Chapter 36 Dorian
thirty-six
Dorian
Father's study is exactly as I remember—dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with first editions, the massive mahogany desk that's been in the family for four generations. The room smells like old money and older secrets: leather, tobacco, the faint cedar of his cologne.
Harrison Ashworth III sits behind that desk like a king on his throne. Still in his tailored suit from whatever business lunch he attended, silver hair perfectly styled, Alpha presence filling every corner of the room. At sixty-two, he's still imposing. Still terrifying.
I sit in the chair across from him—the same chair where I sat at sixteen when he told me Julian was dead to this family. Where I sat at eighteen when he handed me the keys to the pack house and told me not to waste the opportunity he'd given me.
Where I've sat for every significant conversation that shaped my life.
"Your mother tells me you've been... distracted lately," Father says, not bothering with pleasantries. He never does. "Care to explain?"
"I've been focused on my academics." The lie comes easily. Too easily. "Theater isn't my only priority."
"Theater has been your only priority since you were fourteen years old." He leans back, steepling his fingers. "You've led every fall showcase since freshman year. And this year you didn't even audition. Why?"
I prepared for this question during the drive. Rehearsed the answer. "I wanted to focus on my studies. My GPA—"
"Your GPA is a 3.9. It's been a 3.9 since you started at Northwood." He cuts through my bullshit with surgical precision. "Try again."
The bonds pull, aching for pack. For Vespera. I shove the feeling down, try to shield it from reaching them. They can't feel how much this is tearing me apart.
"I'm reassessing my priorities," I say instead. "Considering whether a theater career is really what I want."
"Interesting." Father's expression doesn't change. "Because six months ago you were convinced you'd be on Broadway within five years. What changed?"
Everything. I was kidnapped by my own father. I held an Omega captive. I claimed her during her heat. I fell in love with someone who should have been disposable.
"Maturity," I say. "Perspective."
"Bullshit." The word is calm, clinical. "You're lying to me, Dorian. And you're not even doing it well." He pulls out his phone, taps something, then turns the screen toward me.
It's a photo. Me, leaving the theater building two weeks ago. And beside me, close enough to look intimate: Vespera.
My blood goes cold.
"Who is she?" Father asks.
"A classmate." Keep it casual. Keep it normal. "We have Scene Study together."
"A classmate you walk with regularly. A classmate you have lunch with. A classmate whose scent I can smell on your jacket right now even though you've been here for two hours." He sets the phone down. "Try again."
Fuck. Of course he can smell her. I've been living with her for months. Her scent is probably embedded in everything I own.
"She's part of my pack," I admit, because lying further is pointless. "Omega. I claimed her."
The silence that follows is arctic.
"You claimed an Omega," Father repeats slowly. "Without consulting your family. Without proper vetting. Without ensuring she was appropriate."
"The claiming was... biological. Fated mate bonds." I meet his eyes. "I didn't have a choice."
"There's always a choice." He stands, moves to the window overlooking the ocean. "Julian said the same thing. That he didn't have a choice. That his feelings for that boy were too strong to resist."
"This is different. This is biology—"
"Biology is not destiny." He turns back to me. "Do you know what fated mate bonds are, Dorian? In their truest form?"
"Rare genetic compatibility—"
"A genetic accident that creates obsessive attachment and makes otherwise intelligent Alphas do stupid things." His voice is ice. "The kind of stupid things that destroy families. That waste potential. That throw away everything for the illusion of perfect love."
"It's not an illusion—"
"Isn't it?" He crosses back to his desk, pulls out a file. "I had your mother do some research after those girls left earlier. After we realized you weren't interested in any of them despite their obvious suitability."
He opens the file and I see her. Vespera's student ID photo. Her scholarship paperwork. Records I didn't even know existed.
"Vespera Levine," Father reads. "Scholarship student. Father is a stage manager at a community theater in Pennsylvania. Mother abandoned the family when the girl was six years old. No family money. No connections. No pedigree worth mentioning."
Each word is a knife. Each fact a condemnation.
"Her talent—" I start.
