Page 45 of The Drama King
From the main house, the sounds had shifted. Less struggle, more rhythm. Dorian reasserting pack hierarchy through the most fundamental method available, while Oakley's initial resistance dissolved into the submission that defined their relationship regardless of his moral qualms about our activities.
The contradiction was fascinating from an analytical perspective. Oakley could question our treatment of male Omegas while simultaneously submitting to Alpha dominance himself, apparently without recognizing the cognitive dissonance involved.
I typed a brief acknowledgment to my informant, then added specific instructions:Increase surveillance frequency. Report any changes in routine, scent patterns, or companion behavior immediately.
The trap was nearly set, all pieces moving into their designated positions. And as always, I would remain several moves ahead, analyzing, calculating, ensuring that whatever the outcome, it served both pack objectives and my personal interests.
As I returned inside, closing the balcony doors against the November chill, I found myself genuinely curious about Vespera's response to our escalation. Most scholarship Omegas broke quickly under systematic pressure, fleeing campus before mid-semester.
But Vespera Levine had already proven exceptional. In talent, in resilience, in her effect on pack dynamics. If she continued exceeding expectations, she might earn a place in our world that none of us had anticipated.
A pity she wouldn't have any meaningful choice in the matter.
seventeen
Dorian
Themansionsettledintoevening quiet as Mrs. Holloway cleared away the remnants of our dinner, her discrete footsteps fading down the main hallway. Corvus had excused himself to his suite for "strategic analysis," leaving me alone with Oakley in the warm intimacy of the study.
He sat rigidly in his chair, staring into the fire with tension that radiated through his scent like a warning. The contradiction fascinated me. This Alpha who challenged me on moral grounds but whose body language screamed submission whenever we were alone.
"You've been questioning me all evening," I said quietly, rising to refill my whiskey glass. "In front of Corvus. Undermining pack unity."
"I've been thinking," he replied without looking at me. "About what we're doing. About what we've become."
I moved to stand behind his chair, close enough that my sandalwood scent would wrap around him like a claim. His shoulders tensed, but he didn't pull away.
"And what have we become, Oak?"
"Hypocrites." The word hung in the air between us, dangerous in its honesty. "We condemn male Omegas like Robbie while engaging in our own... activities. We preach about proper designation roles while ignoring them when it suits our purposes."
My hands found his shoulders, feeling the knots of tension beneath his shirt. "Pack dynamics are different. You know that."
He finally turned to meet my gaze, his eyes bright with something that might have been pain. "Or do we just tell ourselves that to justify what we want?"
I squeezed his shoulders, not quite gently. "What we want is order. Structure. The natural hierarchy that keeps society functioning."
"By terrorizing a scholarship student?" His voice carried a challenge that sent heat through my system. Part anger, part arousal. Oakley had always been most appealing when he fought back, even knowing he would ultimately submit.
"By teaching her to understand her place," I corrected, my fingers finding the base of his neck where he was most sensitive. The touch made him shiver despite his defiance. "The way I taught you to understand yours."
The reference to our early dynamic, when young Alphas learned pack hierarchy through physical demonstration, made his scent shift, cedar warming with memories he couldn't quite suppress.
"That was different," he said, but his voice had lost its edge. "We were equals, exploring dominance and submission as partners."
"Were we?" I leaned down, my mouth close to his ear. "Are we?"
My teeth grazed the sensitive skin just behind his ear, and his breath hitched audibly. Three years of intimate knowledge meant I knew exactly how to dismantle his resistance, how to remind his body of its place in our hierarchy.
"Dorian..." His protest was weak, undermined by the way he tilted his neck to give me better access.
"You think our activities make us hypocrites," I murmured against his throat, tasting the salt of his skin. "But you're here. You're always here, submitting to me despite your moral objections."
"That's not true," He cut himself off with a soft gasp as I bit down gently, marking him with just enough pressure to remind him of his position.
"Stand up," I commanded quietly.
He obeyed without hesitation, rising from the chair to face me. The firelight played across his features, highlighting the conflict between defiance and desire that made him so compelling.