Chapter 13 Dorian #2
"Don't pretend this conversation means we're okay. We're not okay. We might never be okay." Her voice is steady now. Stronger. "But at least you finally listened. That's something."
"It's not enough."
"No. But it's a start."
Her footsteps fade. Moving away. Going to bed or the window or anywhere that isn't here.
I stay sitting. Back against the door. Head in my hands.
Thinking about a girl with dreams who deserved so much better than this.
So much better than me.
I find them in the kitchen at two AM.
Oakley's making tea no one will drink. Corvus is reviewing data on his tablet. Both look up when I enter.
"We need to talk," I say.
Corvus sets down the tablet. "About?"
"About what we're doing to her."
Oakley's shoulders tense. "Dorian—"
"We're killing her." The words come out flat. Raw. "Not saving her. Killing her. Slowly. And calling it protection."
"The rejection sickness—" Corvus starts.
"Is our fault. All of it. We pushed. Claimed. Then acted shocked when she ran. And now we're keeping her prisoner and wondering why she's not grateful." I look between them. "We're the villains in her story. Not the heroes."
Oakley sets down the kettle carefully. Like his hands are shaking. "I know."
"You know?"
"I've known since the beginning." His voice is quiet. Guilty. "But I didn't stop it. Didn't try hard enough. Because biology said this was right. And I've been trained my whole life to trust biology over everything else."
Corvus is watching us with those calculating eyes. "The data supports biological compatibility."
"Fuck the data." I meet his gaze. "Look at her, Corvus. Actually look at her. The way she flinches. The way she cries when she thinks no one can hear. The way she's breaking herself apart trying to keep some scrap of autonomy." I lean forward. "Is that what compatibility looks like?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "No."
"So what do we do?"
"We can't let her go," Oakley says. "She'll die. The rejection sickness is too advanced."
"And keeping her here is killing her too. Just slower. More painfully." I run my hands through my hair. "There has to be another option."
"There isn't." Corvus pulls up his tablet. Shows us charts. Graphs. Medical data. "The biology is clear. Either she accepts the bond or she dies. Those are the only outcomes."
"Then we make a third option."
"That's not how biology works."
"Then we change how we approach this." I stand. "We can't force it. Can't break her down until she accepts us. That's not a bond. That's ownership."
"So what?" Corvus leans back. "We let her reject us and die?"
"No. We..." I struggle to find words. "We earn it. Her acceptance. Her trust. We stop trying to make her submit and start trying to deserve her."
Oakley stares at me. "That could take months. Years. She might never—"
"I know."
"And the rejection sickness will keep getting worse. She's already—"
"I know that too." I meet his eyes. "But what's the alternative? Keep her prisoner until Stockholm syndrome kicks in? Force proximity until her biology overrides her will? That's not a mate. That's a captive."
Corvus is quiet for a long moment. Then: "You're suggesting we court her. While she's dying from rejecting us."
"I'm suggesting we give her actual choices. Real autonomy. Stop watching her. Stop controlling her. Start treating her like a person whose opinion matters."
"That's not how Alpha pack dynamics work," Oakley says quietly.
"Then maybe our dynamics are wrong."
The words hang in the air. Heresy. Everything we were taught says Alphas lead, Omegas follow. Biology determines hierarchy. Fighting it is fighting nature itself.
But I keep seeing her face. Hearing her voice. "You stole my future because biology said you could."
"I don't know if this will work," I admit. "Don't know if she'll ever forgive us. Ever want us. But at least we'll know we tried to do it right. That we saw her as a person with the right to choose."
"Even if she chooses to leave?" Corvus asks.
"Even then."
"You've lost your mind," Oakley says. But he's smiling slightly. "But fuck it. I'm in. I've felt sick about this since the beginning. At least this way I can look at myself in the mirror."
We both turn to Corvus.
He's studying his tablet. Not looking at us. "The rejection sickness is terminal without bond acceptance. If we do this your way—give her space, let her choose—we're gambling with her life."
"We're gambling with it either way," I say. "At least this way, if she dies, she dies free."
"That's not comforting."
"It's not meant to be."
Corvus closes his tablet. Looks at me with those dark eyes. "This is the most irrational decision you've ever made."
"I know."
"It goes against everything we were taught. Everything we are."
"I know."
"And I still think the biological imperative will win eventually. That given time and proper courting, she'll accept the bond."
"Maybe. But it has to be her choice."
He considers this. Then nods once. Sharp. Decided. "Then we do it right. No more cameras. No more locks. No more treating her like property." He meets my eyes. "We court her. Properly. Like she's a person we want, not a possession we own."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. This could kill her. And us." He stands. "But at least we'll die knowing we tried to be better than what we were."
Oakley picks up the kettle. Pours three cups of tea without ceremony. Hands them out.
We stand there holding our cups. Three alphas who took everything from an omega and are just now realizing what that means.
"So we start tomorrow?" Oakley asks.
"We start tomorrow," I confirm.
Corvus raises his cup slightly. "To probably failing spectacularly."
"Christ, you're optimistic tonight," Oakley mutters, but he's almost smiling.
I don't raise my cup. Just hold it, feeling the heat through the ceramic. "No more cameras by morning. I'll disable them myself."
"I'll remove the locks from her door," Corvus says. "All of them."
"And I'll..." Oakley trails off. "I'll try to figure out how to look her in the eye again."
We drink in silence.
When I head upstairs, I pass her door one more time. No sound from inside. Maybe she's sleeping. Maybe she's awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what fresh hell tomorrow will bring.
I keep walking. Don't stop. Don't knock.
It's not much. But it's a start.