Chapter 29 Corvus
twenty-nine
Corvus
The bureaucratic delay bought us eight days.
Eight days instead of arriving last Monday. Could have been longer if I'd been willing to push harder, but Vespera made me promise. No more interference. No more sabotage.
I kept that promise. Mostly.
The old me would have destroyed him. Would have used one of those seventeen contingency plans I'd meticulously crafted.
Anonymous tips about fabricated honor code violations.
Planted evidence of academic dishonesty.
A few keystrokes and Ben Rosen would have been not delayed but eliminated as a threat.
But I deleted those plans. Well, archived them. In a password-protected folder. That I definitely don't open anymore.
Much.
The point is: flagging his transcript for additional verification wasn't sabotage. It was... strategic time management. Utilizing existing bureaucratic processes to give us—give her—time to adjust before reality crashed back in.
Eight days of peace. Eight days of Vespera relaxed and smiling and not thinking about the Beta who called her "evening star." Eight days of pretending we might actually deserve her.
Worth it. Even if she figured out what I did. Even if she's angry.
My phone buzzes. Vespera, in the pack group chat.
Vespera: Ben's here. Meeting him for coffee at Common Grounds in an hour.
My hands tighten on the laptop.
Dorian: Do you want company?
Vespera: No. I need to do this alone. Explain everything. It'll be easier without you three hovering.
Oakley: We'll be here when you get back.
Vespera: I know. Thank you.
I stare at the messages. She's going to see him. Going to talk to him. Going to have coffee with the Beta who made her laugh, who kissed her on a roof in Columbus, who represents everything normal and safe that we can never be.
I shouldn't go.
My fingers are already pulling up the Common Grounds location on my tablet. Already calculating arrival time. Already justifying this as reconnaissance rather than stalking.
Information gathering. Strategic observation. Definitely not obsessive jealousy manifesting as a criminal lack of boundaries.
I grab my keys.
The cafe is busy when I arrive. Students everywhere, the late afternoon rush of people needing caffeine to survive their last classes. I park across the street where I have a clear view through the large front windows.
Professional observation position. Purely tactical.
I'm not stalking. I'm... monitoring a situation that could affect pack dynamics. Completely different.
My laptop is already open on the passenger seat, providing the perfect cover. Another student working in his car because the café is too crowded. Nothing suspicious about that.
Except the part where I'm specifically positioned to watch my pack Omega meet with another man.
Details.
Through the window, Vespera arrived first—punctual, as always—and claimed a table by the window.
She's wearing jeans and one of Dorian's sweaters, the blue one that makes her eyes look impossibly green.
Her hair is down, curling slightly around her shoulders.
She looks beautiful and nervous and I want to—
No. Observing.
Ben Rosen walks in exactly on time. I recognize him from the photos I definitely didn't obsessively study—tall for a Beta, athletic build, that easy smile that probably makes Omegas swoon. Dark hair, warm brown eyes, the kind of conventionally attractive that makes people trust him immediately.
I hate him on principle.
He spots Vespera and his entire face lights up. That's the only way to describe it—pure joy at seeing her. He crosses the café in quick strides and before she can stand, he's pulling her into a hug.
My fingers tighten on the laptop edge.
She hugs him back. Brief, but genuine. When they separate, they're both smiling.
I pull up a document on my screen. Might as well look busy while conducting surveillance. Professional stalking requires proper cover.
They sit. He says something that makes her laugh—through the window, that full-body laugh she does when something genuinely amuses her. The one we rarely get. The one I've been cataloging in my mental database of "Vespera responses that indicate actual happiness."
He orders for both of them—knows her coffee order, apparently—and I add that to the growing list of reasons this Beta is a threat.
Not that I'm keeping a list.
(I'm absolutely keeping a list.)
When the drinks arrive, she pulls her sweater sleeves over her hands. Nervous gesture. I've documented this response 47 times in various contexts. Usually indicates she's about to have a difficult conversation.
Good. She's going to tell him. About us. About the bonds. About how she's permanently claimed by three Alphas who don't deserve her but refuse to let her go anyway.
Her mouth moves, presumably explaining. Ben's expression shifts from happy to confused to... hurt? Understanding? It's hard to tell from this distance.
He reaches across the table. Takes her hand.
My vision actually blurs red.
I force myself to breathe. To think. To not immediately exit the vehicle and make a scene that would prove to Vespera that I learned absolutely nothing from the past month.
