Page 42 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)
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.
I felt them before I 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 scent blockers 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."
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.
By the time finals week 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 under my 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.