Chapter 11 Vespera #2
Silence stretches between us. Outside, I hear the lake lapping at the shore. Birds calling. Normal sounds from a normal world where I'm not trapped by my own DNA.
"I need to think."
"Of course." He sits back down, already turning to his computer. Dismissing me. "Lunch is at one. I suggest you eat something. Protein deficiency is exacerbating your symptoms."
I leave before I start crying. Before I do something stupid like ask if it's real. If this is really happening.
The hallway feels endless. Past Oakley still pretending to read, his eyes following me with guilty concern. Past the kitchen where staff are preparing food. Past windows showcasing paradise wrapped in prison.
Dorian's waiting outside my door.
Of course he is.
"Corvus tell you?" His voice is rough. Like he hasn't slept either.
I try to push past him. He catches my arm—gentle but firm. The touch sends electricity through me. Wrong. Right. Devastating.
"Let go."
"Did he tell you?"
"Yes." I yank my arm free but the skin still tingles. "Genetic compatibility. Fated mates. All three of you. Congratulations. You didn't choose me. Your DNA did."
Something flickers in his expression. His jaw tightens.
"That's not—"
"Isn't it? You couldn't help yourselves. Biology made you do it. Must be nice having an excuse."
"It's not an excuse," he says quietly, stepping closer. "It's a reason. Maybe the only one that makes sense of this whole fucked up situation."
"The situation where you kidnapped me?"
"The situation where we're all suffering." Another step. He's so close now I can see gold flecks in his dark eyes. "You think this is easy for us? Watching you reject something you need? Feeling you pull away when every instinct says you're ours?"
"I'm not yours."
"The data says otherwise."
"Fuck the data!" I'm shouting again. "Fuck your tests and your percentages and your biological destiny! I'm not some genetic match to be claimed. I'm a person. And I didn't consent to any of this!"
"You think I wanted this?" His voice rises to match mine. "You think I wanted to feel like I'm dying every second you're not close? To lose sleep and weight and my fucking mind over a stubborn omega who won't admit she needs us as much as we need her?"
"I don't need you!"
"Your body says different."
"My body isn't me!"
We're inches apart now. Both breathing hard. The air between us crackles with pheromones and anger and something darker.
His scent is overwhelming. My body responds—heat pooling, a whimper building in my throat that I barely swallow down.
He notices. Of course he does. His pupils blow wide.
"You feel it too," he breathes.
I do. God help me, I do.
"You're killing yourself to prove a point," Dorian says, hands clenched at his sides.
"Better than surrendering to avoid the pain."
"That's not strength. That's stupidity."
"Call it whatever you want. I'm not giving up my autonomy because some test says we're compatible."
"Even if it means dying?"
"Even then."
We stare at each other. The moment stretches. Taut as wire.
His hand lifts. Almost touches my face. I can feel the heat of his palm hovering near my cheek.
Then he drops it. Steps back. The loss feels like grief.
"Lunch is at one," he says flatly.
"I'm not eating with you."
"Yes. You are." His voice goes cold. "You can walk down or be carried. But you're eating. Doctor's orders."
He leaves me standing there. Shaking with rage and exhaustion.
Inside my room, I lock the door—pointless, since I'm sure they have keys—and lean against it. My legs give out. I slide down to the floor.
The screens from Corvus's study burn behind my eyes. 99.97%. Three times. One in fifty million odds.
Biology as prison. Genetics as chains.
But my body doesn't care. Between my thighs, I'm wet. Aching. Every nerve ending screaming for something I won't give it.
The clock reads 11:47. Hour and thirteen minutes until mandatory lunch.
I look at my closet. At the clothes Dorian picked out. At the person he wants me to be.
Then I look at myself in the mirror.
Cornered. Claimed. Collared by genetics.
But not beaten.
If biology is their weapon, then biology can be mine.
I stand. Walk to the closet with purpose.
Past the expensive dresses. Past the lingerie. Past designer jeans and silk blouses and cashmere sweaters. All chosen by Dorian. All meant to dress me like a doll.
Then I find the athletic section. A few swimsuits. Workout clothes.
Tiny athletic shorts in black. A sports bra-style top.
I pull them out. Hold them up to the light.
This is tactical. Strategic deployment of assets. They want to play the biology card? Fine.
Let's see how they handle it when biology works against them.
I change quickly. Before I can second-guess. The shorts are obscene—high-cut, showing miles of leg. The top clings in ways that leave nothing to imagination.
But it's not lingerie. It's athletic wear. Perfectly reasonable for swimming on a hot June afternoon.
The fact that my scent will intensify with heat and water? That's just biology.
The same biology they keep throwing in my face.
I look at myself in the mirror.
Still me. Still furious. But something else too.
Strategic.
If they want to claim we're fated mates driven by genetic destiny, fine. If they want to say biology is everything, fine.
But biology cuts both ways.
And I'm going to make them suffer.