Page 81 of The Drama King

Ice flooded my veins. He knew. Maybe not the specifics, but he could smell that something had changed in my chemical defenses. Could probably sense that whatever had been keeping me off his radar was failing.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, but even I could hear the shake in my voice.

Dorian smiled, and it was all teeth. "Of course you don't. But here's the thing about lies, sweetheart—they have a smell."

I managed to get past him and into the building, but I felt his gaze on my back all the way to the elevator. And as the doors closed, I caught a glimpse of his expression—calculating, predatory, like a hunter who'd just spotted wounded prey.

The pattern repeated over the next few days. Not just Dorian, but the whole pack, appearing in my peripheral vision with increasing frequency. Corvus in the library, making notes in a leather journal while watching me struggle with Shakespeare. Oakley outside the dining hall, his usual gentle demeanor edged with something sharper when he looked my way.

They weren't doing anything overt—nothing that could be reported or complained about. But they were there, a constant presence, and I could feel their attention like pressure against my skin. They were waiting for something, watching for weakness, and with each passing day my chemical defenses grew thinner.

Bythetimefinalsweek arrived, I was running on fumes and desperation.

The academic pressure was crushing—comprehensive exams in Shakespeare analysis, scene study performances, theater history essays that required eighteen hours in the library. Under normal circumstances, it would have been manageable. I'd always been good under pressure, able to channel stress into focus.

But these weren't normal circumstances.

My body was rebelling against the inferior suppressants, cycle disruptions manifesting as mood swings, appetite changes, and a constant low-grade nausea that made it hard to concentrate. The cheap scent blockers left residue that itched and sometimes caused rashes, forcing me to choose between discomfort and exposure.

Worse, the stress was accelerating everything. I could feel my biology trying to reassert itself, fighting against the chemical barriers I'd thrown up. My scent was getting stronger despite my best efforts, my emotional regulation slipping, my sleep patterns completely destroyed.

I was sitting in the library at two AM, surrounded by textbooks and empty coffee cups, when it happened. A wave of dizziness that made the words swim on the page, followed by a spike of something hot and urgent low in my belly. I gripped the edge of the table, breathing hard, waiting for it to pass.

When it did, I looked around in panic. The library was nearly empty—just a few other desperate students scattered among the stacks—but I could smell myself in the air. Not overwhelming, not enough to cause a scene, but present in a way that made my skin crawl.

This was how it started. Robbie had explained it once, clinical and matter-of-fact over contraband coffee in his dorm room. First the disruptions, then the spikes, then the cascade failure that no amount of over-the-counter suppressants could stop.

I packed up my things with shaking hands and made it back to my dorm, but I could feel the clock ticking. Finals week was supposed to end Friday. After that, winter break—three weeks away from campus, away from the pack, time to figure out a new pharmaceutical source.

I just had to make it five more days.

But as I lay in bed that night, listening to Stephanie's quiet breathing and trying to ignore the restless heat building undermy skin, I couldn't shake the feeling that five days might be four days too many.

The void where Robbie's protection used to be was growing wider, and I was already falling into it.

thirty

Vespera

Thecastinglistwasposted on a Tuesday morning, and I knew I was fucked the moment I saw my name.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING - SPRING SHOWCASE

Beatrice: Vespera Levine

Benedick: Dorian Ashworth

The paper might as well have been my death warrant. I stood in the theater building hallway, staring at the neat typewritten names while other students pushed past me, some celebrating their roles, others commiserating about being relegated to ensemble. The noise faded to white static as the implications crashed over me.

Eight weeks of rehearsals. Eight weeks of intimate blocking, forced proximity, professional requirements that would put me directly in Dorian's path with no escape route. The guest director from Broadway would demand authentic chemistry, realisticromantic tension. There would be touching, close contact, scenes that required vulnerability I couldn't afford to show.

"Congratulations."

I spun around to find Professor McGraw approaching, a genuine smile on her face. She'd been one of my advocates since freshman year, someone who saw potential where others saw problems.

"This is a remarkable opportunity, Vespera. Freshmen rarely get leads in the spring showcase, especially with a guest director of Matt Wells's caliber. Industry professionals will be watching."

I managed a nod, my throat too tight for words. She was right—this was career-defining, the kind of role that could open doors, establish connections, launch a professional trajectory. Under any other circumstances, I would have been ecstatic.