Chapter 13 Dorian
thirteen
Dorian
I watch her slide down to the floor. Watch her body shake with the fever that's been burning through her for days now. Watch her press a hand between her thighs like she's in physical pain.
She is in pain. I can see it in every trembling line of her. In the way she curls into herself before forcing herself up on shaking legs.
My hand's already in my pants before I can stop myself.
This is wrong. Fuck, I know it's wrong. Knew it was wrong when I had Corvus install the cameras. When I started checking them every hour. When I began cataloging every move she makes, every breath, the way she looks when she thinks no one's watching.
But I can't stop.
Haven't been able to stop since she ran from me.
On screen, her bedroom door stays closed. The shower turns on. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Longer than her usual routine.
My cock is painfully hard, has been since the pool scene. Since watching her parade around in those obscene shorts, her scent flooding the air thick enough to choke on, that perfect body on display while she pretended not to know what she was doing to us.
To me.
I replay the footage for the third time today. Watch water stream down her body as she climbs out of the pool. The sports bra gone transparent, nipples hard and visible. Those tiny shorts clinging to curves that make my teeth ache.
Watch myself sitting at the pool's edge like a desperate fool. Hands shaking. Can barely fucking breathe.
Pathetic.
I stroke myself faster, pulling up the audio from this afternoon. Her voice cuts through the speakers—sharp, defiant. "Biology isn't consent."
That voice. Christ. Makes me want to pin her down and prove her wrong. Prove that biology is everything. That she wants this as much as I do, whether she'll admit it or not.
The shower's still running.
I imagine her in there right now. Wet and desperate and hating herself for it. Fingers between her legs because her body won't give her a choice. Thinking of me—of us—even though she'd rather die than admit it.
Biology doesn't give a fuck about pride.
My other hand brings up more footage. Her at dinner, that dress designed to drive me insane. The way she deliberately mentioned Ben. That Beta actor who got to touch her on stage. Got to put his hands on what's mine.
The fork I was holding bent in my grip. Actual fucking metal, warped from the force of my jealousy.
I'm coming before I realize it. Hot spurts across my hand, my desk, making a mess I don't care about. My body thinks it's close to getting what it needs. My biology screaming that she's here, she's close, just take her.
But I can't.
Won't.
Not like that. Not anymore.
When it's over, I'm left staring at the screen. Panting. Hating myself.
The shower stops.
I watch her stumble out, wrapped in a towel. Moving like every step costs her. She collapses on the bed without even getting under the covers. Just lies there staring at nothing.
I can see tear tracks on her face from this angle.
Something in my chest cracks. Wrong. Painful.
I close the laptop. Can't watch anymore. Can't keep witnessing what we're doing to her.
What I'm doing to her.
I sit in the darkening room as the sun sets. The house goes quiet around me. Corvus in his lab. Oakley in the kitchen making food she won't eat. And I'm here, spiraling, watching security feeds of my fated mate crying herself to sleep.
This wasn't the plan.
When did claiming her stop being about the bond and start being about control? About breaking her down until she had nothing left?
I think back to freshman year. Before she presented. Before biology rewrote everything.
She was auditioning for some production. Oakley dragged me along for "networking." I didn't give a shit about theater or networking or anything except maintaining the Ashworth image.
Then she stepped on stage.
Some monologue I don't even remember. But I remember her. The way she commanded that space. Made you believe every word even though everyone knew it was fiction. Made you forget there was a world outside that performance.
She didn't see me. Didn't know I existed.
And I thought—
What did I think?
Can't remember now. Can't separate the wanting from the needing from the fucking biological imperative that roared to life six months later when her scent changed.
When she became omega.
When she became mine.
Except she's not mine. Not really. I took her. Stole her. Locked her up and called it protection.
And somewhere between that audition and now, I stopped being Dorian Ashworth and became the villain in her story.
Midnight finds me outside her door.
Don't remember walking here. Don't remember deciding to come. But my hand's raised to knock and I can't make myself complete the gesture.
The security feed showed her tossing. Turning. Fever dreams making her thrash in those sheets.
Should go back. Should let her sleep. Should stop this obsessive need to check on her, control her, own every fucking second of her existence.
Should.
A sound stops me. Quiet. Broken.
Crying.
