Chapter 17 Vespera
seventeen
Vespera
I wake up feeling... better.
Not good. Not healed. But better.
The fever that's been my constant companion for weeks is lower. Still there, hovering around 99 instead of 101. My left hand, which has been shaking for days, is steadier. The tremor is gone when I flex my fingers.
Being near them is helping.
I hate that. Hate that my body is rewarding proximity to my kidnappers. Hate that the biology they claimed gives them is actually working.
But I can't deny it anymore.
Since they brought me here—breathing their scents, sleeping under the same roof—my rejection sickness has stabilized. Not gone. Still sick. But not actively dying anymore.
Sitting up, I survey my room.
The door is unlocked. Has been since Dorian gave me my phone back.
I could leave. Could try again.
But where would I go? Back to dying? Back to Columbus where everyone would see me as claimed property?
No. Stuck here. At least until I figure out what survival looks like.
Which means testing the new boundaries.
After getting dressed and pulling my hair into a messy bun, I walk downstairs like I own the place.
They're all in the kitchen. Dorian making coffee. Oakley doing something with eggs. Corvus reading the news on his tablet.
All three freeze when I enter.
"Morning," I say.
"Morning," Dorian says carefully. The way you'd address a live grenade.
"Can I use the kitchen? I want to make toast."
Silence.
"Of course," Oakley says. "Whatever you need."
Toast. Butter. Orange juice. I settle at the kitchen island like this is normal.
They're all watching me. Trying not to be obvious about it. Failing spectacularly.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," Dorian says. "You seem better."
"I am better." I bite into the toast. "Proximity is helping. Like Corvus said it would."
"That's good," Oakley says. Too enthusiastic. Too eager.
Turning to Corvus, I set down my toast. "Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"In your research. About fated mates. About rejection sickness. How long until I'm... stable?"
He sets down his tablet. "Define stable."
"Not dying if I leave."
His eyes hold mine. "Years. Maybe never. The bond is permanent. Distance will always cause deterioration."
"So I'm stuck."
"Biologically, yes."
The truth of it settles in my chest. Heavy. Unmovable. Already knew it, but hearing it confirmed is different.
"Okay," I say. "Then I need different rules."
Dorian leans against the counter. "What kind of rules?"
"Full access to the house. No locked doors except my own bedroom. I want my laptop back with internet. I want to be able to go outside without supervision."
"Done," he says immediately.
I blink. "Really?"
"You're not a prisoner, Vespera. We brought you here to save your life. If you're willing to stay, willing to try... then yes. Whatever you need."
"I want movie night," I say. Testing further. "Tonight. All four of us. I pick the movie."
Oakley lights up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. If we're doing this—if I'm stuck here anyway—then we should... I don't know. Try to be normal. Or whatever passes for normal."
Corvus's lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Movie night. I can work with that."
So that's how I spend the day.
Reading in the library. Making lunch. Walking the property while they all pretend not to watch from the windows.
Testing the new boundaries and finding them actually holding.
Oakley asks if I want help making dinner. I let him.
Corvus tells a story about his sister. Dorian asks if I need anything from my room.
It's so aggressively normal that it feels surreal.
But also... nice?
No. Not nice. I'm not allowed to think it's nice.
Still, my body is relaxed in a way it hasn't been since before Northwood. The constant tension, the fight-or-flight panic, the bone-deep terror—all of it muted.
Being near them is doing something to me.
Something biological I can't control.
"Movie at eight?" Dorian asks as we clean up.
I nod.
The living room has a massive sectional couch facing an equally massive TV. I claim one end, tucking my feet under me, putting deliberate space between me and them.
"What do you want to watch?" Oakley asks, holding the remote with both hands.
"Something not romantic," I say. "And not... anything with kidnapping."
"Action?" Corvus suggests.
"Sure."
They let me pick from the options. I choose something with explosions and minimal feelings. Safe.
Dorian sits on the other end of the sectional. Oakley takes the middle. Corvus settles in the chair.
The movie starts.
Ten minutes in, Oakley gets up to make popcorn. Comes back with a huge bowl that he sets between us.
"Thanks," I say automatically.
Twenty minutes in, the realization hits: I'm actually watching. Not thinking about escape. Not cataloging exits. Watching the screen like a normal person on a normal movie night.
Thirty minutes in, my body starts doing something I don't expect.
It wants to be closer.
Not mentally. My mind is still firmly in the "they kidnapped me" camp.
