Page 65 of The Drama King

"No," I sobbed, pressing the toy deeper, harder, trying to banish the images with physical sensation. "Not him. Never him."

But my body didn't care about my conscious mind's revulsion. It responded to the fantasy with a surge of slick and a violent contraction that left me gasping. The artificial knot caught against my sensitive entrance, providing a moment of the pressure my body craved before sliding free again, inadequate and disappointing.

I curled around the toy, using it with increasing desperation as the biological need built to unbearable levels. Nothing worked. Nothing satisfied. The mechanical relief was hollow, clinical, a band-aid on a wound that required surgery.

My body demanded a knot that would swell and lock inside me, holding me open and claimed. It demanded the weightof an Alpha above me, around me, inside me. It demanded submission and domination and the primal dance of biological imperative that had been written into my very DNA.

Instead, I had cold silicon and my own shaking hands and the terrible knowledge that no matter how long I used the inadequate substitute, I would remain empty, unclaimed, unfulfilled.

The climax, when it finally came, was sharp and unsatisfying—a brief spike of sensation that provided maybe ten minutes of relief before the need came roaring back twice as strong. I collapsed against my sweat-soaked sheets, the toy still clutched in my fist, knowing I would have to do this again and again until my body finally burned itself out.

Hour after hour, I cycled through the same hellish pattern. Overwhelming pain and need, inadequate relief, brief respite, then back to suffering. My throat grew raw from crying, my muscles ached from tensing against the cramps, and still my body demanded more, more, more.

"Please," I begged the empty room, not even sure what I was asking for. An end to the pain? Someone to help? Death itself would have been a mercy in those darkest moments.

By evening, I was delirious with fever and exhaustion, the line between reality and nightmare blurring. In my heat-induced hallucinations, I could smell Dorian's sandalwood scent outside my door, could hear his voice calling my name, could feel his presence stalking me even through locked doors and walls.

My phone buzzed with a text from Stephanie:

Settled at parents' house. How are you holding up?

I stared at the message through fever-blurred vision, grateful she was nearby but giving me space.

I managed to type back:Surviving. Thanks for the space.

Good call on my part then. Those meds Robbie brought should help more than anything you've had before.

She was right. The prescription-grade medications had taken more edge off the pain than I'd expected, though nothing could eliminate the deeper biological need entirely.

Another text arrived later:

Pack members spotted. Security says they're "just walking around campus" but I don't like it. Stay locked in.

The attached photo, clearly taken from a distance, showed Dorian and Corvus standing across from my residence hall. Their postures were alert and predatory even from far away, and Dorian's expression was visible enough to send a shiver through me—focused intensity, pupils dilated, nostrils flared as if trying to catch a scent on the wind.

My scent.

I curled into a tight ball, pulling the blankets over my head despite the discomfort of fabric against my sensitized skin. I was completely alone now. No wealthy roommate with family resources to call in favors. No fellow Omega with pharmaceutical connections to provide protection. Just me, a flimsy dorm room lock, and the desperate hope that the pack wouldn't find a way inside.

My body was broadcasting a biological signal that some Alphas considered an invitation, regardless of conscious consent, and there was no one who could or would help me if they decided to answer that call.

Night fell, and with it came the most intense phase of my heat. I bit down on a pillow to muffle my sounds, acutely aware of the thin dorm walls and the possibility of being overheard. The toys provided physical relief, but nothing could touch the deeper ache—the evolutionary drive for connection, for claiming, for completion that no artificial aid could satisfy.

Dawn found me drifting in and out of fitful sleep, temporarily sated but still burning. My phone showed a message from Robbie:

How are the medications working? Any adverse reactions?

I managed to type back:Better than anything I've had before. Thank you.

Good. Those should carry you through the worst of it. Call if you need the backup emergency supplies.

You gave me backup supplies?

Hidden in the medical cooler. Didn't want to overwhelm you with options yesterday. Check the bottom compartment if the first round stops working.

Even in my heat-addled state, I was amazed by his thoroughness and generosity. The medications he'd provided were probably worth more than my entire semester's living expenses.

The second day was marginally better than the first. The fever remained, but the desperate edge had dulled. I could think more clearly between waves, could remember to eat and drink, could even read a few pages of a book before the next surge of need claimed my attention.