Chapter 8 Vespera
eight
Vespera
The morning of my last day of freedom starts with blood in my mouth.
Not from throwing up this time—from biting through my lip during a rejection seizure. Thirty seconds of my body convulsing, muscles contracting like they're trying to tear themselves from bone. When it passes, I'm on the bathroom floor with Ben's sweater bunched under my head.
I'd fallen asleep at his place after we stayed up until 3 AM running lines.
Nothing happened—we just kissed lazily between scenes until I dozed off mid-sentence.
He must have carried me to his bathroom when the seizure started, must have sat with me through it, then left the sweater and a glass of water before going to his morning class.
The sweater smells like him. Cinnamon and safety.
I rinse the blood from my mouth and check my phone. I have an hour before morning movement class.
A text from an unknown number: Tonight.
My hands shake as I delete it. They're done waiting.
My body feels different today. Hollow. Like something essential has been scooped out, leaving just the shell. The bonds pulse weaker, almost gentle, like they're saying goodbye. Even the marks have stopped burning.
This is what the medical journals call "terminal acceptance"—when the rejected body stops fighting and prepares to shut down.
I have maybe 48 hours. Probably less.
"You look like death," Marcus says when I stumble into movement class ten minutes late.
"Thanks. I was going for 'ethereal tragedy.'"
He doesn't smile. "Take the day off. You're pushing too hard."
"The show opens in three weeks."
"And you'll be dead in three days if you keep this up." He says it matter-of-factly, but his eyes are worried. "I've seen rejection sickness before, Vespera. I know what the end looks like."
"Then you know I might as well dance while I can."
He studies me for a long moment. "Back row. If you fall, stay down."
I make it through the warm-up, barely. Through the across-the-floor combinations by holding the barre between passes. When we move to partnering work, Ben appears even though he's supposed to be in voice class.
"Marcus called me," he says, taking my weight easily as I stumble. "Said you needed a spotter."
"I'm fine."
"Liar." But he says it gently, his hands steady on my waist as we move through the combination. He's essentially dancing for both of us, making my stumbles look intentional, my weakness look like artistic choice.
After class, he walks me to the café. Orders for both of us. Watches me pick at a bagel I can't swallow.
"We should talk about what happens when—"
"When I die?" I interrupt. "We don't. We run lines, we rehearse, we pretend everything's normal."
"That's not—"
"Ben." I take his hand across the table. My fingers twitch involuntarily—a new symptom. "Please. Just give me today. One more normal day."
He squeezes my fingers. "You're having micro-seizures. I can feel them."
"I know."
"We're going to the ER. Right now."
"After tonight's rehearsal."
"Vespera—"
"Please." My voice cracks. "Let me finish the run-through. Let me do this one last thing. Then you can take me wherever you want."
He studies my face for a long moment. "Promise me. Right after rehearsal, we go to the hospital."
"I promise," I lie.
"And you'll call your dad? Let him know what's happening?"
"Sure," I lie again.
He seems satisfied, but then adds, "You know, my ex was an Omega. She used to do this thing where she'd promise stuff just to avoid conflict."
The comparison stings, even though he doesn't mean it to. "I'm not your ex."
"I know. You're stronger." He pauses. "But sometimes being strong means accepting help."
It's sweet. He's sweet. But there's something about the way he says it—like he's already figured me out, already knows what's best—that reminds me why Beta-Omega relationships rarely work. They want to help. Alphas want to possess. Neither really understands the need to simply survive.
The afternoon rehearsal is perfect.
Maybe because I know it's my last one. Maybe because my body has stopped fighting and given me these final hours of clarity. Or maybe because Ben and I have found something real in our stage chemistry, something that transcends the Greek tragedy we're performing.
"Of all the humans that live and have minds, we women are the most wretched creatures," I declare as Medea, and every woman in the room leans forward.
My left hand goes numb mid-monologue. I switch the prop dagger to my right without missing a beat.
Ben's Jason is magnificent in his casual cruelty, his entitled certainty that I should accept his betrayal gracefully. When he says "You should have thought of the children," the temperature in the room drops.
"The children," I say, letting Medea's madness creep into my voice, "will be better off dead than living with your betrayal."
My vision whites out for two seconds during his response. When it comes back, Ben has shifted position slightly, ready to catch me if I fall. He's been doing it all rehearsal—tiny adjustments to support me without the directors noticing.
We run the scene where Medea gives Jason the poisoned gifts for his new bride. My hands shake as I hand over the props—not from acting, but from my body failing. Ben grabs my wrists, turning my tremor into Medea's suppressed rage, holding me steady when my knees buckle for just a moment.
"You're brilliant," Marcus says when we finish. "Both of you. This is going to be extraordinary."
Three weeks until opening. I won't be there.
Between afternoon and evening rehearsal, Ben takes me to the roof.
