Chapter 10 Vespera
ten
Vespera
Sunlight wakes me. That and the smell of food that makes my stomach cramp with hunger I've been ignoring for days.
The fever broke sometime in the night. I feel marginally human—weak, angry, but thinking clearly for the first time since the seizure. The IV is still in my arm, the monitors still beeping, but I can move without the room spinning.
Time to figure out exactly how fucked I am.
The closet first. I need to see what Dorian's sick fantasy looks like.
It's worse than expected. Designer clothes that cost more than Dad makes in a month. Lingerie that makes my skin crawl knowing he picked it out, imagined me wearing it. Everything fits perfectly. He's been planning this.
The clothes smell like Alpha pheromones. Subtle but there. He marked everything with his scent like a dog pissing on territory.
I pull on jeans and the least offensive shirt I can find. Even these probably cost hundreds. The fabric feels like wealth I'll never have.
A knock. Oakley enters without waiting for permission, carrying a tray with the kind of careful balance he uses on stage—years of movement training showing in how he doesn't spill a drop.
"You're up." He sounds relieved, that warm performer's voice he uses to put people at ease. "Corvus wants to check your vitals."
"Corvus can fuck off."
"He's trying to help."
"He's trying to control. There's a difference."
Oakley sets the tray down: toast, fruit, pills I don't recognize. Invalid food for their invalid prisoner.
"You need to eat."
"What I need is to leave."
"You can barely stand."
"Watch me."
I push myself up, legs shaking but holding. I make it three steps before the dizziness hits. Oakley catches my arm with theatrical grace—because of course, he's a theater major too. We took movement classes together freshman year before everything went to hell.
"Careful," he says, and even now his voice has that resonant quality he works so hard to cultivate. Rich and concerned and designed to make audiences trust him.
"Don't use your performance voice on me."
He actually looks hurt. "I'm not performing."
"You're always performing. It's what you do."
"What we do," he corrects. "Or did you forget you're a theater major too?"
The reminder of what I'm missing—classes, rehearsals, the show—makes my chest tight.
"Not anymore. Thanks to you."
"We didn't make you run—"
"You made staying impossible."
Before he can respond, Corvus enters with his tablet, fingers already swiping through data. He looks like he's about to present quarterly earnings instead of discussing my captivity.
"Good, you're conscious. We need to discuss your situation." He's already pulling up graphs, the scientist in him needing visual proof of everything.
"My situation is false imprisonment."
"Your situation is terminal rejection sickness." He turns the screen toward me—graphs, medical data, timelines all color-coded and annotated. "You have approximately thirty-six hours before complete organ failure."
"You're not a doctor."
"No, but I've done extensive research." He swipes to another screen, shows me academic papers he's somehow accessed. "Your symptoms follow documented patterns. Fever, seizures, organ dysfunction—"
"I know what's happening to my body."
"Then you know you're dying."
"I know."
The simple acceptance seems to throw him. His analytical mind expects fear, bargaining, desperation. Not this flat acknowledgment that doesn't compute with his data.
"We can help—"
"By keeping me prisoner?"
"By providing support through the rejection crisis." He's already making notes on his tablet, probably updating some spreadsheet tracking my symptoms.
"That's not how rejection works and you know it."
Dorian appears in the doorway like he was summoned by conflict, drawn by the sound of my voice raising. "The technical details don't matter. What matters is keeping you alive."
"What matters to you is keeping your toy from breaking."
Something dangerous flashes in those ice-blue eyes. "You're not a toy."
"Then what am I?"
"Mine."
The word hangs between us, possessive and absolute. Pure Dorian—no nuance, no negotiation, just brutal ownership.
"I'm not—"
"Your body says otherwise." He moves into the room with that predatory grace, bringing his scent with him—all Alpha dominance and expensive cologne. "Even now, dying, you respond to me."
He's right and I hate it. My traitorous biology recognizes him, wants him, even while my mind screams refusal.
"Stephanie's looking for you," Corvus says suddenly, glancing at his phone. "She's called the police. Filed a missing persons report."
My heart jumps. "She has?"
