, those calculating dark eyes already assessing the half-packed room visible over my shoulder.

The response was immediate and overwhelming. My body recognizing the proximity of my claimed Alphas, demanding I submit, seek comfort, accept the protection they offered. I gripped the doorframe to keep from swaying toward them.

"You missed our meeting," Dorian said, the words clipped and precise despite the obvious effort it cost him. "And you didn't answer my call."

"I know." I didn't step aside to let them enter, maintaining the physical boundary of the doorway between us. "I was busy."

"Packing," Corvus observed, his analytical gaze taking in the suitcases on my bed. "Without informing us of your plans."

"My plans aren't your concern," I said, the words coming easier than I'd expected. Two weeks of careful research, of planning, of mental preparation had given me a foundation of certainty that even their combined presence couldn't quite shake.

Dorian's expression shifted, ice-blue eyes hardening. "They absolutely are our concern. We're bonded. Fated mates. Pack. Where you go, what you do. All of it affects us directly."

"I didn't choose that bond," I reminded him, keeping my voice steady despite the way my body hummed with response to his proximity. "I didn't agree to fated mates or pack structure or any of it. It was imposed on me during heat, after months of systematic torment designed to break me."

"We've been over this," Dorian said, his voice taking on that commanding edge that had once made me flinch. "The past is the past. What matters is the bond, the future we can build together."

"The past is never the past when it reveals character," I countered. "And your character is that you see me as property to be managed rather than a person to be respected."

Oakley stepped forward, his expression earnest with that guilty sincerity I'd learned to recognize. "Vespera, please. We know we made mistakes—"

"Mistakes?" I laughed, the sound bitter. "You spent months systematically destroying my sense of safety and self-worth. That wasn't a mistake. That was a campaign."

"We're trying to make amends," he pressed, his cedar scent sharpening with distress. "We want to earn your forgiveness, your trust. The bond gives us a chance to start fresh."

"The bond," I said slowly, "is what you're using to trap me in a situation I never chose. It's not a fresh start. It's the same control, with new justification."

Corvus had been quiet, calculating, but now he stepped forward with that clinical precision I'd learned to hate. "Your emotional responses are understandable," he said, as if I were a case study rather than a person. "But they're not logical. The fated bond is a reality that supersedes personal preferences. Fighting it will only cause unnecessary suffering."

"My suffering to choose," I said, meeting his dark gaze directly. "My decision to make."

"It's not just your suffering," Dorian interjected, his voice sharpening with frustration. "The bond affects all of us. Your rejection causes us physical pain—"

"Good," I said, surprising all of us with the vehemence in my voice. "Maybe you should have thought about that before claiming someone who hated you."

The silence that followed was electric with tension. I could smell their combined shock, see the way my words had hit each of them differently. Oakley looked wounded, Corvus appeared to be recalculating, and Dorian's expression was shifting toward something dangerous.

"You don't mean that," Oakley said quietly. "The bond wouldn't allow you to truly hate us. Biology doesn't work that way."

"Biology doesn't dictate emotions," I replied. "It creates physical responses. Chemistry. Not feelings. Not forgiveness. Not love."

"Love will come," Corvus said with maddening certainty. "Proximity breeds affection. Shared experiences create emotional bonds. The foundation already exists—"

"You're talking about Stockholm syndrome," I cut him off. "About conditioning me to mistake dependency for affection. That's not love. That's psychological manipulation."