Clinical observation. That's all this is.
Observation 1: Subject Beta is touching Subject Omega's hand without permission.Observation 2: Subject Omega has not withdrawn her hand.Observation 3: I am experiencing physiological responses consistent with territorial aggression despite having no logical claim to—
No. Stop. This isn't helping.
I pull up another window. Ben Rosen's class schedule, which I definitely obtained through legitimate means and not by hacking the registrar's database.
Theater 201: Introduction to Performance. Meets Tuesday/Thursday, 2-4 PM. Same building as Vespera's Movement class.
Creative Writing 301: Intermediate Fiction. Monday/Wednesday, 10-12 PM. Conflicts with her Voice class, so at least they won't have that together.
But Theater History 101? Friday afternoons. Same class. Same room. Sitting next to each other, probably. Sharing notes. Study groups. Coffee after class.
I'm spiraling. The clinical detachment cracking under the weight of irrational jealousy.
Through the window, Vespera pulls her hand back. Says something with her expression serious. Ben nods, looking disappointed but accepting.
She's setting boundaries. Establishing that whatever they had in Columbus is over. That she's pack now, claimed, unavailable.
The relief should be stronger than the jealousy. Should be.
Isn't.
Because it's in his face—he's not giving up. He's accepting the situation for now, but he's going to wait. Going to be her friend. Going to be there, constant and kind and everything we spent months proving we weren't.
He's playing the long game. And Betas are patient.
My phone buzzes. Dorian.
Dorian: Where are you?
Fuck. He knows. Of course he knows.
Me: Working. Coffee shop. Needed to get out of the house.
Dorian: Which coffee shop?
Me: Common Grounds.
Pause. Then:
Dorian: You're watching them.
Me: I'm working.
Dorian: Corvus.
Me: Fine. I'm watching them. But I'm staying in the car. I'm not interfering. I'm observing.
Dorian: That's still creepy.
Me: I'm aware.
Dorian: Come home.
Me: Soon.
I don't go home. I watch them finish their coffee. Watch Ben try one more time to take her hand. Watch her shake her head, gentle but firm. Watch them hug goodbye—this one more awkward, more final.
Watch Ben leave first, walking past my car without seeing me.
Watch Vespera sit alone, her expression complicated. Relieved? Sad? Both?
She pulls out her phone. Types something.
My phone buzzes.
Vespera: I know you're watching. Blue Tesla across the street. Very subtle, Corvus.
Shit.
Me: I can explain.
Vespera: Can you?
Me: I was working. Needed coffee. Complete coincidence.
Vespera: You hate Common Grounds. You always say their espresso is "pedestrian."
Double shit.
Me: I'm trying it again. Maybe my palate has evolved.
Vespera: Get your evolved palate in here. We're having a conversation.
I consider fleeing. Seriously consider it. Starting the car and driving away and never admitting to this monumentally creepy lapse in judgment.
But she knows I'm here. She saw me. Running would only make it worse.
I grab my laptop and cross the street.
She's still at the table by the window, empty coffee cup in front of her, expression unreadable.
I slide into the chair Ben vacated. It's still warm from his body heat, which makes my skin crawl for reasons I don't want to examine.
"Before you say anything," I start.
"You were stalking us."
"I was observing from a respectful distance."
"That's literally the definition of stalking, Corvus."
"I stayed in my car. I didn't approach. I didn't interfere."
"You WATCHED." She leans forward. "Like some kind of creepy surveillance specialist. Which, granted, you are, but still."
"I needed to see," I say, abandoning pretense. "I needed to know if you were going to choose him."
"So you didn't trust me."
"I trust you. I don't trust him."
"Ben didn't do anything wrong," she says firmly. "He's been nothing but kind and respectful and understanding about a completely insane situation."
"I know." The admission tastes bitter. "Which makes him more dangerous, not less."
"Dangerous how?"
"Because he's everything we're not." I set my laptop down, meet her eyes. "He's safe. Normal. He didn't kidnap you or torture you or force bonds on you. He called you 'evening star' and made you laugh and kissed you on a roof under summer stars. He represents the life you should have had."
"But he's not the life I chose."
The words hit me harder than they should. "You chose us?"
"I told him that. Now. That I'm pack. That whatever we had in Columbus was summer romance, not real life. That I can be his friend, but that's all."
"He's going to keep trying," I point out.