Page 38 of The Drama King
"You scent-marked me," I said, my voice stronger now as fury began to cut through the artificial fog. "Without consent. Right before the most important performance of my life."
"I enhanced your performance," he corrected smoothly, his tone so reasonable it made me want to scream. "The audience will smell the complexity. Vulnerability layered with strength, submission tempered by defiance. It's exactly what you needs."
The gaslighting was masterful, designed to make me question my own understanding of what had just happened. But I could feel his pheromones spreading through my bloodstream like poison, could smell how my own scent was changingin response. Sweetening with false arousal, sharpening with distress.
"You drugged me," I said flatly. "With pheromones. Without my consent."
His expression didn't change, but something passed through his eyes. Surprise, perhaps, that I was naming his actions so directly. "Such dramatic language. I simply provided what your performance was lacking. Authentic biological response to conflict."
"Bullshit." The word came out stronger than I felt, fueled by rage at his casual cruelty. "You marked me so the audience would smell submission on me. So they'd see me as conquered rather than talented."
For the first time, his mask slipped slightly. A flash of something crossed his features before he regained control.
"Your biology disagrees," he said, gesturing to my obvious physical responses. His finger traced along my jawline, and I hated myself for the way my breath hitched at the contact. "Look at you. Pupils blown, pulse racing, skin flushed with arousal. Your body knows exactly what it wants."
"My body is responding to artificial stimulation," I shot back, even as that traitorous finger continued its path down my throat. "It's a biological hijacking, not desire. There's a difference."
His smile widened, genuinely impressed now. "Such scientific terminology. But the audience won't know the difference, will they? They'll smell arousal, submission, the scent of an Omega who's been properly claimed. It will add authenticity to your role."
The clinical way he discussed my violation made my stomach turn, but I forced myself to meet his gaze directly. "The only thing authentic about this is your desperation. You're so threatened by my talent that you had to drug me with pheromones just to level the playing field."
The accusation hit its mark. His hand stilled against my throat, his eyes narrowing with something that looked almost like fury before he regained his composure.
"Threatened?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "By a scholarship Omega who thinks talent alone will save her? How charmingly naive."
But there was something in his tone now. An edge of defensiveness that hadn't been there before. I'd struck a nerve.
"If you're not threatened, then why resort to biological manipulation?" I pressed, my voice gaining strength despite the pheromones still coursing through my system. "Why not let me perform on my own merit and see what happens?"
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Because merit is a luxury for those who can afford it. You're here on borrowed time, borrowed money, borrowed opportunity. Someone like you needs guidance to understand your proper place in the hierarchy."
"Someone like me," I repeated, letting the words hang in the air between us. "You mean someone without a trust fund? Someone who actually had to earn their place here?"
"Someone who doesn't understand that talent without breeding is just potential energy. Unfocused. Dangerous." His thumb pressed against my pulse point, feeling how my heart raced against his touch. "But properly channeled, properly claimed, it becomes something beautiful. Something useful."
The casual way he discussed my personhood—as if I were a resource to be managed rather than a human being with agency—made rage flare in my chest, burning through the artificial arousal his pheromones had triggered.
"Get. Your. Hand. Off. Me." Each word was precisely articulated, backed by steel I hadn't known I possessed.
Something shifted in his expression. Surprise, yes, but also a flicker of something that might have been respect. His handremained against my throat for another heartbeat, as if testing my resolve, before he stepped back.
"Five minutes to places," the stage manager called from the hallway, her voice cutting through the thick tension.
Dorian smoothed his suit jacket with practiced nonchalance, but I caught the slight tremor in his hands. The first crack in his perfect Alpha composure I'd ever witnessed.
"I should go," I said, my voice steadier now despite the sandalwood still clinging to my body like a toxic second skin. "Unlike some people, I actually have work to do tonight."
His smile returned, but sharper now, more dangerous. "Indeed you do. And everyone will know exactly whose Omega is delivering such a passionate performance."
"I'm not your anything," I replied, lifting my chin with deliberate defiance. "And after tonight, everyone will know that too."
He studied me for a long moment, those ice-blue eyes unreadable. "We'll see about that," he said finally, echoing my own words back to me. "Break a leg, Vespera. I'll be watching from the front row. We all will."
The promise in his voice carried new undertones now. Not just threat, but challenge. As if my resistance had shifted something fundamental in our dynamic.
As he walked away, I remained pressed against the wall, my body still trembling with the aftermath of both violation and confrontation. But for the first time since arriving at Northwood, that trembling wasn't entirely from fear.
My hand flew to my neck, where his scent still clung like a brand. The biological effects were already fading—my pulse slowing, the artificial arousal ebbing—but the psychological impact would linger. I would have to perform carrying the scent of my tormentor, exactly as he'd planned.