Chapter 37 Vespera
thirty-seven
Vespera
The callback room feels smaller than it should.
Trying not to think about this morning.
Dorian got back early—felt it through the bonds, that sudden relief of proximity after two days of separation. I rushed downstairs expecting him to be himself again, expecting everything to be okay after the phone call where he'd sounded so desperate to come home.
Instead, I found him in the kitchen, pouring coffee with mechanical precision, and when I said his name he barely looked at me.
"Morning," he said. Flat. Emotionless. Like I was a stranger.
"Are you okay?" I moved closer, reaching for him.
He stepped back. Not dramatically. A small shift that put space between us. Put everything between us. "Fine. Just tired."
"Dorian, what happened at your parents'—"
"I need to get to class." He grabbed his coffee and left without another word. Without touching me. Without anything.
I stood there in the empty kitchen, feeling the bond ache in his wake. Corvus found me ten minutes later, still frozen in the same spot.
"He's shutting down," Corvus said, not unkindly. "His parents did a number on him. Whatever they said, it worked."
"What do I do?"
"Give him space. Let him work through it." Corvus poured himself coffee, clinical as always. "Or don't. Force the issue. Both options have merit."
But I couldn't force anything. Not when every instinct said he'd pull further away.
So here I am, sitting in callback auditions, trying to focus on Hedda Gabler while my chest aches with Dorian's rejection.
"Levine." De Scarzis's voice cuts through my spiral. "You're up. Act Two, scene one. You'll be reading with Rosen."
I stand, legs steadier than I feel. Ben's already at the center of the room, script in hand, giving me an encouraging smile that makes my chest hurt worse. Because he's here, present, while Dorian can't even look at me.
"Whenever you're ready," De Scarzis says, settling back in her chair with that unreadable expression she always wears.
The scene is Hedda's first private conversation with L?vborg—charged, dangerous, both of them dancing around what they used to be to each other. It's about power and manipulation and the way old connections never really die, transform into something else.
"So you've come back," I say, Hedda's words sliding out with the right mix of curiosity and disdain. "After all this time."
"I had to." Ben's voice as L?vborg is rough. Desperate. "I heard you were married. Had to see if it was true."
We move through the scene and something happens—that alchemy that only exists between certain actors. The dialogue becomes real, the space between us charged with all the things Hedda and L?vborg can't say to each other.
Except I'm not playing Hedda. I'm channeling every ounce of hurt from this morning, every bit of rage at being pushed away, every desperate need to matter to someone who's decided I'm a mistake.
"You're playing with fire," Ben says, and he's broken character slightly, searching my face with concern.
"I know," I murmur back, and I'm not sure if I'm answering L?vborg or Ben or myself.
"Thank you." De Scarzis makes a note on her clipboard. "Excellent work. Rosen, stay center. Morrison, you're up next for Hedda."
I take my seat and watch Charlotte Morrison perform the same scene. She's good—technically perfect, hitting every beat. But she's playing Hedda. I was being her. There's a difference.
Ben catches my eye from across the room and mouths "you got this." I try to smile back.
The rest of the session passes in a blur. By the time De Scarzis dismisses us, promising the cast list tomorrow morning, I'm exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with acting.
"You killed it," Ben says, catching up with me in the hallway.
"Charlotte was better."
"Charlotte was technically proficient. You were Hedda." He bumps my shoulder. "Trust me. You got this." He pauses, studying my face. "You okay? You seemed like you were channeling something pretty intense in there."
"Just getting into character."
"Vespera—"
"I'm fine." I hoist my bag higher on my shoulder. "Just tired. I'll see you tomorrow."
I leave before he can push harder. Before I do something stupid like tell him that my Alpha is treating me like I don't exist and it's killing me.
The walk back to the pack house feels endless. Every step closer makes the ache in my chest worse, because I know what I'm walking into. Dorian's coldness. His distance. The way he'll look through me like I'm invisible.
The house is quiet when I arrive. Corvus is at his usual spot at the kitchen island, laptop open. Oakley's cooking something that smells amazing. And Dorian is nowhere.
"Upstairs," Corvus says without looking up from his screen. "In his room. Door locked."
The casual way he says it—like it's normal for Dorian to lock himself away from his pack—makes something inside me crack.
"What happened?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "At his parents' house. What did they actually say to him?"
