Chapter 35 Vespera
thirty-five
Vespera
When Professor De Scarzis finally emerges and pins the list to the board, there's a collective surge forward.
I hang back, letting the crowd thin. I already know I made callbacks—felt it in my bones during the audition, that electric certainty that comes from nailing a performance. But seeing it confirmed in print is different.
The crowd disperses, some celebrating, others trudging away disappointed. I step forward.
HEDDA GABLER - CALLBACKS
Hedda Tesman:
Vespera Levine
Eilert L?vborg:
Ben Rosen
My name is first on the list. First. Not called back, but listed as the frontrunner.
"Congratulations."
I turn to find someone beside me, grinning. "You too. Though we both know you're getting Hedda."
"You don't know that."
"Please. You made De Scarzis actually stop writing notes during your audition. That's unheard of." She nudges my shoulder. "The rest of us are here to make you look good by comparison."
"Don't sell yourself short."
"I'm not. I'm being realistic." She checks her phone. "Callbacks are tomorrow at four. Think you can handle an entire day of anxiety?"
"I've handled worse."
The words come out more bitter than I intended. Maya gives me a curious look but doesn't push.
"Want to grab breakfast?" she asks instead. "I need carbs to process my feelings."
"Can't. I promised my dad I'd call him this morning." I haven't talked to him since we got back to campus. Haven't had the courage to explain... everything. "Rain check?"
"Sure. Good luck with the parental chat." She waves and disappears into the theater building.
I stand there for another stretch, staring at my name on the list, feeling the weight of what it means. This role could define my career. Could prove I belong here despite everything.
Could also put me in direct proximity with Ben for the next six weeks, which will be its own special torture.
But underneath the audition anxiety, something else pulls. A wrongness I've been feeling since yesterday. Through the bonds—Dorian's distress, sharp and present despite his obvious attempts to shield it.
My phone buzzes.
Oakley: Saw the list. Knew you'd make it. Proud of you.
Corvus: First position. As expected. I've already calculated your odds of booking the role at 94.7%.
Me: That's oddly specific.
Corvus: I ran a statistical analysis of De Scarzis's casting patterns over the last decade.
Me: Of course you did.
No message from Dorian. Because he's still in South Carolina, still at his parents' estate, still suffering through whatever fresh hell they've arranged for him.
I felt it yesterday. Around dinner time, a spike of distress through the bonds so sharp I nearly dropped my fork. Oakley noticed immediately, asked if I was okay. I lied and said I was fine.
But I felt it. His discomfort, his misery, the way he was fighting to maintain composure while everything in him screamed to come home.
Come home to pack. To me.
The bond has been restless ever since. Pulling. Aching. Like a rubber band stretched too far.
Me: How's Dorian?
Corvus: Alive. Miserable. But alive.
Oakley: He texted last night. Said his parents are "expressing concerns about his choices." Which is Ashworth-speak for interrogation.
Great. So he's being tortured by his family while I'm standing here celebrating callbacks.
The guilt twists in my stomach.
Me: Should we be worried?
Corvus: About his physical safety? No. About his mental state? Probably. But he insisted on going alone.
Oakley: He'll be back tomorrow. He can handle one more night.
Can he though? The bond doesn't think so. It's been pulling harder all morning, distress bleeding through despite Dorian's obvious attempts to shield it.
I pocket my phone and head back to the pack house, trying to focus on callbacks, on Hedda, on anything except the growing wrongness of Dorian's absence.
The pack house feels empty without him.
Stupid, because it's been two days. Two days out of months of living together. But the space feels wrong. Off-balance. Like a three-legged chair trying to support weight it wasn't designed for.
Oakley's in the kitchen making what looks like stress-baking quantities of cookies. Corvus is on his laptop at the island, probably monitoring seventeen different things simultaneously.
"Morning," Oakley says, looking up from his mixing bowl. "Coffee's fresh. And before you ask—yes, I'm stress-baking. No, I don't want to talk about it."
"Wasn't going to ask." I pour myself a cup, even though I'm already caffeinated. "What's the stress level at?"
"Moderate to severe." He adds chocolate chips with perhaps more violence than necessary. "Dorian's shielding like crazy, which means whatever's happening is bad enough that he doesn't want us to feel it."
"That's concerning," I mutter.
"Very," Corvus agrees without looking up from his screen. "But there's nothing we can do from here except wait."
"I hate waiting."