But my biology is pulling me toward them. Toward Dorian specifically. The primary bond.
A shift. Pretending to get comfortable.
Another.
By the halfway point, I'm in the middle of the sectional. Closer to Dorian than Oakley.
When did I move?
"Cold?" Dorian asks quietly.
Actually, yes. The fever's down, which means I'm actually feeling cold for the first time in weeks.
"A little."
He reaches behind him, pulls out a blanket, offers it.
Taking it, I wrap myself up.
The movie continues. An explosion on screen. Someone shouts. But I'm barely paying attention anymore because my body is doing something insane.
Leaning toward Dorian.
Slightly. Enough that the space between us shrinks from a foot to six inches.
His scent is stronger here. Sandalwood and something else—something that makes my hindbrain purr with recognition.
No. Absolutely not. We are not purring.
But I don't move away.
The next shift is unconscious. My shoulder brushes his.
He goes very still.
Should move. Should put the distance back.
I stay.
Five minutes later, I'm leaning against him.
Not cuddling. Definitely not cuddling. Using him as a backrest. Because the couch arm is too far away and he's right here and my body is tired of fighting.
His arm comes around me slowly. Carefully.
I let him.
Oakley makes a sound—quickly suppressed. When I glance over, he's staring at the TV with laser focus, clearly trying not to look at us.
Corvus's book hasn't turned a page in ten minutes.
Don't care.
Because I'm warm for the first time in weeks. And Dorian smells good. And my body is melting into his like muscle memory, like blocking I've rehearsed a thousand times until it's automatic.
I hate this.
But I'm not moving.
His hand settles on my hip. Thumb tracing small circles through the blanket. Not sexual. Touch. Connection.
My eyes drift closed.
"Tired?" he murmurs.
"Mmm."
"You can sleep. I've got you."
Should terrify me. Should send me running.
But I'm so warm. And so comfortable. And so tired of fighting my own biology.
"For a minute," I say.
"Okay."
Eyes closed.
The movie plays on. Voices and explosions and soundtrack swelling. All of it distant now.
All I can feel is Dorian's chest rising and falling beneath my cheek. His arm secure around me. His scent wrapping me in safety my mind knows is false but my body accepts anyway.
"She's asleep," Oakley whispers.
"I know."
"Dorian—"
"Don't. Let her rest."
Silence.
Then Corvus: "Her temperature's down. Pulse is steady. The proximity is working."
"I can feel it," Dorian says quietly. "The bond. It's stronger when she's close."
"Is she...?" Oakley trails off.
"Getting better? Yeah. Slowly. But yeah."
More silence.
Should tell them I'm awake. That I can hear them.
But I don't want to break whatever this is.
This almost-normal moment where I'm not dying and they're not monsters and we're existing together without script or blocking or performance.
"Her heat's coming," Corvus says, clinical as ever. "Soon. Maybe a week."
"I know."
"We need to discuss boundaries. Parameters. She needs to be in control."
"I know that too."
"Do you?" Corvus's voice is sharp. "Because your track record on respecting her autonomy is—"
"I said I know." Dorian's arm tightens around me slightly. Protective. "When it happens, it's her call. All of it. I'm not... I won't be what we were before."
"We," Oakley says quietly. "We won't be what we were before."
The weight of that settles in the room.
I drift, not quite asleep, not quite awake. Floating in the warmth and safety my body insists is real.
At some point, the movie ends. Credits roll.
"Should we move her?" Oakley asks.
"No," Dorian says. "Let her stay."
"You're going to sit here all night?"
"If that's what she needs."
Footsteps. Oakley and Corvus leaving. The lights dimming.
Dorian and me on the couch.
His hand moves to my hair, fingers carding through it gently.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. So quiet I almost don't hear it. "For all of it. For hunting you. For taking you. For hurting you. I know sorry doesn't fix it. But I am."
Should say something. Should acknowledge the apology.
Too tired.
And maybe... maybe I don't want to break this moment either.
So I breathe. In and out. His scent filling my lungs.
And somewhere deep inside, something I've been fighting for weeks finally releases.
My shoulders drop. My jaw unclenches. The constant braced-for-impact tension drains from my muscles.
Not forgiveness.
Not acceptance.
Intermission.
A pause in the performance where I stop fighting long enough to catch my breath. Where biology gets its moment in the spotlight while my resistance waits in the wings.
I need them to live.
They're trying to be better.
For tonight, I'll let my body have this.
Tomorrow I'll decide what that means.