Page 63 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)
forty-two
Dorian
I could feel her pulling away.
Two weeks of carefully managed interactions.
Brief meetings in public places, minimal scent exchange, rigid boundaries I respected with physical pain.
Had done nothing to strengthen our bond.
If anything, the connection felt more strained with each passing day, the invisible tether between us stretching dangerously thin despite my desperate attempts to maintain it.
It wasn't just affecting me. The entire pack dynamic was fracturing under the strain.
Oakley had stopped sleeping entirely, his usual gentle demeanor replaced by sharp-edged anxiety that permeated our shared spaces.
I'd find him at three in the morning, pacing the apartment kitchen with red-rimmed eyes, his cedar scent sour with guilt and withdrawal symptoms that were becoming increasingly severe.
"Maybe we don't deserve her forgiveness," he'd said yesterday, the admission scraped raw from his throat. "Maybe what we did was too much to come back from, fated mates or not."
Corvus was handling it differently. Burying himself in research with the kind of obsessive focus that meant he was close to breaking.
His laptop was permanently open to academic databases, browser tabs full of studies on bond rejection rates, separation syndrome fatality statistics, psychological impacts of forced claiming.
The clinical precision that usually defined him was cracking at the edges, revealing something desperate underneath.
"The probability of successful bond rejection in fated pairs is 0.03%," he'd recited to me this morning, his dark eyes lacking their usual analytical calm. "But she's already demonstrating resistance patterns that fall outside normal parameters. If anyone could statistically beat those odds..."
He'd trailed off, but the implication hung between us like a death sentence. Our Omega. Our rare, precious, irreplaceable fated mate. Was actively working to destroy the very connection that should have been unbreakable.
The pack bonds that had once provided stability were now sources of shared agony. Every moment of Vespera's absence hit us threefold, amplified through our connections to each other until the separation anxiety became a feedback loop of misery none of us could escape.
We'd tried different approaches. Oakley had attempted gentle apologies, bringing her favorite coffee to their brief meetings, trying to rebuild trust through consistent small gestures.
She'd accepted the coffee politely and maintained exactly the same emotional distance, treating his kindness like a transaction rather than an olive branch.
Corvus had offered intellectual solutions.
Research on bond management, academic papers on successful Alpha- Omega pairings with complicated histories, carefully reasoned arguments about compatibility overriding circumstantial conflicts.
She'd listened with that focused attention I knew so well, asked a few pointed questions, and then used his own data to research bond rejection techniques.
My attempts at dominance had been equally futile.
Every time I tried to assert Alpha authority, to remind her of the realities connecting us, she'd withdraw further.
The claiming bites at her throat had healed to pale scars that she covered with high-necked clothing, as if trying to erase the visible evidence of our connection.
She was fighting it. Fighting us. Fighting what should be impossible to resist.
And it was making me fucking insane.
The thought made my hands clench as I paced the empty classroom. This wasn't how it was supposed to work. I'd found my fated mate. I'd claimed her. She should be grateful, compliant, eager to please me the way biology demanded.
Instead, this stubborn little Omega was acting like she had a choice in the matter. Like biology was optional. Like she could decide to reject what nature had made inevitable.
The door opened, and her scent hit me like a fucking freight train.
Even through the suppressants, I could smell her.
Jasmine and defiance and mine. She was wearing her school uniform, the pleated skirt that had driven me crazy during months of watching her in class, the white blouse that clung to curves I'd claimed but hadn't conquered.
She stood in the doorway like she was ready to bolt, those green eyes scanning the room with obvious suspicion.
"You said McArthur Hall, room 237," she observed, making no move to enter fully. "But you didn't mention it would be empty."
"I needed privacy," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady despite the desperate relief flooding my system at the sight of her.
The separation symptoms that had been building all day.
The hollow ache in my chest, the constant awareness of exactly which direction would lead me back to her. Eased fractionally with her proximity.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Our agreement was public spaces only."
