Page 34 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

"I'll be careful," I promised, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.

"I have to go handle this family thing, but I'll try to check on you tomorrow if I can get away from the donor dinner." He stepped back further as another wave of my increasingly potent scent reached him. "Text if you need anything. Anything at all."

After he left, I double-checked the locks before returning to my preparations.

The conversation had left me unsettled, more aware than ever of my vulnerability.

In the outside world, there were laws and social norms protecting Omegas.

But inside the microcosm of elite academia, ancient hierarchies still prevailed, with Alphas at the top and Omegas struggling for safety, let alone equality.

I was completely on my own. Stephanie was dealing with family obligations at her parents' expensive house twenty minutes away.

Robbie was trapped by his own family's corporate social requirements.

They could bring me supplies and send warnings, but when it really mattered, I had no one who could stand against the pack's influence.

The isolation was perhaps the cruelest part—knowing that even those who might sympathize wouldn't risk helping when push came to shove.

The other Omegas on campus kept their distance, too afraid of becoming targets themselves.

The Betas followed the Alphas' lead or stayed neutral to avoid confrontation.

And the faculty looked the other way, their jobs and reputations dependent on keeping powerful donor families happy.

By noon, the full heat had descended like a brutal punishment.

My skin felt like it was being flayed alive, every nerve ending screaming for relief that wouldn't come.

The slick between my thighs had become a humiliating river, soaking through the towels I'd laid beneath me.

The empty ache inside me wasn't just discomfort—it was agony, a primal, desperate need that clawed at my insides like a living thing trying to escape.

I curled into a fetal position, sobbing as another wave of cramping tore through me. This wasn't the sanitized version of heat shown in romantic movies. This was my biology turning against me, my own body becoming a torture chamber I couldn't escape.

When the pain subsided enough for me to move, I reached with trembling hands for one of the toys. Not with desire, not with anticipation, but with desperate, clinical necessity—like a dying person reaching for medicine.

The artificial knot was cold silicon against my burning skin, a cruel mockery of what my body truly craved.

I pressed it inside myself with shaking hands, the material warming slightly but remaining fundamentally wrong, fundamentally inadequate.

My body clenched around it desperately, seeking the fullness, the stretch, the claiming it had been engineered to need.

But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

I moved the toy with mechanical precision, chasing relief that remained just out of reach.

My body responded with wet heat and desperate contractions, but the deeper ache only grew stronger.

The emptiness inside me wasn't just physical—it was existential, a howling void that demanded connection, submission, completion.

Tears of frustration streamed down my face as I worked the inadequate substitute, my hips moving in desperate rhythm while my mind fractured between need and revulsion.

Images flashed unbidden through my consciousness: strong hands gripping my hips, the weight of a body pinning me down, the sharp pleasure-pain of being filled completely, properly, by someone who could satisfy the terrible hunger eating me alive.

The fantasy face that materialized was ice-blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, sandalwood scent and commanding presence. Dorian's face, Dorian's hands, Dorian's voice whispering filthy promises against my throat while he claimed what my treacherous biology insisted belonged to him.

"No," I sobbed, pressing the toy deeper, harder, trying to banish the images with physical sensation. "Not him. Never him."

But my body didn't care about my conscious mind's revulsion.

It responded to the fantasy with a surge of slick and a violent contraction that left me gasping.

The artificial knot caught against my sensitive entrance, providing a moment of the pressure my body craved before sliding free again, inadequate and disappointing.

I curled around the toy, using it with increasing desperation as the biological need built to unbearable levels. Nothing worked. Nothing satisfied. The mechanical relief was hollow, clinical, a band-aid on a wound that required surgery.

My body demanded a knot that would swell and lock inside me, holding me open and claimed. It demanded the weight of an Alpha above me, around me, inside me. It demanded submission and domination and the primal dance of biological imperative that had been written into my very DNA.

Instead, I had cold silicon and my own shaking hands and the terrible knowledge that no matter how long I used the inadequate substitute, I would remain empty, unclaimed, unfulfilled.

The climax, when it finally came, was sharp and unsatisfying—a brief spike of sensation that provided maybe ten minutes of relief before the need came roaring back twice as strong.

I collapsed against my sweat-soaked sheets, the toy still clutched in my fist, knowing I would have to do this again and again until my body finally burned itself out.