Corvus finally looks at me. "That you're inappropriate. That his feelings are biological dependency, not real. That choosing you means losing everything—inheritance, family, legacy. All of it." He leans back. "Standard wealthy family ultimatum. Choose us or choose her."
"And he's choosing them."
"He's choosing paralysis. Which is worse." Corvus closes his laptop. "He's holed up in there drinking his father's scotch—the twenty-five-year Macallan that Harrison sent him for his birthday. Making symbolic gestures about patrimony while avoiding the actual decision."
The detail about the scotch makes it worse somehow. Dorian's father's gift. Dorian's father's poison.
"How long has he been like this?"
"Since he got back this morning." Oakley sets down his wooden spoon, turns to face me. "He went straight to his room after you tried to talk to him. Hasn't come out except to get the bottle."
"I'm going upstairs," I say.
"Vespera—" Corvus starts.
"To my room. Not his." I head for the stairs. "I'll be down for dinner."
But I don't go to my room. I stand outside Dorian's door, listening to the silence on the other side. Should I knock? Demand he talk to me? Force the issue?
Behind the door, the clink of glass on glass. The sound of liquid pouring. The distinctive smell of expensive scotch seeping through the gap under the door.
He's drinking his father's gift. Alone. In the dark. And I'm standing out here like a fool, waiting for him to decide if I'm worth choosing.
I raise my hand to knock. Lower it. Raise it again.
The bond pulses—he knows I'm here. Knows I'm standing outside his door. But he doesn't open it. Doesn't invite me in. Doesn't do anything.
The rejection is louder than words.
I walk away from his door and knock on Oakley's instead.
He answers immediately, concern written across his face. Takes one look at me and steps aside. "Come in."
His room is warm, comfortable, smelling like cedar and safety. I sink onto his bed and finally let myself feel it. The hurt. The rejection. The way Dorian looked at me this morning like I was a mistake he was trying to figure out how to fix.
"He'll come around," Oakley says quietly, sitting beside me. "He's scared."
"Scared of what? Me? Us? The fact that he might actually have to choose?"
"All of it." Oakley reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away.
When I don't, his hand settles on my back, warm and solid.
"His parents threatened everything. Made him question whether what he feels is real or biological manipulation.
And Dorian's never had to choose between family and what he wants before. "
"Because he's never wanted something they disapprove of."
"Exactly." Oakley pulls me against his side, and I let myself lean into the comfort. "Give him time. Let him work through it. He'll come back."
"What if he doesn't? What if he decides I'm not worth losing everything?" The fear I've been suppressing all day finally breaks free. "What if his father's right and this is biology? Bonds making us think we're something we're not?"
"Do you believe that?"
I think about it. Really think about it. About the way Dorian looked at me before he left for his parents' house. The way he fought to be better. The way he chose me over and over again before his father got in his head.
"No," I say finally. "I don't believe that. But I think he might."
"Then we wait. We give him space to figure it out. And we trust that he'll make the right choice." Oakley's hand strokes my hair, slow and soothing. "But Vespera? Even if he doesn't, you have us. Me and Corvus. The bonds aren't with him."
The reminder is both comforting and devastating. Because I don't want pack. I want Dorian. Want him to fight for this. Want him to prove his father wrong.
I shift closer, burying my face against Oakley's chest. His cedar scent wraps around me, warm and grounding. Not demanding anything. Present.
"Can I sleep in here tonight?" The words come out small. "I don't want to be alone. And I can't—I can't sleep in my room knowing he's right next door, locked away."
"Of course." Oakley's arms tighten around me, protective. "You don't even have to ask."
He reaches for his dresser with his free hand, pulls out a soft t-shirt. "Here. You'll be more comfortable."
I take it into his bathroom to change, splashing water on my face, trying to pull myself together. When I come back out, Oakley's already under the covers, having changed into sleep pants but nothing else. His broad chest is bare, golden skin marked with faint scars from athletics.
I crawl into bed beside him, and he immediately pulls me close. Not sexually. Comfort. His body warm and solid against mine.
"How did the callback audition go?" he asks after a stretch, his hand resuming its gentle stroke through my hair. "Before all this."
"Good, I think. I felt good about it." The memory feels distant now, overshadowed by everything else. "Ben and I had really good chemistry. De Scarzis seemed pleased."