"A classroom is public," I countered, gesturing to the institutional setting around us. "Temporarily empty. The doors remain unlocked. Anyone could walk in at any moment."
She hesitated, clearly debating whether this violated the letter or merely the spirit of our agreement. Finally, she stepped inside, though she remained near the door, maintaining maximum distance between us.
"Ten minutes," she reminded me, glancing pointedly at her watch. "That was the deal."
Ten minutes. The brevity was an insult, a deliberate reminder that she was merely tolerating these interactions rather than welcoming them. Each time, the allocated window grew shorter, the physical distance she maintained grew larger, the walls she built around herself grew higher.
She was slipping away from me, from us, from the bond that should have been unbreakable. And I had no idea how to stop it.
"How are your finals going?" I asked, the mundane question a poor mask for the desperate need clawing at my insides.
"Fine." Her response was clipped, disinterested. "Is that what you needed privacy to discuss? My academic performance?"
The dismissive tone made something dangerous stir in my chest. Alpha rage warring with the newfound restraint that had characterized my behavior since the fated mate revelation.
I'd always gotten what I wanted. Always.
Through charm, manipulation, or sheer Alpha dominance.
It didn't matter. People bent to my will because that's how the world worked.
But this was different. This clawing need in my chest, this constant awareness of her absence. It was making me weak. Making me desperate in ways I'd never been before.
"No," I admitted, taking a careful step toward her. "I needed to see you properly. Without the distraction of the café, the constant interruptions, the watchful eyes of other students."
She tensed as I moved closer, her scent sharpening with wariness. "Our agreement—"
"Is being maintained," I finished for her. "We're in a public space. We're having a conversation. Nothing has changed except the location."
Another step closer. I could smell her more clearly now. Jasmine and rain and that indefinable something that marked her as my perfect match. But there was something else in her scent too, something that made my blood run cold with primal fear.
Determination. Resolve. The chemical signature of a decision already made.
"What are you planning?" I asked, the words emerging sharper than intended.
She blinked, momentarily thrown by the abrupt question. "What?"
"You're planning something," I said, closing another few feet of distance between us. "I can smell it on you. The past three days, your scent has changed. Shifted. You've made some kind of decision."
The flash of alarm in her eyes confirmed my suspicion, making the hollow ache in my chest intensify. "My scent is none of your concern," she said, backing up until she hit the edge of the teacher's desk.
"Everything about you is my concern," I countered, the possessive declaration slipping out before I could stop it. "You're my fated mate. My perfect match. Mine."
The word echoed between us, heavy with implication. She flinched as if I'd struck her, her jasmine scent sharpening with anger and something that might have been fear.
"I'm not yours," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "I never agreed to be yours. What happened during my heat wasn't consent. It was impulse, triggered by months of systematic torment."
The Alpha in me was past caring about reasoning or patience or any of the careful control I'd been trying to maintain.
Two weeks of her pulling away, two weeks of watching her plan my rejection, two weeks of feeling the bond stretch and weaken while she researched ways to break what should be unbreakable.
Fuck that. Fuck all of it.
"The bond says otherwise," I growled, closing the final distance between us until I stood directly in front of her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. "You can feel it as clearly as I can. This connection between us. It's real. It's rare. It's precious."
Her pulse jumped at her throat, visible proof of her body's reaction to my proximity despite her mind's resistance. The claiming bite I'd left there was still visible against her pale skin, though faded to a pale scar she usually kept hidden.
"Back up," she said, her voice steadier than her scent would suggest. "You promised to respect my boundaries."
"And you promised to maintain the bond," I countered, frustration giving my voice a dangerous edge. "Yet every day, it grows weaker. Every meeting, you pull further away. What are you doing, Vespera? What are you planning that has your scent so... resolved?"
She didn't answer, but her eyes flickered with something that confirmed my worst fears. She wasn't establishing boundaries or processing trauma. She was actively working to break the bond, to sever the connection that nature itself had forged between us.