Hour after hour, I cycled through the same hellish pattern. Overwhelming pain and need, inadequate relief, brief respite, then back to suffering. My throat grew raw from crying, my muscles ached from tensing against the cramps, and still my body demanded more, more, more.

"Please," I begged the empty room, not even sure what I was asking for. An end to the pain? Someone to help? Death itself would have been a mercy in those darkest moments.

By evening, I was delirious with fever and exhaustion, the line between reality and nightmare blurring.

In my heat-induced hallucinations, I could smell Dorian's sandalwood scent outside my door, could hear his voice calling my name, could feel his presence stalking me even through locked doors and walls.

My phone buzzed with a text from Stephanie:

Settled at parents' house. How are you holding up?

I stared at the message through fever-blurred vision, grateful she was nearby but giving me space.

I managed to type back: Surviving. Thanks for the space.

Good call on my part then. Those meds Robbie brought should help more than anything you've had before.

She was right. The prescription-grade medications had taken more edge off the pain than I'd expected, though nothing could eliminate the deeper biological need entirely.

Another text arrived later:

Pack members spotted. Security says they're "just walking around campus" but I don't like it. Stay locked in.

The attached photo, clearly taken from a distance, showed Dorian and Corvus standing across from my residence hall.

Their postures were alert and predatory even from far away, and Dorian's expression was visible enough to send a shiver through me—focused intensity, pupils dilated, nostrils flared as if trying to catch a scent on the wind.

My scent.

I curled into a tight ball, pulling the blankets over my head despite the discomfort of fabric against my sensitized skin.

I was completely alone now. No wealthy roommate with family resources to call in favors.

No fellow Omega with pharmaceutical connections to provide protection.

Just me, a flimsy dorm room lock, and the desperate hope that the pack wouldn't find a way inside.

My body was broadcasting a biological signal that some Alphas considered an invitation, regardless of conscious consent, and there was no one who could or would help me if they decided to answer that call.

Night fell, and with it came the most intense phase of my heat.

I bit down on a pillow to muffle my sounds, acutely aware of the thin dorm walls and the possibility of being overheard.

The toys provided physical relief, but nothing could touch the deeper ache—the evolutionary drive for connection, for claiming, for completion that no artificial aid could satisfy.

Dawn found me drifting in and out of fitful sleep, temporarily sated but still burning. My phone showed a message from Robbie:

How are the medications working? Any adverse reactions?

I managed to type back: Better than anything I've had before. Thank you.

Good. Those should carry you through the worst of it. Call if you need the backup emergency supplies.

You gave me backup supplies?

Hidden in the medical cooler. Didn't want to overwhelm you with options yesterday. Check the bottom compartment if the first round stops working.

Even in my heat-addled state, I was amazed by his thoroughness and generosity. The medications he'd provided were probably worth more than my entire semester's living expenses.

The second day was marginally better than the first. The fever remained, but the desperate edge had dulled. I could think more clearly between waves, could remember to eat and drink, could even read a few pages of a book before the next surge of need claimed my attention.

No one came to check on me. The hallway outside remained silent except for the occasional footsteps of other residents.

My phone stayed quiet too—Stephanie was dealing with gallery politics, Robbie trapped in corporate family obligations.

I told myself it was for the best. They'd already risked too much by helping initially.

By the third morning, the heat was clearly receding. My temperature had dropped, the intensity of the symptoms diminished, and I could go longer between episodes of overwhelming need.

I was finally coherent enough to shower when my phone buzzed with texts from both friends:

Heat should be ending soon. I'll be back tonight around 8 with dinner. —Stephanie How are you feeling? I'll stop by later to check on you. —Robbie

I typed back to both: Much better. See you later.

I set the phone aside, emotionally and physically drained.

The heat was nearly over, but its implications would linger long after my body returned to normal.

The Alphas now had confirmation of my cycle timing, another avenue of attack, another vulnerability to exploit.

And despite having friends with resources most scholarship students could only dream of, I'd still faced the worst of it alone—not because they didn't care, but because even the best intentions couldn't overcome the realities of giving someone space during heat.

The isolation of the past few days had been necessary—Omegas in heat needed privacy and space—but it had also reinforced just how vulnerable I truly was when stripped of all support systems.

The pack had learned something valuable too: that even wealthy allies couldn't protect me during my most biologically vulnerable state. That knowledge would certainly be used against me next time.