Page 57 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

thirty-nine

Vespera

I woke to clarity for the first time in what felt like forever. The heat had broken completely. Not the temporary lucidity between waves, but genuine cessation of the drive that had controlled my every thought and action for three days.

My body felt foreign. Used, marked, claimed in ways I was only beginning to process.

Every muscle ached with deep soreness that spoke of activities my mind had experienced through haze and desperate need.

The nest around me was destroyed. Blankets torn, pillows flattened, the entire structure bearing evidence of multiple claiming rounds by three different Alphas.

My Alphas now.

The thought surfaced unbidden, making me flinch with its casual possession. Not my choice, not my decision, but reality imposed through heat and claiming and whatever this "fated mate" business was that they'd sprung on me in the midst of vulnerability.

I pushed myself up carefully, wincing at the tenderness between my legs, the stiffness in muscles I hadn't known could be strained.

My skin felt different. Sensitized, marked, the scent glands at my throat and wrists throbbing with pleasant warmth that made something primal in my brain purr with satisfaction.

No. Not satisfaction. This wasn't what I wanted.

But my body disagreed, humming with bone-deep contentment that had nothing to do with conscious thoughts and everything to do with the complex cocktail of hormones and pheromones now circulating through my system.

I'd been claimed. Thoroughly, repeatedly, by three different Alphas whose combined scents now clung to every inch of my skin.

The inventory of damage was extensive as I slowly cataloged each new ache, each sensitive spot.

My inner thighs bore the imprints of fingertips.

Dorian's, from when he'd held me open during his final claiming.

There were bruises along my ribs where Oakley's grip had tightened during one of his more desperate moments.

Corvus's claiming had left marks on my hips, precise and methodical even in the midst of need.

Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden. Moments of crystalline clarity in the haze that horrified me now.

I remembered arching into Dorian's touch, begging for his bite, the way I'd wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him deeper.

I remembered crying Oakley's name as he worked me through my third climax of one endless session, remembered the grateful tears streaming down my face as he soothed me through the aftershocks.

I remembered analyzing the taste of Corvus's skin against my tongue, memorizing the pattern of his breathing, the clinical way I'd taken mental notes on what made him lose control.

I'd participated. I'd wanted it. I'd begged for it.

The shame was overwhelming, mixing toxically with the lingering satisfaction my body insisted on maintaining. How could I feel so used and so fulfilled at the same time? How could I be simultaneously horrified by what had happened and craving more of their touch?

The walk to the bathroom was an exercise in discovery. Cataloging each new ache, each sensitive spot, each mark left by teeth or fingers or primal need. I avoided the mirror, not ready to see the visual evidence of what my body had already registered on every other level.

The claiming bites were the worst part. Not painful.

Quite the opposite. They throbbed with pleasant warmth that sent sparks of comfort through my system every time my shirt brushed against them.

Three distinct marks for three distinct bonds, each carrying its own signature of possession and protection.

When I finally forced myself to look in the mirror, the woman staring back was both familiar and strange.

My face was the same. Green eyes, stubborn jaw, the freckles I'd never managed to completely hide.

But there was something different about my expression.

Something both harder and softer, as if the past three days had stripped away a layer of protection while adding something new beneath.

The claiming bites stood out vividly against my pale skin.

Dorian's at the junction of my neck and shoulder, Oakley's on the opposite side, Corvus's slightly lower on the curve where my shoulder met my back.

They were beautiful in their own way, I realized with horror.

Artfully placed, the scarring already forming the distinctive pattern that would mark me as claimed for life.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand with shaking hands, needing answers, needing to understand what had been done to me. The search results for "fated mate bonds" were overwhelming. Academic papers, forum discussions, personal testimonies from bonded pairs and triads and packs.

Most sources agreed on the basics: fated bonds were rare, roughly one in ten thousand. They were considered unbreakable, sacred, the ultimate expression of compatibility. Omegas who found their fated Alphas were described as "blessed," "complete," "truly alive for the first time."

