Page 21 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

sixteen

Corvus

November arrived with a vengeance. Biting winds stripped the last orange and red leaves from the oaks lining the private drive to the Ashworth estate.

I watched the fallen foliage swirl in our wake as Dorian's Aston Martin cut through the twilight, headlights carving a path through gathering darkness.

Oakley sat in the back seat, uncharacteristically quiet since the Fall Showcase three days ago.

The post-Halloween lull had settled over campus. Jack-o'-lanterns rotted on dormitory steps, orange streamers faded and forgotten in lecture halls. Most students already focused on Thanksgiving break, just two weeks away, but our pack had more immediate concerns.

"Still brooding?" Dorian asked, catching Oakley's pensive expression in the rearview mirror.

His fingers drummed restlessly against the leather steering wheel, a subtle tell I'd cataloged years ago.

Dorian was energized, almost manic with new intensity that had been building since watching Vespera's Lady Macbeth performance.

"Considering," Oakley corrected, his cedar scent carrying notes of unease that had grown increasingly prominent since the showcase. "The showcase changed things."

"Nothing's changed," Dorian countered, taking the final curve at a speed that made the tires protest against frost-slick asphalt. "She proved what we already knew. She has talent. That's what makes breaking her worthwhile."

I remained silent, observing the tension between them through the rearview mirror.

In the three years since Dorian had formed our pack at prep school, continuing seamlessly into our Northwood years, I'd never seen such persistent discord.

Oakley's growing reservations about our treatment of Vespera were becoming impossible to ignore, though he still maintained the appearance of loyalty during our private planning sessions.

The Ashworth pack house emerged from the wooded estate grounds like something from a gothic novel.

Three stories of stone and glass, tastefully modernized while maintaining its historic character, illuminated against the darkening sky.

The property had been in the Ashworth family for generations, but Dorian's parents had gifted it to him upon his eighteenth birthday with the understanding that it would serve as his pack headquarters throughout university.

Our sanctuary, where we could drop the careful public personas required on campus and indulge in the raw dynamics that truly defined our relationships.

Dorian parked in the circular drive, tossing his keys to Matt, the discrete valet who maintained both the property and our secrets. "Tell Mrs. Holloway we'll take dinner in the study at eight," he instructed, not waiting for acknowledgement as he strode toward the imposing front entrance.

The house enveloped us in warmth and old money as we entered.

The subtle scent of beeswax and lemon oil, the gleam of antique hardwood floors beneath our feet, the ancestral Ashworth portraits lining the central hallway.

I followed Dorian automatically toward what had become our war room, noting Oakley's continued quietness as we ascended the grand staircase to the second floor.

The pack study occupied the southwest corner, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the immaculately maintained gardens.

Unlike the formal spaces downstairs that his parents used for entertaining, this room bore Dorian's personal mark.

Modern technology seamlessly integrated with antique furnishings, comfortable leather seating arranged to facilitate both strategic discussions and more intimate pack activities.

"Drinks?" Dorian asked, moving to the bar cart that stood in one corner, crystal decanters catching the light from the fireplace that dominated one wall.

"Scotch," I replied, shrugging out of my coat and draping it precisely over the back of one of the leather armchairs. The room's warmth made the formal attire we wore on campus unnecessary. Here, we could relax into our true selves.

"Bourbon," Oakley said, moving to the hearth to stoke the banked fire, his movements careful and controlled in the way that suggested internal tension.

I watched him work, admiring the play of firelight across his features as he arranged new logs.

Of the three of us, Oakley was the most classically appealing by conventional standards.

Golden-brown hair that caught the light, warm cedar scent that invited rather than intimidated, an athletic frame honed by years of stage combat training.

Dorian returned with our drinks. Eighteen-year Macallan for me, premium bourbon for Oakley, and his own preferred Japanese whiskey.

The crystal glasses caught the firelight as he distributed them, then settled into his customary chair.

The largest, positioned to command the room and establish hierarchy through simple positioning.

"To Vespera Levine," he said, raising his glass with a predatory smile that didn't quite mask something deeper. "And her inevitable submission."

