Page 8 of The Drama King
The air around me thickened instantly with their combined scents, an overwhelming wave of sandalwood, cedar, and chocolate that made my knees weaken against my will. My body's reaction to Alpha pheromones—courtesy of Omega biology I hadn't asked for and couldn't control—was mortifying. I felt other students backing away further, creating a corridor that seemed to funnel me directly toward them. How convenient.
"Well, if it isn't our scholarship Omega," Corvus called, his voice pitched to carry just enough that nearby students turned to look. He drew out the word 'scholarship' like it was something he'd found stuck to the bottom of his Italian leather shoes. "Ready for your first real class? I hope community theater has prepared you for Northwood's standards."
A few students snickered; others looked away uncomfortably. I kept my expression neutral despite my racing heart. Don't engage, just get to the door, it's only fifteen more feet.
Keep walking. They're just sounds. Words can't actually touch you.
But before I could reach the studio door, Dorian pushed away from the wall and intercepted my path. Up close, his scent was overwhelming—sandalwood that triggered every Omega instinct to either submit or flee. He deliberately positioned himself to tower over me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"We haven't been properly introduced," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in my chest and other places I didn't want to acknowledge. "Dorian Ashworth."
As if everyone at Northwood didn't know exactly who he was. As if his family name wasn't engraved on the fountain in the main quad. As if this whole performance wasn't designed to remind me of my place in their carefully curated hierarchy.
"Vespera Levine," I replied, keeping my tone professionally neutral but meeting his gaze directly. My father didn't raise me to stare at my shoes. "If you'll excuse me, I should get inside before I'm late. Some of us have to maintain certain academic standards to stay enrolled."
I moved to step around him, but he shifted slightly. Not quite blocking my path, but making it clear that passing would require physical contact. Simultaneously, Corvus and Oakley moved to flank us, creating a pocket of Alpha-dominated space that pressed me back against the wall. The coordinated move had a practiced efficiency that made my stomach drop. This wasn't their first time using this tactic.
"I'm looking forward to working with you this semester," Dorian continued, his tone deceptively pleasant while his eyessaid something entirely different. "Voice and Movement can be very hands-on. I hope you're prepared for close contact."
The threat couldn't have been clearer if he'd written it in neon letters. I steeled myself, refusing to show the fear clawing at my chest.
"I'm sure I'll manage," I replied, lifting my chin slightly. "I've worked with difficult personalities before."
"I'm sure you will," he said, stepping closer until I could smell the expensive cologne layered over his natural scent. "Scholarship students always work so much harder than the rest of us. It'sinspiring."
Breathe through your mouth, not your nose. Don't let him see how his scent affects you.
Before I could respond with something appropriately cutting, the studio door opened and Professor Cruz appeared. A middle-aged Beta with kind eyes and salt-and-pepper hair.
"Good morning, everyone! Ready to begin?" he called with genuine enthusiasm that seemed bizarrely out of place given the predatory tableau unfolding in front of him.
His gaze swept over our small confrontation, taking in the obvious tension, the way other students had backed away, the aggressive Alpha pheromones saturating the air. A slight frown creased his brow, but he said nothing directly about it. Of course not. That would require actual intervention.
"Let's head inside and get started," he said, his tone diplomatically cheerful.
The pack immediately shifted into perfect student mode, their threatening demeanor dissolving into respectful attention like they were flipping a switch. "Of course, Professor," Dorian said, his voice now warm and engaged. "We were just welcoming the first-years."
Sure. In the same way wolves welcome rabbits.
As we filed into the studio, Dorian brushed past me, close enough to whisper: "This is going to be a very educational semester, little Omega."
I suppressed a shiver, hating my body's instantaneous response to his proximity. Stupid Omega biology.
Studio A was designed specifically for movement work, and I had to admit it was impressive. High ceilings, mirrored walls, and windows that filled the space with natural light. About twenty students arranged themselves on folding chairs in a rough circle around the perimeter.
I immediately noticed the seating patterns. Most students clustered by designation—Alphas on one side, Betas and the few Omegas on the other. Typical designation segregation, just like every other school I'd attended. But Dorian's pack positioned themselves differently, spreading out at equal intervals around the circle rather than sitting together.
It was a strategic choice, I realized with growing dread. No matter where other students sat, at least one pack member would be nearby. They'd turned the entire studio into their hunting ground.
I chose a seat near a quiet Beta girl I recognized from orientation, trying to position myself as far from all three pack members as possible. It was a futile effort—no matter where I sat, at least one of them would have a clear line of sight. From across the circle, I could feel Dorian's eyes tracking my every movement like I was the most fascinating insect in his collection.
Professor Cruz moved to the center of the circle, his movements demonstrating the physical control and awareness he taught. "Welcome to Voice and Movement, one of the most important courses in your theatrical training. Here, we'll explore your most essential instruments. Your body and your voice."
He outlined the syllabus with enthusiasm, explaining daily warm-ups, technique training, and evaluation criteria. As ascholarship student, I took meticulous notes, painfully aware that my funding depended on excellence in every core class. Unlike the trust fund babies surrounding me, I didn't have the luxury of mediocrity.
"Now," Cruz said, setting aside his notes, "let's begin with spatial awareness. Everyone on your feet, please. Find a space where you can move freely."
The scraping of chairs filled the studio as students rose and spread throughout the room. I positioned myself carefully near the windows, trying to stay as far from the pack as possible. The studio was large enough that I should have been able to maintain a safe distance, but somehow I felt like no matter where I stood, I was still in their territory.