Page 60 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)
"Dorian." Her voice was carefully controlled, but I could smell the spike in her arousal, the way her body responded to my presence even as her mind resisted. "What are you doing here?"
I closed the door behind me with deliberate care, the click of the latch seeming to echo in the small space. The sound was satisfying in ways I couldn't fully articulate. Territory secured, boundaries established, privacy ensured.
"I needed to see you," I said, though the words came out rougher than intended. My voice sounded strange even to my own ears, carrying undertones of possession that hadn't been there hours earlier. "The separation was... unbearable."
She set down her pen with precise movements, turning to face me fully. There was something different about her posture. More guarded than I remembered, as if she'd been expecting this confrontation. "Unbearable how?"
"Physical symptoms. Anxiety. Rage." I moved closer, unable to stop myself from entering her personal space.
Every instinct demanded proximity, scent marking, physical confirmation of the bond.
"The separation was affecting my ability to function.
I couldn't think, couldn't focus on anything except getting back to you. "
A flush crept up her neck, confirmation that she'd been experiencing similar symptoms. But instead of the relief I expected to see, her expression hardened with what looked like determination.
"So you decided to ignore the boundaries we established," she said, her voice gaining an edge I didn't like. "To track me down when I specifically asked for space to process everything."
"I'm not tracking you," I protested, though even as I said it, I recognized the lie. That's exactly what I'd done. Followed her scent through the library like prey, found her hiding place, cornered her in a space she couldn't easily leave. "I needed to make sure you were okay."
"I was fine," she said, but I could smell the deception beneath her calm exterior.
She'd been struggling with the separation too, fighting it with typical Vespera stubborn determination.
"I was managing the symptoms and focusing on my studies.
You know, those exams I mentioned? The ones that determine whether I pass my courses? "
The accusation stung, though I couldn't deny its accuracy. She'd lost three crucial days to the heat we'd triggered, and now I was disrupting her attempts to catch up. But the rational recognition of my selfishness did nothing to ease the drives dictating my behavior.
"I can help with that," I offered, though my voice carried undertones of possession that made the words sound more like a threat than assistance. "Whatever you need academically, we can provide resources, tutoring, connections—"
"What I need is space to work without Alpha interference," she interrupted, and something in her tone made my hackles rise.
There was confidence there that hadn't existed before, a certainty that suggested she'd been planning this conversation.
"What I need is time to figure out how to manage this situation without feeling like I'm being stalked. "
"Stalked?" The accusation hit like a slap, mainly because it was uncomfortably accurate. "I'm checking on my mate. Making sure she's safe, healthy, properly cared for."
"Your mate," she repeated, and the bitter laugh that escaped her made something cold settle in my stomach. "Is that what you think this is? A claiming that transforms months of systematic torture into some kind of romantic fairy tale?"
"It's reality," I said, my voice dropping to a growl that I couldn't quite control.
The Alpha in me was responding to her defiance with predictable aggression, the same instincts that had driven months of systematic breaking now redirected toward claiming.
"The fated bond exists whether you want to acknowledge it or not. "
"And there's the Dorian I know," she said, her green eyes flashing with something that looked almost like satisfaction.
"For a moment there, I almost believed you'd actually changed.
But you're still the same controlling Alpha who spent months tormenting me, aren't you?
With a new excuse for the behavior now."
The accuracy of her assessment hit like a physical blow.
She was right. I hadn't changed fundamentally.
I was still the same person who'd orchestrated her systematic breaking, who'd taken pleasure in her struggles, who'd seen her as a problem to be solved rather than a person to be respected.
The fated bond had given me new justification for the same possessive instincts.
"That's not—" I started, but she cut me off with a gesture.
"I've been researching, Dorian." She pulled out her phone, scrolling through what looked like extensive notes. "Fated bonds, neurochemical dependency, the ways Alphas use biology to control resistant Omegas. Want to know what I've learned?"
The question made something cold and sharp settle in my chest. I could see the intelligence in her eyes, the systematic way she'd been preparing for this conversation. This wasn't emotional reaction. This was strategic planning.
"Tell me," I said, my voice coming out more threat than request.
"That the separation anxiety peaks in the first 72 hours after claiming," she said, consulting her notes with clinical precision. "That tolerance builds over time if the Omega can resist the initial drive. That bonds can be weakened through deliberate separation and medical intervention."
Each fact hit like a precision strike, cutting through my assumptions about inevitability. "The physical consequences—"
"Can be severe," she agreed, meeting my gaze directly. "Potentially dangerous. But not immediately fatal if managed under medical supervision. And definitely not impossible."
The casual way she discussed potentially rejecting our bond made my vision blur at the edges, Alpha rage mixing with genuine fear in ways I'd never experienced before. "You're talking about refusing your fated mate. Your perfect match."
"I'm talking about maintaining autonomy over my own life," she corrected, and something in her tone suggested she'd rehearsed this conversation. "About refusing to be trapped by biology in a situation I never chose with people who spent months systematically tormenting me."
"You can't seriously be considering—"
"Bond rejection?" she finished, and the calm certainty in her voice made something feral inside me snap. "I'm considering all my options, Dorian. Including the ones that don't involve spending the rest of my life as claimed property."
The word "property" hit like a physical blow, mainly because it was so accurate. That was exactly how I saw her. Mine, owned, claimed. The fated bond had transformed her from scholarship Omega to be broken into precious mate to be protected, but the underlying possessiveness remained unchanged.
"It's not ownership," I said, though the words felt hollow. "It's partnership. Compatibility designed to—"
"To what?" she challenged. "To ensure I can never leave? To guarantee my compliance through chemical dependency? To make sure I'll always need you, even if I hate you?"
Each question was a precision strike, cutting through my justifications to the uncomfortable truth beneath. Yes, the bond did ensure she couldn't leave. Yes, it guaranteed a level of compliance. Yes, it would make her need us regardless of her emotional state.
"The bond exists," I said finally, abandoning attempts at justification. "Whether you accept it or fight it, the reality remains unchanged."
"But my response to it doesn't have to be," she said, and something in her tone made ice form in my veins. "I don't have to be grateful for being claimed by my tormentors. I don't have to pretend this is some fairy tale romance instead of coercion."
"What are you saying?" I asked, though I was beginning to suspect I already knew.
"I'm saying that just because you managed to claim me during heat doesn't mean I have to make it easy for you to keep me.
" She stood up, moving toward the small window with deliberate casualness.
"I'm saying that maybe the separation anxiety you're experiencing is something you need to learn to live with. "
The word "property" made something inside me explode with fury. Not the calculated anger I'd wielded for months, but pure Alpha rage at my mate's rejection of our bond, of me, of everything biology demanded should be inevitable.
"You're not property," I snarled, moving closer until she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "You're my fated mate. Mine. And all the research in the world won't change what your body knows to be true."
"My body," she said, standing up so quickly her chair scraped against the floor, "has been chemically manipulated into dependency. That doesn't make it truth. It makes it biology."
"It makes it destiny," I corrected, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl. The space between us was minimal now, close enough that I could smell the spike in her arousal despite her mental resistance, could see her pupils dilate in response to my proximity.
"It makes it coercion," she shot back, but I could hear the slight breathiness in her voice, could smell how her body was responding regardless of what her mind wanted.
Something snapped inside me. The careful control I'd maintained since the claiming, the strategic patience I'd forced myself to display, the pretense of giving her choice. All of it dissolved under the weight of drive and Alpha rage.
She was mine. My fated mate. My perfect match. And she was standing there discussing rejection like it was a viable option, like I would accept losing her because she'd found some academic justification for fighting what should be inevitable.
"Enough," I growled, and moved.