Oakley's hesitation before joining the toast was brief but noticeable. I filed it away for later analysis as we drank, the whiskey warming my throat while I studied the subtle dynamics playing out between my packmates.

"So," I began, setting my glass on the polished side table, "the showcase provided valuable data. Her performance exceeded faculty expectations, and she's clearly building institutional support. Professor De Scarzis's praise was particularly significant."

"De Scarzis never praises first-year students," Dorian agreed, his eyes gleaming with something that might have been pride had it not been wrapped in such obvious possessiveness. "Our little Omega has genuine talent."

"Which makes our current strategy potentially counterproductive," I pointed out, watching his reaction carefully. "Academic sabotage clearly isn't working. She's outperforming despite our efforts. And her public success has made her more visible, which complicates social isolation tactics."

Dorian swirled his whiskey, studying the amber liquid with unusual intensity. "She's stronger than we anticipated. More resilient." The word carried undertones that suggested his fascination had moved beyond simple predatory interest.

"Or we've been too gentle," I suggested, watching both of their reactions carefully. "Classroom intimidation and social pressure are effective for most scholarship students, but Vespera isn't typical. She has support mechanisms we haven't adequately addressed."

"The roommate," Oakley said quietly, his first real contribution to the discussion. "Stephanie Shaw. She's not just emotional support. She's actively helping Vespera document our behavior."

This caught my attention. "Evidence?"

"I've observed them together," he continued, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Stephanie takes notes during confrontations, photographs of Vespera's emotional state afterward. They're building a case."

"Clever," I murmured, genuinely impressed despite the strategic inconvenience. "And the male Omega? Robert Gao?"

"Robbie," Dorian said dismissively, though something in his tone suggested the dismissal was forced. "Theater fag with delusions of relevance."

The slur hung in the air between us, its ugliness particularly striking given our own pack dynamics. I caught Oakley's slight flinch at the words, his scent sharpening with something that might have been shame or disgust.

"Robert Gao," I corrected, pulling out my phone to consult my detailed files.

"Third-year lighting design focus, 3.9 GPA, two-time regional award winner for technical theater.

His family owns substantial pharmaceutical patents.

Gao Industries. Not insignificant talent or influence within the department. "

"His designation makes him irrelevant," Dorian insisted, but there was something forced about his vehemence now.

"Does it?" Oakley asked quietly, his question carrying more weight than its simple phrasing suggested.

The silence that followed was charged with implication.

Our pack's sexual dynamics were complex, involving all three of us in various combinations depending on hierarchy, mood, and biological cycles.

The careful way we avoided discussing the contradiction between our private behavior and public prejudices was a delicate balance that Oakley seemed suddenly intent on disrupting.

"Something you want to say, Oak?" Dorian's voice carried a warning, the easy informality of his nickname offset by the dangerous undertone.

Oakley met his gaze directly, cedar scent warming with notes I couldn't quite identify. "Just wondering about the consistency of our positions. Designation-based prejudice seems... selective in its application."

The challenge was subtle but unmistakable. I leaned back in my chair, genuinely curious about how Dorian would handle this direct questioning of our ideological foundations.

"Context matters," Dorian replied smoothly, but I could smell the sharp edge of annoyance beneath his sandalwood. "Pack dynamics involve hierarchy and dominance establishment. That's different from other considerations."

"How exactly?" Oakley pressed, his voice still quiet but gaining strength. "What makes our activities 'hierarchy establishment' while condemning similar behaviors in others?"

I intervened before the confrontation could escalate beyond strategic usefulness. "This is unproductive. Whatever ideological inconsistencies we maintain, they don't affect our immediate tactical situation."

Both Alphas turned to me, tension crackling between them like electricity.

"However," I continued, maintaining clinical detachment, "Oakley raises a strategic point. If we're publicly inconsistent in our designation prejudices, it creates vulnerabilities that opponents could exploit."

"Opponents?" Dorian's smile was sharp. "She's a scholarship Omega, not a military strategist."