Chapter 34 Dorian
thirty-four
Dorian
The drive to Hilton Head takes six hours, and every mile makes the separation worse.
By hour two, my hands are shaking on the wheel. By hour four, my chest feels like someone's sitting on it. By the time I cross into South Carolina, the bonds are screaming at me to turn around, go back, return to pack.
Return to her.
I grip the steering wheel harder and keep driving.
Mother's summons was not a request. "We need to discuss your fall plans, darling. And you've been avoiding my calls. Come to the house this weekend. Your father and I insist."
Translation: Show up or face consequences.
So here I am, alone in my car, fighting every biological imperative that says leaving my pack—leaving Vespera—is wrong. Dangerous. Unnatural.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder. Corvus, probably checking if I'm still alive. Or Oakley, worried about how I'm handling the separation. I should answer. Should let them know I'm fine.
But I'm not fine, and talking to them will only make it worse.
Another buzz. This time I glance at the screen.
Vespera: You okay?
My chest constricts. She felt it. Felt my distress through the bonds even though I'm trying to shield it.
Me: Fine. Just a long drive.
Vespera: Liar. I can feel you freaking out through the bonds.
Me: Not freaking out. Just... adjusting.
Vespera: It's only two days. You'll survive.
Me: Will I though?
Vespera: Dramatic. Very on-brand for you.
Despite everything, I smile. Only she could make separation anxiety funny.
Me: I'll call you tonight.
Vespera: You better.
The conversation helps. Barely. But it helps.
By the time I pull up to the Ashworth estate, the sun is setting over the Atlantic, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would be beautiful if I weren't dying inside.
The house rises before me like something out of a magazine spread.
Three stories of pristine white columns and wraparound porches, manicured gardens leading down to private beach access.
Old money elegance mixed with southern charm.
The kind of place that makes it clear exactly where you stand in the world.
At the top.
Above everyone else.
I park next to Father's Mercedes and Mother's Range Rover, taking a moment to collect myself before facing them. I look like shit—dark circles under my eyes, hair not quite as perfect as usual, the general air of someone who's been fighting biology for six hours straight.
Not the golden boy they expect.
The front door opens before I can reach it. Henderson, our butler for as long as I can remember, greets me with his usual professional warmth.
"Master Dorian. Welcome home."
"Henderson." I step inside, breathing in the familiar scent of old money and fresh flowers. "Are they in the drawing room?"
"The terrace, sir. Your mother is hosting a small gathering."
My stomach drops. "A gathering?"
"Just a few guests, sir. Nothing formal."
Which means it's absolutely formal and I'm underdressed in jeans and a button-down. Fuck.
I head through the house, each room a monument to Ashworth legacy.
Family portraits line the walls—generations of Alphas staring down with varying degrees of judgment.
My grandfather who built the family fortune.
My great-grandmother who married into European nobility.
My father shaking hands with three different presidents.
And conspicuously absent: Julian. His portrait was removed the day he was disowned, like he'd never existed at all.
I wonder if they have a frame ready for me.
The terrace overlooks the ocean, and Mother has transformed it into something out of a garden party fantasy. String lights, elegant furniture, a table laden with expensive appetizers. And scattered throughout: people.
Specifically: three Omegas and their families.
Oh, fuck.
"Dorian!" Mother glides toward me, all southern grace and Alpha authority wrapped in a designer dress that probably costs more than most people's cars.
Eleanor Ashworth is beautiful in that timeless way rich people achieve—blonde hair perfectly styled, skin suspiciously smooth for her age, diamonds at her throat that could fund a scholarship program.
She kisses both my cheeks, and I smell it immediately. Displeasure wrapped in expensive perfume.
"Darling, you look exhausted. The drive must have been terrible." She loops her arm through mine, steering me toward the gathering. "Come. We have guests I want you to meet."
"Mother, I didn't know—"
"It's just a small cocktail hour. Very casual." Her grip on my arm tightens. "The Beaumonts are here from Charleston. And the Montgomerys from Savannah. And the Prescotts came all the way from Atlanta."
All families with eligible Omega daughters. This isn't a gathering. It's an ambush.
"Your father is with Harrison Beaumont discussing the club renovations. Such a bore." She waves her free hand dismissively. "But the young people are on the terrace. I thought you might enjoy some company your own age."
