Page 18 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

fourteen

Vespera

Halloween decorations lined the theater building lobby.

Paper ghosts fluttered from air vents, fake cobwebs stretched across corners, and professionally carved jack-o'-lanterns cast eerie shadows from strategic positions.

The Corrington School of Theatre's annual Fall Showcase drew audiences from across the industry, and tonight's event would determine which first-year students would continue to receive the department's investment.

For scholarship students, it was quite literally make or break.

"Fifteen minutes to places," the student stage manager called, clipboard clutched to her chest as she hurried past the dressing rooms. Unlike regular classes, tonight's showcase would be performed before a packed audience—faculty, advanced students, local theater professionals, and even a few talent scouts from New York.

I nodded acknowledgment and returned to applying the finishing touches to my makeup.

The department's resident artist had done most of the work, transforming me .

Hair pulled into an elegant updo with tendrils framing my face, eyes dramatically lined, lips painted a deep crimson that matched the silk wrap dress I wore for my modernized interpretation.

The stakes couldn't be higher. Professor De Scarzis had made it clear that tonight's performances would directly influence spring semester casting decisions and scholarship renewals.

This was my chance to prove that my talent could speak louder than my designation, louder than the whisper campaign the pack had been waging against me.

I needed a moment alone to center myself, to find the emotional core of Lady Macbeth beneath my own anxiety. Slipping out of the crowded makeup room, I made my way to a quiet alcove backstage where performers often gathered their thoughts before going on.

The semi-darkness comforted me as I closed my eyes and began my breathing exercises. In for four counts, hold for seven, out for eight. I was so focused on my breath that I didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.

"Preparing for your big moment?"

My eyes flew open to find Dorian Ashworth standing directly in front of me, blocking the narrow exit from the alcove. His sandalwood scent immediately filled the small space, overwhelming my senses and triggering the instinctive Omega response I'd been fighting for months.

Tonight he looked like the wealthy patron he would someday become. Perfectly tailored black suit, hair styled with casual precision, a silver watch that probably cost more than my entire scholarship. He belonged at events like this, while I was fighting for the right to even be here.

"What do you want?" I managed, hating how my voice trembled. "I need to prepare."

He smiled, the expression never reaching his ice-blue eyes. "That's exactly what I'm here to help with. Every performer needs the right motivation." His gaze traveled over my costume with obvious appreciation. "You look exquisite. Like you were born for the stage."

The compliment was so unexpected it momentarily disarmed me. But then he stepped closer, crowding me against the wall, and I remembered exactly who I was dealing with.

His height and broad shoulders created a cage of Alpha presence, his scent intensifying as he deliberately released more pheromones.

"Your Lady Macbeth needs to project power while harboring secret vulnerability," he murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate register that sent unwanted shivers down my spine.

"What better way to access that duality than carrying my scent on stage? "

"Don't," I whispered, but it was already happening.

Dorian leaned in, his face moving to the junction of my neck and shoulder with deliberate precision.

I felt his breath first, warm against my skin, before his nose pressed directly against my scent gland.

The contact sent shockwaves through my nervous system as he inhaled deeply, drawing my natural scent into his lungs with obvious satisfaction.

But then he did something that made my blood freeze.

He exhaled slowly against my throat, releasing a concentrated burst of his own Alpha pheromones directly onto my scent gland.

The sandalwood scent penetrated my skin, marking me as thoroughly as if he'd bitten me.

My body convulsed involuntarily as the foreign pheromones hijacked my nervous system, triggering responses I couldn't control.

"There," he murmured against my throat, his lips barely brushing my skin. "Now you're properly prepared for your performance."

The violation was so complete, so intimate, that for a moment I couldn't speak. He'd essentially drugged me with his scent, ensuring that every person in the theater would smell his claim on me.

"You—" I gasped, my voice breaking as unwanted heat flooded my system. "You can't just—that's not—"

"Not what?" he asked, pulling back just enough to study my face.

His ice-blue eyes cataloged every change in my expression, every involuntary response.

"Not appropriate? Not professional?" His smile turned sharp.

"I was simply helping a fellow actor access authentic emotion.

Isn't that what method acting is about?"

My body's reaction horrified me. Pupils dilating despite my revulsion, pulse racing with artificial arousal, skin flushing with heat that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with biological hijacking.

The Alpha pheromones coursing through my system were overriding my conscious mind, making me respond as if I wanted this violation.

"You scent-marked me," I said, my voice stronger now as fury began to cut through the artificial fog. "Without consent. Right before the most important performance of my life."

"I enhanced your performance," he corrected smoothly, his tone so reasonable it made me want to scream. "The audience will smell the complexity. Vulnerability layered with strength, submission tempered by defiance. It's exactly what you needs."