"Guilt makes people do unexpected things." His tone is clinical, analyzing her motivations like a case study. "Too bad she didn't feel guilty when you actually needed her."
Using Stephanie against me is cruel, calculated. Exactly what I expect from them.
"At least she's trying now."
"Now is too late." Dorian's voice drops to that dangerous purr. "We've covered everything. Your father thinks you're getting medical treatment. The theater program thinks you had a family emergency. That boy Ben thinks you left because you were too sick to continue."
Each word cuts. Ben thinks I abandoned him. The show. Everything.
"He seemed quite concerned," Corvus adds, scrolling through what I realize with horror are my text messages. He's been monitoring my phone. "Several texts asking if you were okay. Offering to visit. We had to be creative with the responses."
"You pretended to be me?"
"We protected you from complications." Said like he's explaining a security protocol, not a violation.
"You isolated me from anyone who might help."
"Same thing," Dorian says with a shrug.
The casual admission of their manipulation makes me want to scream. Instead, I pick up the toast, take a small bite. I need strength if I'm going to fight them.
"Good," Dorian says, and the approval in his voice—like I'm a dog who finally obeyed—makes me want to throw the plate at him.
"Dinner will be at six," Corvus announces, already making a note on his tablet. Probably scheduling it. "Downstairs, all together. Pack proximity will help stabilize your symptoms."
"I'm not eating with you."
"You are."
"You can't."
"We can," Dorian cuts me off, stepping closer with that theatrical intensity he learned from years of drama classes. "You can walk or be carried. Choose."
They leave me with that ultimatum. I wait until their footsteps fade, then explore more carefully.
The windows are reinforced—I can tell by how they don't vibrate when I tap them. The balcony door is basically decoration. The bathroom window is smaller but also sealed.
Six o'clock. I dress carefully—something Dorian picked out, a dress that shows enough skin to be distracting without being obvious. If I'm playing this game, I need every advantage.
The dining room is ridiculous. Formal place settings, candles, wine I won't drink. All three of them cleaned up and waiting like this is normal.
"You came," Oakley says, standing to pull out my chair with perfect gentleman's timing. Ever the performer, hitting his marks.
"Did I have a choice?"
"There's always a choice," Corvus says, watching me sit with that analytical gaze. "You just don't like the options."
Dinner is perfectly prepared—soup, fish, things designed for someone whose stomach has been rejecting everything. They know exactly how sick I am.
"Tell us about the show," Oakley says, trying for normal conversation with that warm interest he uses to draw people out. "Medea, right?"
The question surprises me. "How—"
"We've been monitoring everything," Corvus answers, tapping his tablet like he's referencing files. "You got the lead. Impressive casting for a second-year."
"Ben got Jason," I say, watching Dorian's jaw tighten at the name. "We had incredible chemistry on stage."
"Chemistry," Dorian repeats, the word sharp as a blade.
"The director said we were electric together. The way he touched me during the intimate scenes—"
Dorian's fork bends. Actually bends in his grip, that Alpha strength barely contained.
"Careful," I continue, meeting his eyes. "That's probably expensive silverware."
"Everything here is expensive," he says. "Including you."
"I'm not—"
The room spins suddenly, vision blurring. Not a seizure, just my body reminding me I'm dying. I grip the table, trying not to show weakness.
Oakley's beside me immediately, hand on my forehead with the gentle touch he probably uses with scene partners. "You're burning up again."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." His healer's instinct kicking in even as he signals the others. "Dorian, she needs—"
"I know what she needs."
Dorian lifts me from the chair before I can protest. His scent surrounds me and my body betrays me by relaxing into it, the rejection symptoms easing slightly just from his proximity.
"Put me down."
"No."
He carries me upstairs while I save my energy for what matters. The bobby pin is still in my pocket. Tonight, after they think I'm asleep, I'll work on that bathroom window frame.
"This isn't over," I tell him as he sets me on the bed.
"No," he agrees, brushing hair from my face with surprising gentleness. "It's just beginning."
They leave me with water, medication, and the suffocating weight of their concern. I wait an hour, then two, until the house is quiet.
Time to test that window frame.
Even if it kills me, I'm getting out of here.