Page 60 of The Drama King

I hollowed my cheeks, working him with my tongue, lost in the taste and scent of him. Every sound he made—every growl of approval, every sharp intake of breath—sent heat spiraling through me again.

"Such a good girl," he murmured, his movements becoming more urgent. "So perfect for me. My perfect little Omega."

The possessive words, the way he claimed me even in this moment, pushed me toward another edge I hadn't expected. When he came with a harsh groan, filling my mouth with his release, I swallowed everything he gave me, marking myself with his taste.

He pulled me up afterward, his hands gentle now as he helped me steady myself against the mirror. "Mine," he said simply, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. "You understand that now, don't you?"

I nodded, beyond words, beyond rational thought. In the space of an hour, I'd gone from filing a complaint against him to being completely, utterly his.

"Good," he said, helping me gather my scattered clothes with surprising tenderness. "Get dressed. I'll walk you back to your dorm."

As we made ourselves presentable, the reality of what had happened began to sink in. I'd crossed a line I could never uncross, surrendered in ways I'd never imagined possible. And the most terrifying part wasn't how wrong it felt—it was how right it had felt in the moment, how complete I'd felt in his arms.

Now, in the aftermath, shame and self-loathing crashed over me in waves. What kind of person responded that way to their abuser? What did it say about me that I'd melted for the hands that had been around my throat just weeks ago?

"Tomorrow," he said as we prepared to leave, straightening his shirt with casual satisfaction, "we start fresh. New understanding between us."

I nodded mechanically, but inside I was screaming. New understanding—as if what had just happened was a negotiation rather than a complete capitulation. As if I'd had any real choice when the institution had made it clear my only options were submission or academic suicide.

"This doesn't change anything," I said suddenly, the words surprising us both. "What you did in that parking lot, the harassment, the assault. None of that goes away because I... because we..."

"Because you came apart in my hands?" His smile was sharp, knowing. "Because you begged me to make you feel good?"

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. "Because you orchestrated a situation where I had no other choice."

"There's always a choice, Vespera." He stepped closer, his scent still making my traitorous body respond despite my anger. "You chose this. You chose me."

"I chose survival," I corrected, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "That's not the same thing."

"We'll see," he said finally, holding the door open for me with mocking gallantry. "Time has a way of clarifying these things."

As we walked through the empty hallways, I wrapped my coat tighter around myself, trying to hold together the pieces of who I'd been before tonight. But I could still taste him, still feel the phantom touch of his hands on my skin.

I'd given him my body, but I hadn't given him my mind. And somehow, I had to find a way to live with that distinction—to survive whatever this new dynamic would become while holding onto the part of myself that knew the difference between choice and capitulation.

Even if that distinction was becoming harder and harder to maintain.

twenty-three

Corvus

Thesecuritysysteminthe theater building's basement level had been upgraded three years ago, thanks to another generous Ashworth family donation. High-definition cameras with excellent audio pickup, ostensibly for equipment protection and student safety.

I'd discovered the administrative access codes during my sophomore year. A useful skill that had served our pack well in gathering intelligence on various targets. Tonight, it was providing an unprecedented view of the final stages of our campaign against the scholarship Omega.

I'd positioned myself in the small security office adjacent to the main theater, laptop open to the camera feed from Studio B-12. Dorian had texted me about the "rehearsal," and I'd known immediately what kind of performance he had planned.

The initial conversation was predictable. His revelation of institutional control, her outrage giving way to practicaldesperation. But it was the moment when her breathing changed that caught my attention, the visible shift when protest became something else entirely.

Her voice carried clearly through the audio feed. That sharp intake when he moved closer. The soft whimper when he touched her face. I could see the exact moment her resistance crumbled, rational mind surrendering to months of psychological conditioning.

"I can't," she whispered, and I felt my cock twitch with satisfaction at the desperation in those words. Months of systematic pressure crystallizing into this moment of perfect vulnerability.

"I know," Dorian replied, and then his mouth was on hers.

I freed myself from my uniform pants, stroking slowly as I watched her complete psychological surrender on the high-definition screen. The camera angle was perfect. I could see every detail of her capitulation, every moment of his methodical seduction.

"God, the sounds you make," Dorian's voice came through the speakers, rough with dominance and satisfaction as he worked her against the mirrored wall.