Not angry sobs like this afternoon. This is worse. This is defeat. The sound of someone who's run out of fight.
My hand drops to the doorknob. I have the key. Could go in. Could—
No.
I slide down to sit against the door instead. Back to wood. Knees up. Like I can protect her from the outside when I'm the thing she needs protection from.
"I know you're there."
Her voice. Raw from crying. Speaking through six inches of door like it's an ocean.
I say nothing. Can't.
"You watch me all the time anyway. The cameras. Might as well stop pretending you're not a fucking creep."
The words should sting. They don't. They're just truth.
"How long have you known?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
"Found the bedroom one yesterday. Bathroom's got a weird shadow in the corner. Living room this morning." She laughs, bitter and wet. "Very thorough. Very you."
Silence stretches between us. Just a door and six inches of space and every wrong choice I've made.
"You going to come in?" she asks. "Add rape to the list? Complete your villain origin story?"
The word hits like a fist. "No."
"Why not? You've done everything else."
Good fucking question. Why is this the line? Why is fucking her without consent too far when I've already stolen her freedom, her choices, her entire fucking life?
"I don't know," I admit.
More silence.
Then:
"My mother left when I was ten."
The shift throws me. "What?"
"You asked me about my family once. Before." Her voice goes distant. Hollow. "I told you she left. Never said why."
I press my palm flat against the door. Like I can feel her through it.
"I used to think it was my fault," she continues. "That I was too loud. Too dramatic. Too much. Thought if I'd been quieter, better, less... maybe she would've stayed."
Something in my chest twists.
"Then I presented. Omega." She takes a shaky breath that I can hear even through the wood. "And Dad still won't talk about her. Won't tell me anything. But sometimes I wonder..."
"Wonder what?"
"If she was omega too. If that's why she left." Her voice cracks. "Maybe she knew what would happen to me. Maybe she saw this coming and couldn't bear to watch."
I close my eyes. Lean my head back against the door.
"Or maybe she just couldn't take it anymore," Vespera says quietly. "Being someone's omega. Being claimed. Being owned. Maybe she ran and never looked back because staying meant losing herself completely."
A pause. Then softer: "Maybe that's why Dad never talks about her. Because once someone takes your choices, you can't ever really get them back, can you? Even if you escape, you're still the girl who was kept. The omega who couldn't get away."
"I'm sorry." The words are useless. Pathetic.
"You're not sorry you did it. You're sorry I'm not grateful for it."
The accuracy cuts. "That's not—"
"Isn't it?" She laughs, broken and sharp. "You took me because you wanted me. Because biology said you could. Because somewhere in your fucked-up Ashworth worldview, claiming what you want is the same as earning it."
Every word is a knife. Every word is deserved.
"I watched you on that stage," I say quietly. "Freshman year. Before you presented. Before any of this."
Silence.
"You were auditioning for something. Some play I don't even remember.
But I remember you. The way you commanded that space.
Made everyone believe." I press my hand harder against the door.
"And I wanted that. Wanted someone who could make me feel something real instead of this endless performance of being an Ashworth. "
"So you decided to own me?"
"No. I decided—" I stop. Start over. "I don't know what I decided. Can't remember anymore. Can't separate wanting you from needing you from the biology that says you're mine."
"I'm not yours."
"I know." The admission tastes like ash. "But I don't know how to stop wanting you to be."
Long silence on the other side. Six inches of wood and an ocean of harm I caused.
"I'm sorry," I say. Useless. Inadequate. "For all of it. I'm so fucking sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix anything, Dorian."
"I know."
"Sorry doesn't give me back my callback. My dreams. My future. My self."
"I know."
"Sorry doesn't change the fact that you stole my life because biology said you could."
"I know." My voice breaks. "I know it doesn't fix anything. But I need you to know I finally see it. See what we did. What I did. And I need you to know I'm sorry. Even if it doesn't matter."
Long silence.
Then:
"It matters." Barely a whisper. "It doesn't fix anything. But it matters."
Don't know how long we sit there. Both of us on opposite sides of a door. Both of us destroyed by choices that can't be unmade.
Eventually, I hear her move. Fabric rustling. Footsteps.
"Turn off the cameras," she says. "All of them. If you want forgiveness to even be possible someday, start with privacy."
"I will."
"And Dorian?"
"Yeah?"