Chapter 31 Vespera
thirty-one
Vespera
It's past midnight when Ben texts me.
Ben: Still up? Need to run lines for tomorrow's scene study. Partner bailed.
I should say no. Should tell him it's too late, that I'm tired, that practicing alone in the theater building at midnight is a terrible idea.
Me: Studio 3C. Give me 20 minutes.
I'm an idiot.
But I've been on edge all week. The pack has been... fine. Good, even. Dorian's trying so hard to give me space it's almost painful to watch. Oakley's being sweet and careful. Corvus stopped stalking me. Mostly.
And I've been going quietly insane.
Because being claimed by three Alphas has done something to my body. Something I'm only now starting to understand. I'm restless. Needy in a way that doesn't make sense. The bonds hum constantly under my skin, satisfied but hungry, like they're waiting for something.
Maybe practicing with Ben will help. Maybe being around someone who isn't pack, who doesn't make every cell in my body light up with biological imperative, will be good for me.
Maybe I'm lying to myself.
I throw on leggings and a loose tank top—comfortable, appropriate for movement work. Pull my hair into a messy bun. Grab my keys.
Dorian's sitting in the living room when I come downstairs. Of course he is. Alpha hearing means he knows I'm leaving.
"Where are you going?" Not accusatory. Just curious.
"Theater building. Running lines with Ben."
His jaw tightens. "At midnight."
"His scene partner bailed. He needs help."
"We could help you run lines."
"You're not in the class." I grab my jacket. "I'll be back in a couple hours."
"Vespera—"
"Don't." I turn to face him. "Don't make this a thing. He's my friend. We're running lines. That's it."
"At midnight. Alone. In an empty building."
"Yes." I meet his eyes. "Do you trust me?"
The question hangs there. Heavy. Loaded.
"I trust you," he says finally. "I don't trust him."
"Then trust that I can handle myself." I head for the door. "I'll text when I'm done."
I feel his eyes on me as I leave. Feel the bond pull with disapproval. But I go anyway.
Because I need to prove something. To him. To them. To myself.
That I'm still me. That the bonds don't control everything. That I can be attracted to someone who isn't part of the pack.
Right?
The theater building is mostly dark when I arrive. Just emergency lighting and the glow from Studio 3C on the third floor.
Ben's already there, sprawled on the floor in joggers and a t-shirt that shows off his arms. Looking unfairly good for someone who texted me thirty minutes ago.
"You came," he says, sitting up.
"I said I would." I drop my bag, start stretching. "What scene are we running?"
"Williams. A Streetcar Named Desire. Stanley and Blanche."
I freeze mid-stretch. "That's... intense for scene study."
"Professor assigned it specifically because it's intense." He stands, grabs his script. "Said we need to explore power dynamics and desire. Apparently I'm 'too nice' in my choices."
"You are too nice."
"Thanks?" He grins. "So will you help me be less nice?"
This is a bad idea. Stanley and Blanche. All that violence and desire and complicated power exchange. But I nod.
"Okay. Which scene?"
"Scene three. The poker night. Where he—" He pauses. "Where it gets physical."
Of course. The scene where Stanley asserts dominance. Where Blanche responds despite knowing she shouldn't. Where everything simmers under the surface until it explodes.
"Let's start from the top," I say, opening my script.
We run through it once. Mechanically. Hitting marks, saying lines, going through the motions. Ben's holding back—being too careful, too controlled.
"Stop," I say after his third failed attempt at Stanley's aggression. "You're in your head."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"It's acting, Ben. You're not going to hurt me."
"The scene calls for me to grab you. To get in your space. To—"
"So do it." I toss my script aside. "Forget the script. Just... react. Let yourself be aggressive. Possessive. Whatever the scene needs."
"Vespera—"
"Do you trust me?"
He nods slowly.
"Then trust that I'll stop you if it's too much." I move closer. "Show me Stanley. Show me that desire and rage and need to dominate. Make me believe it."
Something shifts in his expression. The nice-guy mask slipping slightly.
"From the top?" His voice is different. Lower.
"From the top."
We start again.
This time, it's better. He's looser. More present. When the blocking calls for him to grab my wrist, he does it—firm enough to ground the moment without hurting.
"You're mine," he says, improvising dialogue. "Say it."
"I'm not anyone's," I shoot back, also improvising.
"Liar." He pulls me closer. "I can see it in your eyes. The way you look at me."
We're not doing the scene anymore. We're somewhere else. Something else.