I wanted to vomit.

But buried in the research were other stories.

Whispered accounts of bonds rejected, of Omegas who'd fought the impulse and found ways to break free.

The methods were extreme. Surgical removal of scent glands, hormone suppression therapy that bordered on chemical castration, complete isolation from the bonded Alphas until the connection withered.

The risks were severe. Death was mentioned in several case studies. But it was possible.

Hope bloomed in my chest, the first genuine emotion I'd felt since waking that wasn't tangled up in confusion. There might be a way out of this. It wouldn't be easy, wouldn't be safe, but it might be possible.

"You're awake."

I startled, clutching the phone tighter as I turned to find Dorian leaning against the doorframe. His ice-blue eyes tracked over me with intensity that was both familiar and new. The same predatory focus I'd endured for months, but now tempered with something that looked almost like concern.

"Heat's broken," I said, quickly closing the browser and setting the phone aside. My heart hammered with fear that he might have seen what I was researching, but his expression remained unchanged.

"I can smell it." He stepped closer, his sandalwood scent wrapping around me despite the shower. It triggered an immediate response. My body leaning toward him without conscious direction, some newly installed imperative recognizing my Alpha and seeking proximity.

I forced myself to step back, maintaining distance despite what my treacherous body wanted. "Don't."

He stopped, something like uncertainty flickering across his face before his usual confidence reasserted itself. "We need to talk about what happens next."

"What happens next?" I laughed, the sound bitter even to my own ears. "You mean after you and your pack spent months breaking me down, triggered an early heat, and claimed me without consent? That 'next'?"

The bathroom door was ajar, showing an empty shower stall beyond.

I could hear low voices from the common area of my dorm suite, the rumble of Alpha tones discussing something in hushed consultation.

My captors turned protectors, my tormentors transformed overnight into "fated mates" by a quirk none of us had anticipated.

"The claiming was necessity once the heat started," Dorian said, his voice carrying that maddening Alpha certainty. "You know that."

"The heat you helped trigger through months of systematic torment."

He didn't deny it, which was something at least. "We didn't know you were a fated mate. Couldn't have known until the claiming took place."

"And that makes it better?" I clutched my arms around myself, using anger to mask the confusion and vulnerability threatening to overwhelm me. "It was okay to torture random Omegas, but not ones who turn out to be your perfect match?"

"No." The admission surprised me, his usual arrogance giving way to something that might have been genuine regret. "It wasn't okay. None of it was okay. But it happened, and now we have to deal with what comes next."

I needed to process this conversation, needed time to think through the implications of everything I'd read. But first, I needed clothes and space and some semblance of control over my own environment.

"I need clothes," I said, changing the subject because I couldn't process his apparent remorse while feeling so exposed.

He nodded, retreating to the bedroom and returning with a stack of neatly folded items that I recognized as mine, though the scent was wrong. Laundered but carrying traces of his handling. Even my clothes belonged to them now, marked with their scent.

"I'll give you privacy," he said, setting them on the counter before backing toward the door. "When you're ready, we're all in the common room. Oakley made breakfast."

The domesticity of it was jarring after everything that had happened, but I nodded acknowledgment, waiting until he closed the door before dressing with mechanical precision.

Every movement was a reminder of what had happened.

Muscles protesting activities they weren't accustomed to, skin sensitive where they'd marked me, the constant awareness of how fundamentally my body had changed in the space of three days.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, three pairs of eyes tracked my movement with predatory focus that wasn't entirely predatory anymore.

Dorian sat in the armchair closest to the door, his posture rigid with restraint that hadn't been present before the claiming.

Oakley hovered near the small kitchenette, a spatula in one hand, his cedar scent carrying notes of concern.

Corvus was positioned near the window, those calculating dark eyes missing nothing as he assessed my condition with clinical precision.