Page 73 of The Drama King

"Guidance," Oakley said flatly. "That's what we're calling it?"

I turned to face him fully, letting my Alpha dominance fill the space between us. "Do you have a problem with pack strategy, Oakley?"

For a moment, I thought he might actually challenge me—his cedar scent spiked with something that could have been defiance, his posture straightening in a way that suggested confrontation. But pack hierarchy was too deeply ingrained, and after a tense pause, he looked away.

"No problem," he said quietly. "Just concerns about escalation."

"Your concerns are noted," I replied, satisfaction curling through me at his submission. "But the decision has been made. She's had enough time to come to terms with reality on her own. If she won't accept guidance willingly, she'll accept it through other means."

"Other means," Corvus echoed, his analytical mind clearly cataloging the implications. "And if those other means resultin complications? Administrative attention, legal issues, family involvement?"

"They won't," I said with confidence that was only partially feigned. "She's too practical to risk her scholarship over pride. Too isolated to mount any meaningful resistance. And too biologically compromised to maintain her defiance once proper pressure is applied."

I hoped I was right. Because the alternative—that she might actually follow through on her stubborn resistance, might choose academic and social suicide over submission—was something I couldn't afford to consider.

The conversation continued for another hour, with Corvus raising logistical concerns and Oakley expressing increasingly uncomfortable doubts. But my mind had already moved beyond their objections to focus on implementation details. How to create the right opportunity. How to ensure privacy and minimize risk. How to apply exactly the right amount of pressure to break her resistance without causing damage that might complicate future claiming.

By the time they left, I had the beginnings of a plan.

Standing alone at the window, watching snow continue to blanket the campus in pristine white, I allowed myself to imagine the moment when Vespera finally stopped fighting. When she looked at me with acceptance rather than defiance, when her body welcomed my touch instead of tensing with rejection, when she understood that everything I'd done was for her own benefit.

The fantasy was intoxicating, more compelling than any drug. Soon, it would be reality.

My phone buzzed with a text from campus security—the contact I maintained through family donations.

Subject returned to residence hall 45 minutes ago. No further activity.

I typed back quickly:Monitor heat cycle indicators. Alert me to any scent changes or unusual patterns.

Understood. What about the scent blocker issue?

I stared at the question, fury rising fresh at the reminder of how thoroughly I'd been blocked from what should have been mine by biological right.

Find out where she got military-grade suppressants. Gao family pharmaceutical connections likely. I want to know what she's using and how to counter it.

Will investigate discreetly.

Setting the phone aside, I poured one final bourbon and settled into my chair to continue planning. Vespera thought she could hide behind chemical barriers forever, could deny biological imperatives indefinitely with the help of her wealthy allies.

She was wrong.

The next time her body entered heat, I would be ready. No industrial suppressants, no scent blockers, no artificial barriers between her biology and mine. She would experience what evolution intended—the desperate need for Alpha claiming that could only be satisfied by the mate her genetics had chosen.

And when that moment came, when her body was screaming for what only I could provide, she would finally understand that everything I'd done had been preparation for what we were always meant to become.

Mine.

twenty-seven

Corvus

Snowhadstoppedfallingby dawn, leaving campus blanketed in pristine white that would soon be trampled into brown slush by thousands of students rushing to finals. I stood at my dormitory window, sipping coffee and watching early morning joggers leave footprints across the quad.

Perfect conditions for what needed to be done.

My phone buzzed with the final piece of intelligence:Gao meeting with academic advisor at 10 AM. Office 314, Administrative Building. Subject appears distressed.

I smiled, setting the device aside. Of course Robbie was distressed. The preliminary pressure I'd applied over the past week had been subtle but effective—just enough to create anxiety without revealing the true scope of what was coming.