Chapter 7 Vespera
seven
Vespera
Week two starts with me throwing up blood.
Just a little. Just enough to know that something inside is breaking down faster than I thought. Mouth rinsed, teeth brushed, extra concealer applied to the dark circles that have become permanent fixtures under my eyes.
"Morning, evening star!" Ben calls through my door. "Coffee's on me if you're ready in five!"
"Be right there!"
This has become our routine. He brings coffee, I pretend to drink it, we walk to morning movement class together. He tells jokes, I laugh, we both ignore that I have to stop twice to catch my breath on a five-minute walk.
"You're getting better." His hands gesture optimistically. "You're not as pale."
That's because I've started using bronzer to fake healthy color. But I let him think what he wants. Let myself think it too, sometimes, in the moments between when my body reminds me I'm dying.
Movement class is torture. Every stretch pulls at muscles that ache from rejection, every jump makes my vision blur. But I've gotten good at positioning myself behind taller people, at making my stumbles look like artistic choices.
"Beautiful work, Vespera," the instructor calls as I barely complete a turn sequence. "Such raw emotion in your movement."
If only she knew the emotion was just trying not to collapse.
Ben partners me for the contact improvisation section, his hands steady and safe on my waist. "Lean on me." A whisper. "I've got you."
And he does. For the past week, he's been subtly supporting me—a hand on my back during scene study, sharing his lunch when I "forget" mine, making sure I have a ride back to the dorms after late rehearsals.
"You don't have to take care of me." Yesterday's conversation.
"I'm not." His response was quick, hands forming a frame around the words. "I'm being selfish. You make me better on stage, so I need you functional."
But the way he looks at me says otherwise.
Afternoon rehearsal for Medea is where I come alive. Whatever's killing my body can't touch me when I'm her. For three hours, I'm not a dying omega—I'm an ancient force of vengeance.
"From the beginning," Marcus calls. "Vespera, I want to see that thing you did yesterday—where you go completely still before the explosion."
The thing I did yesterday was almost faint, had to lock my knees to stay upright, and turned it into a character choice. But it worked.
Ben crosses to me for our confrontation scene, and the chemistry is undeniable. Every accusation Medea hurls at Jason, every defense he makes—we're electric together.
"Brilliant," Marcus says when we finish. "The sexual tension even through the hatred—maintain that."
Sexual tension. Ben catches my eye and grins, not embarrassed at all.
"Method acting?" His wink is theatrical, hands spreading in mock innocence.
"You wish."
But there is something there. Has been building all week.
The way he finds excuses to touch me—adjusting my scarf, fixing my hair, his hand on my lower back guiding me through doorways.
The way I've started looking forward to seeing him each morning, how his Beta scent has become something comforting instead of just neutral.
It's nothing like the explosive chemistry with the Alphas. It's gentler, warmer, like sunshine instead of lightning. It doesn't make my body betray me, doesn't override my will. It just... is.
That night, we eat in his room—well, he eats and I push food around—while running lines. His roommate is never there, always with his boyfriend, so it's just us. Comfortable. Easy.
"Can I ask you something?" A break in the lines.
"Sure."
"The Alphas who did this to you—do you miss them?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"I mean, I know they hurt you. I know you ran. But the bond... doesn't it make you miss them anyway?"
Thinking about lying happens. But he's been nothing but honest with me.
"Every second." The admission. "My body screams for them constantly. Even knowing what they did, what they are, the biological pull is..." A trail off. "It's like being addicted to something that's poisoning you."
"That sounds like hell."
"It is."
He moves closer on the bed, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel his warmth. "Is there anything that helps?"
"Distraction. Work. The show." A pause. "You."
"Me?"
"You're... calm. Safe. You don't make my biology go haywire. You just make me feel like a person."
"You are a person." Softly. "A brilliant, strong, slightly terrifying person who's going to make everyone cry when you perform Medea."
"Slightly terrifying?"
"Okay, very terrifying. In the best way." He reaches out, slowly enough that I could stop him, and takes my hand. "Is this okay?"
A nod. His hand is warm, callused from tech work, human. Not possessive, not claiming, just... holding.
"I like you." Simply. "I know you're dealing with massive trauma and literal biological rejection and we've only known each other a week, but I really like you, Vespera."
"I'm dying." Because he deserves honesty. "The rejection is killing me. I might not make it through the program."
"I know."
"And you still—"
"I still like you. Whether it's six weeks or six days or whatever we get." His hand squeezes mine. "No pressure. No expectations. Just... this. Whatever you're comfortable with."
Leaning into him happens, letting my head rest on his shoulder. He smells like sawdust and Thai food and safety. "This is nice."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
We stay like that, reading lines, his thumb tracing patterns on my hand.
It's the calmest I've felt in weeks. The marks still throb, the fever still burns, my body still craves its mates.
But for right now, in this moment, I can pretend I'm just a theater student with a crush on a sweet boy who brings her coffee.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
You can't run forever.
Delete it immediately, but my hands shake. Ben notices.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Spam."
But the peace is shattered. I can feel it in the way the bonds pulse differently, like they're getting closer. The way my body temperature spikes for no reason. The way I catch phantom scents of sandalwood and cedar and mint on the wind.
"Walk me home?" Even though my dorm is literally next door.
"Always."
At my door, he hesitates. "Vespera?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever happens, whatever you're running from... you don't have to face it alone. Not anymore."
If only that were true.
A kiss to his cheek, quick and light, and I slip inside before I can see his reaction. Through the door, his soft voice carries: "Goodnight, evening star."
Collapsing on my bed happens fully clothed. Tomorrow is another eighteen-hour day. Tomorrow I have to pretend I'm getting better, not worse. Tomorrow I have to be Medea and fight off death and ignore the feeling that predators are circling.
But I'm so tired. And the marks hurt so much. And somewhere, three Alphas are planning something I can't stop.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Ben: Sweet dreams. Can't wait to be destroyed by you on stage tomorrow.
Despite everything, I smile. Because for one week, I got to feel normal. Got to flirt with a nice boy. Got to be just Vespera, not an omega rejecting her mates.
Whatever happens next, I had this week.
The fever spikes again, higher than before. Barely making it to the bathroom before throwing up more blood—more than this morning. My body is shutting down faster now, like it knows they're coming and is giving up the fight.
The show opens in four weeks. I just need to last until then. Just need to perform Medea once, show everyone what happens when you push someone too far, when you take away their choices, when you corner something wild.
But curling up in bed, shaking from fever and exhaustion, the truth is clear.
Four weeks won't happen.
Maybe not even four days.
Outside my window, Columbus glitters with theater lights and possibility. But all I can see are shadows that might be them, coming to take back what they think is theirs.
"You can't run forever," I whisper to the darkness.
But I'll run until I can't anymore.
Even if it's only for one more day.