Page 48 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)
thirty-three
Vespera
The theater hummed with opening night energy, but all I could think about was yesterday.
I sat at my dressing table, applying stage makeup with hands that trembled slightly, trying to ignore the way my body felt wrong.
Too warm, too sensitive, like my skin was a size too small.
The cheap suppressants I'd managed to scrounge were barely keeping me functional, and the stress of opening night was making everything worse.
But underneath the biological chaos, there was something else: the memory of Dorian's hands on my body, the way he'd made me feel, the things I'd admitted in that moment of desperate need.
I hate how good we look together.
The words echoed in my mind as I traced eyeliner with unsteady fingers. I'd crossed a line yesterday, given him ammunition he could use to destroy me. But more than that, I'd liked it. Had craved the way he'd dominated me, the way he'd made me watch myself surrender.
A knock on my dressing room door made me jump.
"Thirty minutes to places," came the stage manager's voice.
Thirty minutes. I could survive thirty minutes, then two hours of performance, then somehow make it through the reception without falling apart completely.
Industry professionals were out there in the audience. Critics, agents, people whose opinions could make or break careers. This was supposed to be my moment, my chance to prove I belonged here.
Instead, I felt like I was walking toward my own execution.
The first act passed in a blur of adrenaline and barely controlled panic.
My body was betraying me in small ways: a flush that had nothing to do with stage lights, a tremor in my hands during the quieter moments, a restlessness that made it hard to hit my marks.
But I pushed through, drawing on years of training and the desperate need to not humiliate myself in front of an audience full of people who already doubted I deserved to be here.
Dorian, playing opposite me, seemed to sense something was different.
His eyes followed me more closely than usual during our shared scenes, his nostrils flaring slightly when we came close enough for intimate blocking.
But instead of concern, I saw something that made my blood run cold: anticipation. Like a predator scenting wounded prey.
I caught glimpses of Corvus and Oakley in the wings during scene changes, positioned where they could watch me, observe every stumble and flush. They weren't supposed to be there—they had no role in this production—but no one questioned their presence.
During the masquerade scene, when the blocking required Dorian to spin me close, he leaned in and whispered against my ear, "You smell different tonight, sweetheart."
The words sent ice through my veins even as my traitorous body responded to his proximity. He knew. Somehow, he knew my defenses were failing.
"I don't know what you mean," I hissed back, trying to focus on the dance steps.
His laugh was low, satisfied. "Don't you? We'll see."
By the end of Act One, sweat was beading along my hairline despite the air conditioning. Wells called out notes during the brief scene change, praising the "raw intensity" I was bringing to Beatrice, completely oblivious to the fact that I was falling apart.
"Whatever you're channeling, keep it up," he said as I passed. "The audience is captivated."
If only he knew.
By intermission, I was struggling. The heat building under my skin was becoming impossible to ignore, and my scent was starting to bleed through what little chemical protection I had left.
I locked myself in my dressing room, splashed cold water on my face, and tried to convince myself I could make it through Act Two.
But when I looked in the mirror, I saw the truth written in my flushed cheeks, my dilated pupils, the way I couldn't seem to stop touching myself: smoothing my hair, adjusting my costume, seeking contact that my body craved.
This was how it started. This was how my carefully constructed defenses crumbled.
Other cast members knocked on my door—casual check-ins, offers of water or snacks—but I couldn't risk opening it. Couldn't risk them scenting what was happening to me.
"Vespera? You okay in there?" It was Sarah, one of the ensemble members.
"Fine," I called back, proud that my voice sounded almost normal. "Just need a minute."
I had to make it through two more acts. Two more acts, and then I could disappear, figure out how to survive what was coming.
The second half started well enough, but by the middle scenes, my control was slipping visibly.
I threw myself into Beatrice's wit and passion, using the character's strength to mask my own growing weakness. But the church scene felt different: dangerous, loaded with an energy that had nothing to do with Shakespeare.
The intimate moments with Dorian were torture. Every touch required by the blocking sent fire through my nervous system, every breath brought more of his scent, and I could feel my body responding in ways that were becoming impossible to hide.
"I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest," I said, the words coming out rawer than intended, thick with need I couldn't suppress.
Dorian's eyes glittered with predatory satisfaction as he pulled me closer. "Come, bid me do anything for thee."
The audience was leaning forward in their seats—I could feel their attention, their investment in what they thought was brilliant acting. They had no idea they were watching someone's carefully constructed life crumble in real time.
During a brief moment offstage, I caught Wells watching me with something that might have been concern.
"Remarkable work out there," he said quietly. "Very raw, very honest. Though if you need to step back—"
"I'm fine," I lied, knowing that admitting weakness now would destroy everything.
"Of course you are." But his eyes lingered on my flushed face, the way my hands trembled slightly. "The best performances come from truth, not from pushing past your limits."
If only he knew how true I was being.
As the final scenes approached, my body began the cascade that would destroy me.