The gaslighting was masterful, designed to make me question my own understanding of what had just happened. But I could feel his pheromones spreading through my bloodstream like poison, could smell how my own scent was changing in response. Sweetening with false arousal, sharpening with distress.

"You drugged me," I said flatly. "With pheromones. Without my consent."

His expression didn't change, but something passed through his eyes. Surprise, perhaps, that I was naming his actions so directly. "Such dramatic language. I simply provided what your performance was lacking. Authentic biological response to conflict."

"Bullshit." The word came out stronger than I felt, fueled by rage at his casual cruelty. "You marked me so the audience would smell submission on me. So they'd see me as conquered rather than talented."

For the first time, his mask slipped slightly. A flash of something crossed his features before he regained control.

"Your biology disagrees," he said, gesturing to my obvious physical responses. His finger traced along my jawline, and I hated myself for the way my breath hitched at the contact. "Look at you. Pupils blown, pulse racing, skin flushed with arousal. Your body knows exactly what it wants."

"My body is responding to artificial stimulation," I shot back, even as that traitorous finger continued its path down my throat. "It's a biological hijacking, not desire. There's a difference."

His smile widened, genuinely impressed now. "Such scientific terminology. But the audience won't know the difference, will they? They'll smell arousal, submission, the scent of an Omega who's been properly claimed. It will add authenticity to your role."

The clinical way he discussed my violation made my stomach turn, but I forced myself to meet his gaze directly. "The only thing authentic about this is your desperation. You're so threatened by my talent that you had to drug me with pheromones just to level the playing field."

The accusation hit its mark. His hand stilled against my throat, his eyes narrowing with something that looked almost like fury before he regained his composure.

"Threatened?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "By a scholarship Omega who thinks talent alone will save her? How charmingly naive."

But there was something in his tone now. An edge of defensiveness that hadn't been there before. I'd struck a nerve.

"If you're not threatened, then why resort to biological manipulation?" I pressed, my voice gaining strength despite the pheromones still coursing through my system. "Why not let me perform on my own merit and see what happens?"

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Because merit is a luxury for those who can afford it. You're here on borrowed time, borrowed money, borrowed opportunity. Someone like you needs guidance to understand your proper place in the hierarchy."

"Someone like me," I repeated, letting the words hang in the air between us. "You mean someone without a trust fund? Someone who actually had to earn their place here?"

"Someone who doesn't understand that talent without breeding is just potential energy. Unfocused. Dangerous." His thumb pressed against my pulse point, feeling how my heart raced against his touch. "But properly channeled, properly claimed, it becomes something beautiful. Something useful."

The casual way he discussed my personhood—as if I were a resource to be managed rather than a human being with agency—made rage flare in my chest, burning through the artificial arousal his pheromones had triggered.

"Get. Your. Hand. Off. Me." Each word was precisely articulated, backed by steel I hadn't known I possessed.

Something shifted in his expression. Surprise, yes, but also a flicker of something that might have been respect. His hand remained against my throat for another heartbeat, as if testing my resolve, before he stepped back.

"Five minutes to places," the stage manager called from the hallway, her voice cutting through the thick tension.

Dorian smoothed his suit jacket with practiced nonchalance, but I caught the slight tremor in his hands. The first crack in his perfect Alpha composure I'd ever witnessed.

"I should go," I said, my voice steadier now despite the sandalwood still clinging to my body like a toxic second skin. "Unlike some people, I actually have work to do tonight."

His smile returned, but sharper now, more dangerous. "Indeed you do. And everyone will know exactly whose Omega is delivering such a passionate performance."

"I'm not your anything," I replied, lifting my chin with deliberate defiance. "And after tonight, everyone will know that too."

He studied me for a long moment, those ice-blue eyes unreadable. "We'll see about that," he said finally, echoing my own words back to me. "Break a leg, Vespera. I'll be watching from the front row. We all will."

The promise in his voice carried new undertones now. Not just threat, but challenge. As if my resistance had shifted something fundamental in our dynamic.

As he walked away, I remained pressed against the wall, my body still trembling with the aftermath of both violation and confrontation. But for the first time since arriving at Northwood, that trembling wasn't entirely from fear.

My hand flew to my neck, where his scent still clung like a brand. The biological effects were already fading—my pulse slowing, the artificial arousal ebbing—but the psychological impact would linger. I would have to perform carrying the scent of my tormentor, exactly as he'd planned.

But he hadn't planned on my resistance. He hadn't expected me to name his actions, to call out his manipulation so directly. The surprise in his eyes had been worth the violation, almost.

Almost.