"We all do." Oakley slides the cookie sheet into the oven. "But he made his choice. He wanted to handle his family alone."
The words have weight. Implication. Because we all know why Dorian went alone—to protect us. To keep his parents from knowing about the pack, about me, about everything that would get him disowned like Julian.
My phone rings. Dad's ringtone—the old landline sound he insisted I use so he'd know it was him.
"I should take this," I say, already heading for my room.
"Tell him we say hi," Oakley calls after me.
I close my bedroom door and answer. "Hey, Dad."
"Vespera." His voice cracks slightly. "Jesus Christ, baby. You answered."
The raw relief in his voice makes my chest tight. "Of course I answered. Why wouldn't I?"
"Because you've been dodging my calls for two weeks." He's trying to sound casual, failing. "I was starting to think those Alphas had you locked in a basement somewhere."
"Dad—"
"I know, I know. You're fine. You're busy. School is demanding." He takes a breath. "But Vespera, I haven't seen you since May. Since before..." He trails off, can't finish the sentence.
Since before I was abducted. Since before everything changed.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I should have called more. Should have visited."
"Damn right you should have." But his voice is gentle. "I'm your father. I spent six weeks this summer not knowing if you were alive or dead. And then you came back claimed and bonded and you gave me a five-minute phone call explaining you were fine and I haven't seen you since."
The guilt is crushing. "I didn't want you to see me like that. All messed up and claimed and—"
"I don't care how messed up you are. You're my daughter." His voice breaks again. "I needed to see with my own eyes that you were okay. That they weren't hurting you. That you were really you and not going through the motions."
I sink onto my bed, tears threatening. "I'm okay, Dad. I promise. The Alphas—they're trying. It's complicated, but they're not hurting me."
"Trying," he repeats. "That's a low bar, baby."
"I know. But it's better than it was." I wipe my eyes. "How are you? How's work?"
He sighs, and I can picture him in his tiny living room, probably still in his work clothes from whatever show he's stage managing. "Work's work. We're running Our Town at the community theater. Simple show, good cast. Nothing like what you're doing."
"You're working shows. That's what matters."
"What matters is my daughter getting the opportunities she deserves." His pride bleeds through. "Made callbacks for Hedda, huh? Lead role?"
"How did you know that?"
"You think I don't keep tabs on the Northwood theater department website?" He laughs. "I check it every day. Saw the callback list this morning. First position, Vespera. First. You know what that means?"
"That I have a good shot at the role."
"It means you're the best actor in that program and everyone knows it." His voice goes fierce. "All those rich kids with their fancy training and private coaches, and my daughter—the girl who learned blocking by running tech for community theater—is listed first."
"Dad—"
"Don't 'Dad' me. I'm proud. I'm allowed to be proud." He pauses. "When's the showcase? I want to come see it."
My heart squeezes. "You don't have to—"
"The hell I don't. I haven't seen you perform since high school. Since before you became..." He stops himself. "Since before everything. I need to see you on that stage, baby. Need to know you're still you."
"It's Halloween weekend," I say. "October 31st, actually. Friday night."
"Perfect. I'll take the day off, drive up Thursday night. We can have dinner before the show."
"Dad, it's six hours—"
"I don't care if it's twelve hours. You're my daughter and you're performing in the biggest showcase of your college career. I'm coming." His tone brooks no argument. "Unless you don't want me there?"
"No, I want you there." And I realize it's true. I desperately want him there. Want him to see that I'm okay, that I'm still me, that the claiming didn't break me. "I want you there so much."
"Then it's settled." I hear the smile in his voice. "Text me the details. And Vespera? I'm bringing flowers. Big, embarrassing flowers that will make you roll your eyes."
Despite everything, I laugh. "You always do."
"Tradition, baby. Can't break tradition." He's quiet for a beat. "Are you really okay? Because if those Alphas are hurting you, if you need out, I'll drive up right now and we'll figure it out."
"I'm okay. Really." I think about the pack house, about Oakley's cookies and Corvus's statistical analyses and Dorian suffering through his family's judgment. "It's messy and complicated, but I'm okay."
"Messy and complicated I can handle. As long as you're safe."
"I'm safe."
"Good." Another breath. "I love you, Vesper. More than anything in this world."
"I love you too, Dad."
We talk for another ten minutes about nothing—his show, my classes, the weather. Normal dad-daughter stuff that makes me feel grounded. Reminds me who I was before all of this.