Page 61 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

She tried to step back, but the small study room gave her nowhere to go. I caged her against the desk with my body, hands braced on either side of her hips, close enough that every breath brought more of her scent into my lungs.

"Dorian," she warned, but her voice was already changing, becoming breathy with unwanted arousal.

"You want to know what biology really means?

" I said, my voice rough with possessive need.

"It means your body recognizes its mate regardless of what your mind thinks it wants.

It means you're already responding to me, already craving my touch, already producing the pheromones that signal submission. "

"I'm not submitting to anything," she said, but the protest was weakened by the way she unconsciously arched toward me when I leaned closer.

"Aren't you?" I asked, and deliberately scented her neck, breathing in the complex cocktail of arousal and resistance and recognition. "Your body is telling a different story."

I could feel the moment her resolve started to crack, the way her breathing quickened and her scent spiked with need she couldn't suppress.

This was what I'd been missing during our separation.

The visceral confirmation of our connection, the proof that she was mine regardless of her mental resistance.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about," she said, but her voice had gone shaky. "You're using biology against me. Using my body's responses to override my conscious choice."

"I'm reminding you what you're trying to reject," I corrected, pressing closer until she was half-sitting on the desk, her legs bracketing my hips. "I'm showing you what you'd be giving up."

"Dorian, don't—" she started, but the protest died when I deliberately brushed my lips against the claiming bite at her throat.

The effect was immediate and electric. Her back arched involuntarily, a soft sound escaping her that she tried unsuccessfully to suppress. The bond mark was still sensitive from the recent claiming, directly connected to every nerve ending in her body.

"You feel that," I said against her skin, not quite a question. "The bond responding to proximity, to touch, to the recognition of your Alpha's presence."

"You're not my Alpha," she whispered, but even as she said it, her hands came up to grip my shoulders, holding me closer rather than pushing me away.

"Yes, I am," I said with absolute certainty, and bit down gently on the claiming mark.

The response was devastating. Her whole body shuddered, a moan escaping her that she couldn't hold back, her legs tightening around my hips in a completely involuntary response. The scent of her arousal spiked so sharply it was almost overwhelming.

"See how your body knows the truth even when your mind is fighting it?" I murmured, tracing the mark with my tongue. "See how you respond to your Alpha's attention, your mate's touch?"

"This isn't fair," she gasped, but she was tilting her head to give me better access, her body overriding her mental protests with drive.

"Biology isn't about fairness," I said, working my way up her throat with deliberate precision. "It's about compatibility. Connection. The recognition of a perfect match."

I could feel her resistance crumbling with each touch, each scent exchange, each reminder of what the bond meant on a physical level. This was what she was trying to reject. Not just me, not just the pack, but this perfect symphony that played between us whenever we were in proximity.

"I hate this," she whispered, but her hands were tangling in my hair now, holding me against her throat. "I hate how you can make me feel this way."

"You don't hate it," I corrected, moving to capture her lips in a kiss that was more claim than caress. "You hate that you want it. That your body knows what your mind is trying to reject."

When we broke apart, she was breathing hard, her green eyes dilated and unfocused. I could smell her surrender in the air between us. Not mental acceptance, but capitulation to the bond's demands.

"This is why you can't reject the bond," I said, my voice rough with satisfaction and continuing need. "Because even when you're fighting it intellectually, your body knows what it needs. Knows who you belong with."

Something shifted in her expression then, a hardness returning that cut through the haze. "You're proving my point," she said, her voice steadying despite her obvious arousal. "You're showing me exactly why I need to leave."

The words hit like cold water, confusion cutting through my possessive satisfaction. "What?"

"This," she said, gesturing between us with a shaking hand. "What you just did. Using my biology against me, manipulating my responses to override my choices. This is exactly why the bond is coercion rather than connection."

"I was showing you—"

"You were assaulting me," she said flatly, and the word hit like a physical blow. "You cornered me, touched me without consent, used my responses to prove a point about ownership. Do you see the problem with that?"

I did see it, suddenly and with horrible clarity. What I'd experienced as reclaiming my mate, she'd experienced as a demonstration of how little control she had over her own body, her own responses, her own life.

"Vespera, I—"

"You proved that you'll never respect my autonomy," she continued, her voice gaining strength as she processed what had happened. "That you'll use every tool available. Physical, emotional, biological. To get what you want regardless of my consent."

The accusation was accurate and devastating. I had done exactly what she described, justified it with drives and mate rights that didn't actually override her personhood.

"I didn't mean—" I started, but she cut me off.

"Yes, you did," she said with quiet certainty. "You meant every bit of it. Just like you meant every moment of the systematic torture you put me through for months. The only difference is now you call it biology instead of bullying."

She pushed past me toward the door, and I found myself unable to stop her, paralyzed by the recognition of what I'd done and how badly I'd miscalculated.

"Vespera, wait—"

"No," she said without turning around. "I'm done waiting. I'm done hoping you might actually change, might actually see me as a person instead of a possession to be managed."

She paused at the door, looking back with eyes that held no anger, just a terrible resigned clarity.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For making it clear that bond rejection isn't just an option. It's the only choice I have left."

And then she was gone, leaving me standing in the small study room with the scent of her arousal and fear lingering in the air, finally understanding that I'd lost the one thing I couldn't bear to lose.

My fated mate.

Because I'd been too Alpha, too possessive, too convinced of my own rights to see her as anything more than a prize to be claimed and kept.

The realization was more painful than any separation anxiety I'd experienced, cutting deeper than physical withdrawal to something essential in my chest.

I'd found my perfect match and destroyed any chance of keeping her in the span of twenty minutes.

And the worst part was, she was right about everything.

I sank into the chair she'd abandoned, surrounded by the textbooks and notes she'd been using to study for exams I'd now disrupted twice, and tried to process the magnitude of what I'd lost.

My fated mate was going to reject the bond.

And I had no one to blame but myself.