Chapter 35 Vespera #2
When we hang up, I feel steadier. Ready to face callbacks. Ready to fight for this role.
But the bond is still pulling. Still restless. And somewhere in South Carolina, Dorian is still suffering through his family's judgment.
I check my phone. Nothing from him since yesterday.
Me: You okay?
The message sits there, delivered but unread. Which means he's probably in the middle of something. Something he doesn't want us to feel through the bonds.
I try not to worry. Fail spectacularly.
By evening, the restlessness has gotten worse.
I'm supposed to be rehearsing my callback material—there's a cold reading component tomorrow where we'll work through actual scenes from the play—but I can't focus. Can't sit still. The bond keeps pulling, keeps aching, like something's wrong.
"You need to eat," Oakley says, appearing in my doorway with a plate. "You've been up here for three hours."
"Not hungry."
"Liar." He sets the plate on my desk anyway. "What's wrong? And don't say nothing, because I feel the anxiety rolling off you in waves."
I close my script. "Can you feel him? Dorian? Through your bond?"
"Yeah." Oakley leans against the doorframe. "He's shielding, but it's getting harder for him to maintain. Whatever's happening, it's intense."
"Should we be there? Should we have gone with him?"
"He didn't want us there. Said it was about the auditions—about why he didn't participate this year. His mother's suspicious." He shifts uncomfortably. "But it feels like more than that."
"Everything with his family is more than it seems."
"True." Oakley comes fully into the room, sits on the edge of my bed. "But he made his choice to handle it alone. All we can do is be here when he gets back."
"If he gets back."
"He will." Oakley's certainty is absolute. "The bonds won't let him stay away much longer. He's already barely holding on."
As if in response, the bond flares—sharp, painful, like someone drove a knife into my chest. I gasp, hand flying to my sternum.
"Vespera?" Oakley's at my side immediately. "What happened?"
"The bond." I'm breathing hard. "Something's wrong. Something's really wrong."
Downstairs, Corvus swears. Loudly. Which means he felt it too.
Footsteps on the stairs, then Corvus is in the doorway, laptop abandoned. "He's in distress. Major distress. We need to—"
My phone rings. Dorian's name flashing on the screen.
I answer. "Dorian?"
"Hey." His voice is wrong. Too controlled. Too careful. "Sorry for the radio silence. Things have been... intense."
"What happened?" I demand. "We felt something through the bond. Are you okay?"
"Define okay." A bitter laugh. "My parents ambushed me with three Omega suitors and spent the day interrogating me about why I didn't audition for the showcase."
My stomach drops. "Omega suitors?"
"Perfect, polished, desperate. Everything they think I should want." He sounds exhausted. "And when I wasn't interested, they started asking questions. Why I'm distracted. Why I'm breaking four-year patterns. What—or who—is distracting me from my responsibilities."
"Do they know about us?"
"No. Not yet. But they're suspicious. My mother especially." He pauses. "She thinks I'm making the same mistakes Julian did. Throwing away my future for someone inappropriate."
"And what did you tell her?"
"That I'm focusing on my academics. That theater isn't my only priority anymore." Another bitter laugh. "Which is technically true, but she doesn't believe me."
"Are you safe?"
"Physically? Yes. They're not going to hurt me." But his voice says something else is hurting. "But Vespera, this weekend made something clear. They're watching me now. Really watching. And if they find out about you, about the claiming..."
"They'll do what they did to Julian," I finish.
"Worse. Because I'm their only heir now. Their last chance to preserve the family legacy." His voice cracks slightly. "I can't lose you. But I also can't lose everything I've ever known. And I don't know how to choose."
The words hang there. Heavy. Impossible.
"You're not choosing right now," I say carefully, even though it hurts. "You're surviving this weekend."
"It doesn't feel like survival. It feels like cowardice."
"It's not cowardice to be scared."
"Isn't it?" He's quiet for a stretch. "My father wants me to come back for Thanksgiving. Bring 'someone appropriate' to meet the family. Make it clear I'm taking my future seriously."
"Thanksgiving is weeks away."
"I know. But he's laying groundwork. Making it clear what's expected." Dorian sounds defeated. "And I don't know how to tell him I can't meet those expectations anymore."
"Then don't tell him. Not yet." I glance at Oakley and Corvus, both watching with concern. "Come home first. Get away from them. We'll figure out the rest later."
"Home," he repeats, like the word is foreign. "The pack house."
"Yes. Home. Where your actual pack is. Where people aren't trying to marry you off to strangers."
That gets a small laugh. "The bar is very low, apparently."
"Right now? Yes. Very low." I soften my voice. "When are you coming back?"
"Tomorrow morning. I'm leaving first thing." He sounds desperate. "I can't stay here anymore. Can't pretend to be who they want me to be."
"Good. Then come home."
"Vespera—" He stops. "Thank you. For not being angry. For understanding."
"I'm a little angry," I admit. "But mostly I'm worried about you."
"I'll be okay. Need to make it through tonight."
"You will. And tomorrow you'll be back and we'll figure out the Thanksgiving thing together."
"Together," he echoes. "I like the sound of that."
After we hang up, I sit there holding my phone, feeling the bond settle slightly. Still anxious, still pulling, but less sharp. Less desperate.
"He didn't tell them," Corvus says. "About you. About the claiming."
"No. He protected us." I look at both of them. "But for how long? His parents are suspicious. They'll keep pushing."
"Then we prepare," Oakley says firmly. "For when they find out. For what comes after."
"What if there is no after?" The fear breaks through. "What if he has to choose between us and them, and he chooses them?"
"He won't," Corvus states with absolute certainty. "I've run the psychological profiles. The probability of Dorian choosing family approval over his fated mate is less than eight percent."
"Your statistics don't account for terror," I point out.
"No. But they account for everything else." He meets my eyes. "He'll choose you. It'll take time. It'll be messy. But he'll choose you."
I hope he's right. Hope that when Dorian finally faces his parents' ultimatum, he'll have the courage Julian had.
Hope that love is stronger than legacy.
But hope and certainty are two very different things.
And right now, as I lie in bed trying to sleep, feeling Dorian's distress echo through the bonds, all I have is hope.