Page 62 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

forty-one

Vespera

The knock on my dorm room door came at eight in the evening, soft but insistent.

I almost didn't answer. Exams had finally ended three days ago, but I'd been existing in a careful bubble of solitude between the required Alpha interactions, trying to process the constant pull that made every hour feel like swimming against a riptide.

But something about the hesitant quality of the knocking made me pause. When I opened the door, Stephanie stood in the hallway looking smaller than I'd ever seen her, her usual confident posture replaced by something that looked almost like shame.

"Hey," she said quietly, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "Can we... can we talk?"

I stared at her for a long moment. Three weeks ago, this was the person who'd told me I was "bringing drama on myself" and that maybe I should "keep my head down." Now she was standing in my doorway looking like she'd been crying.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "Can we?"

She flinched like I'd slapped her. "Fuck. Okay, I deserved that." She ran a hand through her hair, messing up her usually perfect style. "Look, I know I was a complete bitch to you. I know I totally bailed when you needed me. But I... God, Vespera, I fucked up so bad."

Against my better judgment, I stepped aside. She practically collapsed into my desk chair, looking smaller than I'd ever seen her.

"I heard what happened," she said, not meeting my eyes. "The whole... claiming thing."

"Yeah, well." I crossed my arms. "Join the club. Everyone's heard by now."

"No, I mean—" She looked up, and her eyes were red. "Jesus, Vespera. They actually did it. After everything they put you through, they actually fucking claimed you during your heat."

Something in her voice made me pause. Not the casual gossip-hungry tone I'd expected, but genuine horror.

"Stephanie—"

"I should have been there," she burst out. "When your heat hit, when you needed someone, when they were... God, I should have been there instead of avoiding you like some kind of social pariah."

The rawness in her voice caught me off guard. "You were protecting yourself," I said, surprised by how tired I sounded instead of angry.

"I was being a coward," she shot back. "I was so fucking scared they'd come after me next that I threw you under the bus. My best friend. The person who'd been there for me through everything, and I... abandoned you because it got too hard."

I sat down heavily on my bed. "Yeah. You did."

"I know." Her voice cracked. "And I hate myself for it. I hate that when it actually mattered, I chose my stupid sorority connections over you. I hate that I was more worried about being uninvited to parties than about what they were doing to you."

"Why are you here now?" I asked bluntly. "Feeling guilty?"

She was quiet for a long moment, staring at her hands. "I was at Madison's party last weekend. You know, that end-of-exams thing she always throws." Her voice turned bitter. "And someone brought up your... situation."

I waited, not making this easier for her.

"They were talking about how 'lucky' you were," she continued, her voice gaining anger. "How rare fated mates are, how you'd hit the jackpot with them, how you were probably set for life now. And everyone was nodding along. Like it was this amazing fairy tale ending."

"And that bothered you."

"It made me want to throw up," she said fiercely. "They were talking about you like you'd won the lottery instead of being claimed by the same assholes who spent months making your life hell. And I sat there, saying nothing, because I was too much of a coward to speak up."

She looked up at me then, tears streaming down her face. "That's when I realized I'd chosen to be friends with people who could hear about your situation and think 'how lucky' instead of 'how horrifying.' And I hated myself for it."

"So what do you want from me?" I asked. "Forgiveness? Or to feel better about yourself?"

"I want to be your friend again," she said simply. "If you'll let me. I want to be the person I should have been from the beginning."

"And if I can't forgive you?"

"Then I'll have to live with that," she said, wiping her eyes. "But I'll still be here if you need me. Even if you never trust me again."

Something in her voice made me believe her. Not the calculated apology I'd expected, but genuine regret.

"I need time," I said finally.

"I know." She stood up, shouldering her bag. "But Vespera... how are you? Really. Not the polite version you probably give everyone else."

The question broke something open inside me.

"I'm fucked," I said bluntly. "Like, completely fucked.

Every second of every day feels like I'm fighting not to go back to them.

My body wants their touch so badly it's physically painful, and my brain keeps whispering that it would be so much easier to give in. "

Stephanie's face went pale. "That sounds awful."

"It is awful," I continued, surprised by how good it felt to say it out loud.

"Everyone keeps talking about how 'lucky' I am, but it's like being addicted to heroin except the heroin used to beat the shit out of you for fun.

My body craves them, but my mind remembers every single thing they did to me. "

"Jesus, Vespera."

"The worst part?" I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Sometimes I catch myself thinking maybe they're right. Maybe I should be grateful. Maybe this is better than fighting every day for the rest of my life. And that terrifies me more than anything."

"But you're still fighting it."

"For now," I said, touching the claiming bites at my throat unconsciously. "But I don't know how long I can keep it up. The pull gets stronger every day, and I get more tired of resisting."

Stephanie was quiet for a moment, processing this information. "What would happen if you stopped fighting? If you... accepted the bond?"

"I'd lose myself," I said with quiet certainty. "I'd become whatever they needed me to be. Grateful Omega, perfect mate, willing participant in my own subjugation. The bond would make me happy about it, make me crave their approval, make me forget why I resisted in the first place."

"And if you keep fighting?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe I'll find a way to maintain some autonomy while managing the reality. Maybe I'll drive myself insane trying to resist an unresistible force. Maybe I'll break."

The honesty of the admission hung between us, stark and frightening. This was the reality behind the romantic mythology of fated mates. Not destined love, but coercion dressed up in prettier language.

"There has to be another option," Stephanie said, her voice carrying determination I hadn't heard from her before. "Some way to preserve who you are while managing the physical reality."

"Maybe," I said, though I wasn't convinced. "But it would mean fighting every day for the rest of my life, constantly battling my own biology to maintain independence. I'm not sure that's sustainable."

"You're the strongest person I know," she said with quiet conviction. "If anyone could find a way to make it work, it would be you."

The faith in her voice was both comforting and terrifying. I wasn't sure I was as strong as she believed, wasn't sure I could maintain this level of resistance indefinitely.

"Will you help me?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. "If I decide to keep fighting this, will you be there? Really be there this time?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "Whatever you need, whatever the social cost, whatever anyone else thinks. I'll be there."

The promise felt different from her previous casual offers of support. This carried weight, conviction, the kind of commitment that couldn't be easily abandoned when things got difficult.

After she left, I sat alone in my room, processing both the conversation and the emotions it had stirred up.

The bond pulled at me constantly, a physical ache that made concentration nearly impossible.

But for the first time since the claiming, I felt like I might have an ally who wasn't compelled to care about my wellbeing.

Later that night, I sat alone in my room, feeling the constant pull of the bond but also something else.

The warmth of genuine friendship, freely given rather than compelled.

It reminded me of who I'd been before Northwood, before the systematic breaking, before fated mates and claiming bites and imperatives.

I'd been someone who made her own choices. Someone who valued autonomy over security, independence over belonging. Someone who wouldn't surrender her agency because biology suggested it was easier.

The bond thrummed constantly at the edges of my consciousness, promising relief from the struggle if I'd stop fighting. But as I touched the claiming bites at my throat, I realized something had crystallized during my conversation with Stephanie.

I'd rather suffer than surrender. I'd rather fight my own biology than lose myself to it. And if that meant a lifetime of resistance, of daily battles against drives, of choosing the hard path over the easy one, then that's what I'd choose.

Because some things were more important than biology. Some things were worth fighting for, even when the fight seemed impossible to win.

My autonomy. My right to choose. My refusal to be grateful for beautiful chains because they came with justification.

The bond could pull at me all it wanted. I wasn't going anywhere willingly.