Heat spiked through my system in waves, my scent flooding the air despite every chemical barrier I'd tried to maintain.
The costume felt suffocating, every breath was an effort, and the stage lights seemed to burn against my overheated skin.
During the final wedding scene, it all went wrong.
The heat hit me like a physical blow that left me gasping. My vision blurred, my knees went weak, and suddenly every Alpha scent in the theater felt like an assault on my senses.
But it was worse than that. Because mixed in with the general Alpha presence, I could smell something specific, something that called to every cell in my body with terrifying recognition.
Dorian's scent, rich and complex and absolutely perfect, drawing me like a drug I'd been trying to resist.
Fated mate compatibility. The realization hit me with devastating force, and I nearly collapsed right there on stage. This was why nothing had worked, why no amount of suppressants or blockers had been enough. My body recognized him as its perfect match, and now that recognition was destroying me.
I stumbled through the final lines, barely managing to stay upright as my biology prepared for claiming. The applause when the curtain fell sounded distant, muffled, like I was hearing it through water.
Backstage erupted in chaos: congratulations, flowers, champagne being passed around as the cast celebrated their success. But I could barely process any of it through the haze of need consuming me.
I tried to slip away unnoticed, to make it to my dressing room where I could at least fall apart in private. My legs felt unsteady, each step requiring concentration I could barely muster.
"Incredible performance!" Sarah caught my arm as I stumbled past. "You were so intense out there, so—" She stopped mid-sentence, her nose wrinkling slightly. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Just tired," I managed, pulling away before she could process what she was scenting.
But I'd only made it a few more steps when a hand caught my wrist.
"Leaving so soon?" Dorian's voice, low and amused.
I spun around to find him watching me with an expression that made my stomach drop. Not concern, not professional interest, but the focused attention of a hunter who'd finally cornered his prey.
"Let go of me." My voice came out weaker than intended.
"I don't think so." His grip tightened, and I caught Corvus appearing at his shoulder, then Oakley flanking my other side. "You look like you need assistance."
"I'm fine." The lie was pathetic even to my own ears.
"Are you?" Corvus's analytical gaze swept over me, taking in my flushed skin, my trembling hands, the way I was unconsciously pressing back against the wall. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like someone's having an emergency."
People were starting to notice—cast members glancing over, a few looking concerned at my obvious distress. But the pack positioned themselves to block their view, creating a small circle of privacy around my breakdown.
"She needs some air," Oakley said to anyone who looked too curious, his voice carrying false concern. "Opening night nerves, you know how it is."
"People are watching," I said desperately, glancing around at the celebrating cast members.
"Then we should get you somewhere private," Corvus said with that cold smile that never reached his eyes. "Somewhere you can... recover."
They were coordinating. Moving with the kind of practiced precision that meant they'd planned this, anticipated this moment, prepared for exactly this scenario.
"Come on," Dorian said, his grip on my wrist shifting to something that looked supportive but felt like a trap. "Let's get you taken care of."
I tried to pull away, but my body was betraying me completely now. Every movement sent waves of desperate need through my system, and being this close to three Alphas—especially Dorian—was making everything worse.
"My dorm," I tried weakly. "I should go back to my dorm."
"Your roommate moved out weeks ago," Oakley reminded me with false gentleness. "You'd be all alone. That's dangerous for an Omega in... your condition."
"Besides," Dorian added, steering me toward the theater building's back exit while his packmates flanked us, "we have somewhere much better in mind. Somewhere private, comfortable. Somewhere designed specifically for situations like this."
The night air hit my overheated skin like a shock, but it did nothing to clear my head.
If anything, being away from the crowd made everything feel more real, more dangerous.
There was no one around to witness whatever they had planned, no one to question why three Alphas were leading a clearly distressed Omega into the darkness.
"Please," I whispered, but I wasn't even sure what I was asking for anymore.
"Shh," Dorian murmured, his voice carrying a satisfaction that made my blood run cold. "We're going to take very good care of you, sweetheart. Better than you ever imagined."
As they guided me through the darkness, my thoughts scattered like leaves in wind. Everything felt distant, muffled, like I was drowning in my own biology. The night air should have been cold, but all I felt was burning heat, the overwhelming need that made coherent thought impossible.
"Where..." I tried to ask, but the word came out slurred, pathetic.
"Don't worry about it," Dorian's voice seemed to come from very far away, even though he was right beside me. "Let us handle everything."
My legs wouldn't work properly. Each step was an effort, and without their support I would have collapsed onto the pavement. Part of me wanted to collapse, wanted to curl up right here and wait for the fire under my skin to consume me completely.
But they kept me moving, kept me upright, their voices a low murmur of words I couldn't quite grasp. Something about plans, about finally, about how perfect this was going to be.
The world blurred at the edges, reality narrowing down to the scent of three Alphas surrounding me and the desperate, animal need that was all I had left.