"Talent doesn't pay for the lifestyle you're accustomed to." He closes the file. "It doesn't maintain family legacy. It doesn't ensure your children have the advantages you had."
"Julian's husband was talented—"
"And Julian is working as a regional theater manager in Portland, living in a two-bedroom apartment and struggling to pay bills.
" Father's voice doesn't rise. It doesn't have to.
"Is that what you want? To throw away your inheritance, your family, your future for someone who can't give you anything but biology's illusion of compatibility? "
"She gives me more than that—"
"Does she?" He leans forward. "Or does the bond just make you think she does?
Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a man suffering from a chemical addiction, not love.
You're jittery. You're distracted. You can't focus on basic conversations without touching your chest like you're in pain. "
He's right. I've been touching my chest all day, trying to soothe the ache of separation.
"The bonds are real," I say quietly. "Scientifically proven—"
"Scientifically proven to create dependency. Obsession. The biological equivalent of drug addiction." He pulls out another document. "I spoke with a doctor at Johns Hopkins. He's done extensive research on fated mate bonds. Do you know what he told me?"
I don't answer.
"That in eighty-three percent of documented fated mate cases, the bonded pair experienced severe depression, anxiety, and psychological distress when separated.
That the bonds create such intense chemical dependency that partners often can't distinguish between genuine affection and biological compulsion.
" He sets the paper down. "Does that sound like love to you? "
"It's more complicated than that—"
"It's exactly that simple." Father sits back down, and his expression softens slightly. Almost gentle. Which is somehow worse. "Son, I don't blame you for this. You were vulnerable. This girl likely manipulated the situation to trap an Alpha from a good family—"
"She didn't trap me. I hunted her. I kidnapped her. I held her at a lake house and—" I stop myself too late.
The silence is deafening.
"You kidnapped her," Father repeats slowly.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
"It wasn't— The context—" I'm scrambling. "She was dying from rejection sickness. The fated bond was killing her. We had to—"
"You kidnapped a scholarship student, held her captive, and claimed her during what I'm assuming was a heat-induced vulnerable state." Father's voice has gone deadly quiet. "And you're telling me this wasn't manipulation on her part?"
"She didn't want the bond! She ran from me! I'm the one who—" I stop again. Every word is making this worse.
"You're the one who what?" Father leans forward. "Who became so obsessed with an inappropriate Omega that you resorted to kidnapping? Who let biology override basic morality? Who threw away everything you were raised to be for a girl who will destroy you?"
"She's not destroying me—"
"Look at yourself!" His control finally cracks, voice rising. "You're a mess. You haven't slept properly in days. You're so anxious being away from her that you can barely function. This isn't love, Dorian. This is textbook psychological dependency caused by artificially induced trauma bonding."
The clinical assessment hits harder than anger would have.
"I love her," I say, and the words feel both true and insufficient.
"You think you love her. The bonds make you think you love her.
" Father stands again, comes around the desk.
"But son, if you pursue this, you will lose everything.
The inheritance. The family name. Access to your mother and me.
The network that's been built over generations to ensure Ashworth success. "
"Like Julian lost everything."
"Exactly like Julian." He puts his hand on my shoulder, a rare gesture of physical contact. "I don't want to lose another son. But I will not watch you destroy yourself the way he did. I will not enable you to throw away your future."
"So you're giving me an ultimatum."
"I'm giving you clarity." His hand tightens slightly. "End the claiming. There are medical procedures—difficult, dangerous, but possible. We can facilitate it. You'll be in pain for a while, but you'll recover. You'll be free."
"I don't want to be free from her."
"Because the bonds won't let you want that.
That's the point." He releases my shoulder, steps back.
"But if you choose her—if you choose this inappropriate attachment over your family—then you'll experience the same consequences Julian did.
Complete disinheritance. Removal from all family accounts.
No access to the trust fund. Your pack house will be repossessed.
Everything that carries the Ashworth name will be stripped away. "
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably Vespera, feeling my distress through the bonds. I resist the urge to check it.
"When?" I ask. "When do I have to decide?"
"Thanksgiving." Father returns to his desk, picks up a leather-bound planner.
"Your mother and I will be hosting the traditional family gathering.