"I know you're lying about being okay," he says. "I know tonight is goodbye."
"Ben—"
"No, let me say this." He cups my face gently. "This week with you has been everything. You're magnificent and terrible and broken and perfect. I'm halfway in love with you and completely in awe of you."
"Don't—"
"I have to." He kisses me, soft and sweet and so different from the Alphas' demanding passion. "Whatever happens tonight, know that someone saw you. The real you. Not the Omega, not the rejected mate, not the dying girl. You. Vespera. And she was fucking incredible."
I kiss him back, pouring everything I can't say into it. When we break apart, we're both crying.
He pulls something from his pocket—a cheap theater token, the kind they sell at the gift shop. Comedy and tragedy masks.
"For luck," he says, pressing it into my palm. "For Medea's final performance."
"Ben, I—"
"Tomorrow, we'll go to that Thai place you mentioned," he says, and we both know he's lying. "You'll get the pad thai, I'll steal your spring rolls, and we'll argue about whether method acting is pretentious."
"It is pretentious," I say, playing along.
"See? We're already arguing." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "After you're better, maybe we could... I don't know. See where this goes? I know I'm just a Beta, and you're probably meant for something more dramatic than what I can offer, but—"
"You're not 'just' anything," I interrupt, though we both hear what he's not saying. That even if I lived, even if I got better, we both know Betas and Omegas rarely work long-term. The chemistry is comfortable but not consuming. Safe but not satisfying.
"Right," he says, and kisses me one more time, gentle and sad.
We stay on the roof until the sun sets, Columbus spreading out below us in lights and possibility. Somewhere out there, three Alphas are preparing to take back what they think is theirs.
But right now, in this moment, I belong to no one but myself.
Late rehearsal runs until 11 PM.
Marcus waves from the booth. The other actors call out their goodnights. I take a moment in the wings, breathing in the smell of the theater—sawdust and dreams and possibility. The theater token Ben gave me burns in my pocket.
Then I walk out the front door alone.
11:15 PM. The street is mostly empty. A few late-night stragglers, a couple making out against a building, the distant sound of music from a bar.
I'm three blocks from the dorms when the black SUV pulls alongside me.
I don't run. Can't run. My legs are barely keeping me upright as it is.
The doors open. Dorian steps out first, and even in the darkness I can see he looks destroyed—weight loss, hollow eyes, the kind of desperate hunger that speaks of weeks without sleep.
"Vespera." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a curse.
Corvus emerges next, controlled as always but there's something wrong with his hands—they keep clenching and unclenching like he's fighting not to reach for me.
Oakley's the last out, and the guilt on his face is almost enough to make me feel sorry for him. Almost.
"Get in the car," Dorian says. Not a request.
"No."
"You're dying," Corvus states. "Forty-eight hours maximum before complete organ failure. We can help—"
"I'd rather die."
"You don't get to die." Dorian's voice drops to something darker, more raw. "You're mine. You've always been mine. And I'm not letting you throw yourself away out of spite."
"I don't need anyone."
"Your body says otherwise." Corvus pulls out his phone, shows me something—medical data, charts. "Your rejection markers are critical. Your organs are shutting down. We can fix this."
"There is no 'we.'"
"There's always been a 'we,'" Oakley says quietly. "From the moment we scented you—"
"Don't." I take a step back, but my leg gives out.
Dorian catches me before I fall, his arms around me sending conflicting signals through my dying nervous system—relief and revulsion, need and rage.
"Let go—"
The world fractures. My back arches, muscles locking in violent spasm. I hear Dorian curse, feel myself being lifted. His scent floods my senses, making everything worse as my body recognizes its rejected mate and screams for what I won't give it.
"Hospital," Oakley's saying. "We need to—"
"No," Corvus interrupts. "The house. Everything's prepared."
I try to protest but my jaw is locked, teeth clenched. Blood fills my mouth again.
They carry me to the SUV. Dorian slides into the back with me in his lap, my head against his chest. His heartbeat is too fast, desperate. His hands shake as he strokes my hair.
"I have you now," he whispers, and it sounds like both a promise and a threat. "You're never running from me again."
The seizure finally passes as we pull away. I can speak again, though my voice is weak.
"Ben," I whisper. "Tell Ben—"
"Forget him." Dorian's arms tighten. "You're ours. You've always been ours."
"My show—"
"Your show doesn't matter. Theater doesn't matter. Nothing matters except keeping you alive."
"It matters to me."
He looks down at me, and for a moment I see past the Alpha possession to something almost like understanding. "I know," he says quietly. "But you matter more."
The lights of Columbus fade as we head north. Toward wherever they're taking me. Toward whatever they have planned.
The theater token digs into my palm where I'm clutching it. My last piece of the life I chose, the person I was trying to become.
They're taking me somewhere. They have a plan.
And I'm too weak to stop them.