Page 80 of The Drama King

"Just stressed about finals," I said, the lie automatic now.

But Stephanie had known me for months, had watched me navigate the harassment from Dorian's pack, had seen me at my lowest points. And now, with her best friend suddenly gone and her roommate obviously struggling, her protective instincts kicked in.

"This is about more than finals," she said firmly. "You've been different for days. More anxious, more jumpy. And your scent..." She paused, clearly uncomfortable discussing Omega biologybut pushing through anyway. "It's stronger. Like whatever you usually use isn't working as well."

Ice flooded my veins. If Stephanie could notice the changes, what did that mean for the Alphas on campus? For Dorian's pack?

"I'm fine," I repeated, but even I could hear how hollow it sounded.

"No, you're not." She stood up, moving closer with the determined expression she got when she was solving a difficult chemistry problem. "Look, I know we haven't talked about personal stuff much. But Robbie mentioned once that you had some kind of arrangement with him. Something about managing your biology."

My blood went cold. "He told you?"

"Not details," she said quickly. "Just that he was helping you with something, and that it was important you not attract the wrong kind of attention. I didn't ask questions because it wasn't my business, but now..."

She gestured helplessly between my obvious distress and the empty space where our friend should have been.

"Now he's gone, and you look terrified, and I'm wondering if whatever he was helping you with just became my problem too."

The offer hung in the air between us—help, genuine concern, the kind of loyalty that came from months of shared space and growing friendship. But accepting help meant explaining, and explaining meant admitting just how precarious my situation had become.

"I can handle this," I said quietly.

Stephanie was quiet for a long moment, studying my face. Then she nodded slowly, but I caught the way she glanced at my bag, probably smelling the anxiety and desperation I couldn't quite hide.

"Okay," she said finally. "But Vespera? When Robbie comes back, and he will come back, he's going to ask me how you were doing while he was gone. And I'd like to be able to tell him I took care of you."

Something cracked inside my chest at the genuine concern in her voice. When was the last time someone had offered protection without wanting something in return? But accepting help meant trusting her with secrets that could destroy both of us.

"Thank you," I said, the words barely audible. "Really. But I think he might not be coming back."

The truth slipped out before I could stop it, and I watched Stephanie's face crumple as the reality hit her. Her best friend wasn't coming back, and her roommate was falling apart, and there was nothing she could do to fix either situation.

But she tried anyway, crossing the space between our beds to sit beside me.

"Then we figure it out together," she said simply. "Whatever it is, we figure it out."

I wanted to believe her. But as I looked at this sweet, naive Beta who had no idea she was offering to stand between me and a pack of predatory Alphas, I couldn't shake the feeling that getting her involved would only destroy one more person I cared about.

IfeltthembeforeI saw them.

It was Thursday afternoon, three days after discovering Robbie's absence, and I was walking back from the library when the familiar prickle of awareness crept up my spine. The scentblockers I'd gotten from the health center were already failing—twelve hours was the promised duration, but they barely lasted six before my natural pheromones started bleeding through.

Dorian was leaning against the entrance to my dorm building, apparently absorbed in his phone, but I caught the way his nostrils flared slightly as I approached. He didn't look at me, didn't acknowledge my presence at all, but his sandalwood scent spiked with something that made my hindbrain scream warnings.

I tried to walk past him like he wasn't there, but his voice stopped me cold.

"Rough week, Vespera?"

My hand tightened on my bag strap. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?" Now he did look at me, those ice-blue eyes taking in details I couldn't hide—the exhaustion, the stress, the way I held myself like I was expecting an attack. "You look tired. Stressed. Different."

The last word carried weight, and I realized with growing horror that he was scenting me. Reading my chemical signature like a book, noting the changes that inferior suppressants and failing blockers couldn't hide.

"I'm fine," I said, moving toward the door.

"Are you?" He pushed off from the wall, not blocking my path but positioning himself close enough that I couldn't ignore his presence. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like someone's having a hard time keeping up appearances."