We expect you to bring a suitable Omega.
Someone appropriate. Someone who can meet the family and demonstrate that you understand your responsibilities. "
"And if I don't?"
"Then we'll know you've made your choice." He closes the planner. "And we'll proceed accordingly."
The deadline hangs there. Six weeks. Six weeks to choose between everything I've ever known and the Omega who's become my entire world.
"I need to think," I say, standing on legs that don't feel entirely stable.
"Of course." Father's voice is almost kind now. Sympathetic. "Take your time. Consider carefully." He picks up his phone. "I'll have Henderson prepare your old room. You should stay the night. Leave fresh in the morning."
"I need to get back to campus—"
"One night won't hurt." It's not a request. "Your mother wants to have breakfast with you. She's worried. Spend tonight here, leave after breakfast. You owe us that much."
I do owe them. Owe them for the life they've given me, the opportunities, the privilege. But I also owe Vespera. Owe her for what I did to her. Owe her the truth I'm only now beginning to understand.
"Okay," I say. "I'll stay."
"Good." Father smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "We'll talk more in the morning. After you've had time to process."
I leave his study feeling like I've been eviscerated. Every word he said was calculated. Precise. Designed to make me doubt everything I feel.
And the worst part? It's working.
My phone buzzes again. Multiple texts now.
Corvus: Your shielding is failing. What's happening?
Oakley: Are you okay? The bonds are going crazy.
Vespera: Dorian?
I stare at her name, feeling the bonds pull so hard it's physically painful. She's worried. They're all worried. And I'm trapped in this house with my parents, being told that everything I feel is a lie created by biology.
I need to call her. Need to explain. But what do I say? That my father just spent an hour telling me our bond is a chemical dependency? That they're threatening to destroy me if I don't end it? That I'm terrified he might be right?
I dial her number before I can overthink it.
She answers on the first ring. "Dorian?"
"Hey." My voice sounds wrong even to my own ears. "Sorry for the radio silence. Things have been... intense."
And then I'm explaining—the Omega suitors, the interrogation, the suspicions. But I can't bring myself to tell her about the ultimatum. About Thanksgiving. About the choice I'm being forced to make.
I can't tell her that my father thinks our love is a lie.
Because if I say it out loud, I might start believing it too.
That night, I lie in my childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling.
The room is exactly as I left it when I moved to the pack house at eighteen. Trophies from prep school. Framed playbills from shows I was in. Photos of me and the pack before everything got complicated.
Before Vespera.
My phone sits on the nightstand, Vespera's last text still unanswered.
Vespera: Come home. Get away from them. We'll figure out the rest later.
Home. She called the pack house home. Like it's ours, not mine. Like she belongs there as much as I do.
But Father's words keep echoing: Biological dependency. Chemical addiction. Trauma bonding.
What if he's right? What if everything I feel is just the bonds manipulating me? What if I'm destroying my life for an illusion?
I touch my chest, feeling the ache there. Missing her. Needing her. The bonds pulling so hard it hurts.
Or is this just withdrawal? Like an addict craving their next fix?
My phone buzzes. Oakley this time.
Oakley: Whatever they're telling you, don't believe it. Come home. Talk to us. Don't make decisions while you're there alone.
He's right. I know he's right. But I can't leave until morning. Can't face my mother at breakfast if I run now. Can't prove that I'm weak the way Father thinks I am.
So I stay. In this room full of ghosts. Trying to tell the difference between love and chemical dependency.
Trying to figure out if I'm brave enough to choose her when the time comes.
Trying not to think about Julian, who made this choice and ended up erased from family history.
The bonds pulse again. Vespera, probably lying awake in the pack house, worrying about me. Feeling my distress even though I'm trying to shield it. I love you, I think toward her through the bond, even though I don't know if she can feel it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
Because tomorrow I'll drive back to campus and pretend everything is fine. Pretend I'm not facing an impossible choice. Pretend my father didn't just systematically destroy every certainty I had about what we are.
But tonight, alone in this room, all I can think is:
What if he's right?
What if I'm not choosing love?
What if I'm just choosing addiction?