Translation: I arranged for you to meet appropriate Omegas from appropriate families so you can forget about whatever inappropriate situation you've gotten yourself into.
We step onto the terrace and every conversation stops. Six sets of eyes turn toward me—three Omegas, perfectly styled and clearly here for inspection, and their mothers, Alpha women who look at me like I'm a prize stallion at auction.
"Everyone, this is my son Dorian." Mother's voice carries that particular tone that says behave. "Dorian, darling, this is Victoria Beaumont, Celeste Montgomery, and Arabella Prescott. And their lovely mothers, of course."
The Omegas are exactly what I expected. Beautiful. Polished. Hair and makeup perfect, designer dresses that probably required professional styling, the kind of practiced grace that comes from years of finishing schools and etiquette training.
Victoria is a classic blonde beauty with blue eyes and a smile that's been perfected in front of mirrors. Celeste is dark-haired and elegant, with the kind of bone structure that photographs well. Arabella is striking—red hair, green eyes, the type of Omega that turns heads.
All of them look at me with various degrees of interest mixed with caution. They know why they're here. Know what their mothers expect.
And all of them smell wrong.
Too sweet. Too floral. Nothing like lilac and rain. Nothing like Vespera.
"Ladies," I say, offering my most polished smile. The one I use at charity galas and board meetings. "It's a pleasure to meet you all."
"The pleasure is ours," Victoria says, her voice honey-sweet. She steps forward first, offering her hand. When I take it, she holds on just a moment too long. "Your mother has told us so much about you."
"All good things, I hope."
"Very good things." Her eyes do a slow sweep up and down my body, and there's nothing subtle about it. She's assessing, cataloging, advertising herself in return. "She mentioned you're studying theater at Northwood? That must be so exciting."
"It has its moments."
"I've always been fascinated by the dramatic arts," she continues, still not releasing my hand.
Her scent intensifies—roses and something sickeningly sweet.
Deliberate. An Omega advertising availability.
"There's something so... primal about performance, don't you think?
The give and take between performer and audience. "
The innuendo is barely veiled.
"I suppose," I say, gently extracting my hand.
"Victoria was just telling us about her upcoming heat cycle," one of the mothers says brightly. Too brightly. "Such excellent fertility markers. The doctors are very optimistic."
I freeze. Did she actually just—
"Mother," Victoria protests, but there's no real embarrassment in it. Just performance. "I'm sure Dorian doesn't want to hear about that."
"Nonsense," her mother continues. "Alpha males appreciate knowing an Omega is in optimal breeding condition. It shows we're serious about genetic compatibility."
This is hell. This is actual hell.
"Victoria's heat schedule is very regular," another mother adds helpfully. "Every ninety days, like clockwork. Perfect for family planning."
"And I've been taking my supplements," Victoria adds, apparently deciding to lean into the nightmare. She steps closer again, her hand finding my forearm. "My doctor says my hormone levels are ideal for conception."
I need to leave. I need to get out of here right now.
"How fascinating," I manage.
"Isn't it?" Celeste moves in on my other side, effectively boxing me in. Her scent—jasmine and vanilla—mingles with Victoria's, and together it's overwhelming. Cloying. "I've been working with a fertility specialist as well. My alpha potential is rated in the 98th percentile."
"That's..." I search for words. "Impressive."
"We could even share," Arabella offers, joining the encirclement. Three Omegas surrounding me now, all touching me—hands on my arms, my shoulders, my chest. "If you're interested in multiple bonds. Some Alphas prefer variety."
"I—" My brain short-circuits. "That's not—"
"We're all very accommodating," Victoria purrs, her fingers tracing circles on my forearm. "Trained at the finest finishing schools. We know how to please an Alpha. How to be exactly what you need."
Her hand slides up my bicep. Celeste presses closer on my other side. Arabella's hand finds my chest, right over my racing heart.
"So," Victoria says, and her voice has gone breathy, softer. She shifts closer, her thigh brushing mine. "Your mother mentioned you didn't audition for the fall showcase this year. That's so unlike you. She says you're always the lead."
Her scent intensifies—roses and something cloyingly sweet. Deliberate. An Omega advertising availability.
"Just wanted to focus on other things this semester," I say, shifting away slightly.