His hand slides from my wrist to my hip. Still gentle. Still asking permission.
I should stop this. Should step back. Should remember that this is practice, not real, that I'm bonded and claimed and definitely not available for whatever this is becoming.
But I don't stop.
"Ben," I whisper.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs. "Tell me this is just practice."
I should. I really should.
I don't.
He leans in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. His lips brush mine—soft, tentative, nothing like the claiming kisses from the Alphas.
And I... feel nothing.
No. That's not true. I feel warmth. Affection. The echo of what I felt in Columbus when he kissed me on that roof.
But not fire. Not hunger. Not the desperate need that floods through me when Dorian looks at me a certain way, or when Oakley touches my face, or when Corvus uses that low commanding voice.
I pull back slightly. "Ben—"
"I know." His forehead rests against mine. "You're bonded. I know. But fuck, Vespera. I can't stop wanting you."
"We can't do this."
"I know," he says again. But his hands are still on my hips. Still pulling me closer.
I should leave. Should walk out right now before this gets more complicated.
Instead, I kiss him.
This time deeper. Searching. Trying to find that spark. That connection. Trying to prove to myself that I can want someone who isn't pack.
His hands slide up my sides, under my tank top, warm against my skin. He's good at this—patient and thorough and clearly experienced.
But my body isn't responding the way it should.
"Touch me," I hear myself say. Desperate. Frustrated.
He does. Hands moving with confidence now, sliding over my breasts through my sports bra, thumbing my nipples until they're hard. It feels good. It does.
But not good enough.
"More," I demand.
He backs me against the mirrored wall, his body pressed against mine. I can feel him hard against my hip, feel his desire for me in every movement.
But I'm not wet. Not really. There's no slick. No biological response screaming that I need this.
"Vespera," he breathes against my neck. "Tell me what you want."
"I don't know," I admit. And that's the problem.
His hand slides lower, cupping me through my leggings. I arch into the touch, chasing sensation. Chasing something.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmurs, fingers pressing, searching. "I've thought about this since Columbus. Since that night on the roof."
I should be turned on. Should be desperate for him. He's attractive and kind and clearly wants me. This should work.
Why isn't this working?
"Take them off," I say, tugging at my leggings.
"Are you sure—"
"Please."
He helps me peel them off, reverent and careful. His fingers trace up my inner thigh, and I spread my legs, giving him access. Inviting him to touch me, taste me, make me feel something other than this frustrated emptiness.
His fingers slide against me, and I'm wet enough. But not soaked. Not the way I get with them. Not that desperate slick that signals my body knows what it needs.
"You feel so good," he says, fingers circling, finding my clit with practiced ease.
It feels nice. Pleasant. Like a massage that hits the right spots without quite releasing the tension.
"Inside," I gasp. "Put your fingers inside."
He does. One, then two, moving slowly, carefully. Watching my face for reactions.
I rock against his hand, chasing friction. Chasing that edge. Trying to build toward something.
But there's no knot. No thick Alpha cock stretching me. No bite of claiming teeth on my neck.
And my body knows. My traitorous, bonded, ruined body knows the difference.
"Harder," I demand, frustrated tears pricking my eyes. "Ben, please—"
He increases pressure, adds a third finger, thumb working my clit with determined precision. It's good technique. He clearly knows what he's doing.
But I can't get there. Can't quite reach that edge no matter how hard I chase it.
"More," I beg. "I need more."
He pulls back, searching my face. "Vespera, are you sure—"
"Fuck me." The words come out desperate. Broken. "Please, Ben. I need to know if—just fuck me."
"Jesus." His breathing is ragged. "Okay. Okay, if you're sure."
"I'm sure." I am. I need to know. Need to prove this can work.
He strips quickly, and I try not to compare. Try not to notice that he's smaller than them, that there's no knot, that his scent is cinnamon instead of sandalwood and cedar and dark chocolate.
He's still attractive. Still good. This should work.
He positions himself between my legs, searching my face one more time for permission. I nod.
He pushes in slowly, carefully, and it feels... fine. Good, even. He's not huge but he's not small either. He fills me adequately. Moves with practiced rhythm.
But there's no stretch. No burn. No feeling of being completely claimed and owned and filled beyond capacity.
"You feel so good," he breathes, establishing a steady rhythm. "So fucking perfect."
I wrap my legs around him, trying to get deeper. Trying to feel more. Chasing something my body refuses to give.