Chapter 37 Vespera #2
"You'll get it." His certainty should be annoying but isn't. "You're the best actor in the program. Everyone knows it."
"Charlotte's good too—"
"Charlotte's technically proficient. You're transcendent." His fingers find the tense muscles at the base of my neck, working them gently. "There's a difference."
I make a small sound—almost a purr—as the tension starts to release under his touch. My omega instincts responding to his Alpha care in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with pack bonds.
Oakley's scent warms, pleased. "That's it, little star. Let me take care of you."
His hands move to my shoulders, kneading the knots that have built up from days of stress. Each touch deliberate, careful, focused on comfort rather than arousal. But my body responds anyway—a soft rumbling starting in my chest that I can't quite suppress.
"You're purring," Oakley says softly, wonder in his voice.
"I can't help it." My face heats with embarrassment. "When Alphas take care of me, it happens."
"Don't be embarrassed." His hands slide down my back, working out more tension. "It's beautiful. Means you feel safe with me."
The purr deepens despite myself. His touch, his scent, the warm safety of his presence—it's all combining to override my emotional turmoil with pure biological contentment.
"Roll over," he murmurs. "On your stomach. Let me do this properly."
I comply, and he straddles my hips carefully, his weight settling over me in a way that makes my omega hindbrain sing with satisfaction. Covered. Protected. Safe.
His hands work systematically down my spine, finding every tight muscle and coaxing it to release. My purrs become continuous, embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.
"That's my girl," Oakley says, his voice warm with affection. "Feel. Don't think. Let your body have what it needs."
What it needs is apparently this—strong Alpha hands, cedar scent surrounding me, the weight of pack pressing me into soft blankets. My mind might be breaking over Dorian's rejection, but my body is singing with relief.
Oakley's hands slide lower, to the small of my back, and I arch into the touch without meaning to. The purr stutters, shifts into something that's almost a whimper.
"Easy," he soothes, but his scent is darkening, warming with something that isn't quite arousal but isn't purely platonic either. "Just comfort. That's all this is."
But his hands linger at the hem of the borrowed t-shirt. Slip barely beneath it, calloused palms against my bare skin. The touch is still gentle, still focused on soothing, but there's heat building between us now.
I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, but his expression is pure concern. "Tell me to stop and I will," he says. "This is about what you need. Nothing else."
"I need—" My voice breaks. "I need to feel wanted. To feel like I matter to someone."
"You matter to me." His hands slide up my sides, taking the shirt with them. "You always have. From the first time I saw you."
He helps me sit up enough to pull the shirt over my head, leaving me bare from the waist up. For a stretch we look at each other—his eyes tracking over my body with open appreciation that makes heat pool low in my belly.
Then he leans down and kisses my shoulder. Soft. Reverent. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my skin. "So perfect."
His mouth trails kisses across my back, following the path his hands took. Each one gentle, worshipful, designed to soothe rather than inflame. But my body is responding anyway—skin flushing, breath quickening, that ache building between my thighs.
The scent of my slick fills the air between us. Sweet and desperate. Unmistakable.
Oakley inhales sharply, his hands stilling on my skin. "Vespera—"
"I can't help it." My voice is small, embarrassed. "The massage, your touch, it—"
"Don't apologize." He turns me over carefully, arranging me on my back so he can see my face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, but his expression is pure tenderness. "Your body knows what it needs. Let me give it to you."
"Oakley—" His name comes out needy.
"I know." He settles between my thighs, hooking his fingers in my sleep shorts. "I've got you, little star. Let me take care of you properly."
He slides the shorts down my legs slowly, reverently, and the cool air against my slick-dampened skin makes me shiver. His cedar scent deepens, warming with arousal, but his movements stay gentle. Controlled.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, pressing kisses to the inside of my knee. My thigh. Higher. "So perfect like this. Letting me care for you."
"Please—" I arch toward him, desperate for his touch.
"Shh." His breath ghosts over my center, making me whimper. "Not rushing this. You need soft right now. Need gentle. Need to be worshipped."
The first touch of his tongue is devastating in its tenderness. A long, slow lick that makes my purr stutter back to life, deeper than before. He takes his time, learning every inch of me with patient attention that has nothing to do with his own pleasure and everything to do with mine.
"That's it," he encourages between long, languid strokes. "Let me hear you. Let me know I'm taking care of my Omega."
The possessive sends a fresh wave of slick, and he groans against me. But he doesn't speed up, doesn't lose that careful control. Continues his slow, thorough worship, like he has all the time in the world to learn what makes me fall apart.
His hands slide up to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples in time with the movement of his tongue. The dual sensation makes me cry out, my hands fisting in his hair.
"Oakley, fuck—"
"No fucking," he says, pulling back enough to meet my eyes. His lips are slick with me, eyes dark with want but infinitely gentle. "This. Me making you feel good. Making you feel wanted. Making you remember that you matter."
Then his mouth is back, circling my clit with maddening patience. Building me up slowly, carefully, like I'm something precious that might break if he's not careful enough.
And maybe I am. Maybe that's exactly what I am right now.
The orgasm builds gradually, a slow tide rather than a crashing wave. Oakley works me through it with the same patient attention, never rushing, never demanding, giving and giving and giving until I'm shaking with it.
"Let go," he murmurs against me. "I've got you. You're safe. You're wanted. You're mine."
I come apart with a sound that's half sob, half moan, my body arching off the bed as pleasure rolls through me in long, slow pulses. Not intense. Not overwhelming. Relief. Pure, sweet relief after days of tension and hurt and fear.
Oakley works me through every aftershock, gentling his touches as I come down, pressing soft kisses to my thighs, my hips, my stomach.
When he finally crawls back up my body, his expression is satisfied in a way that has nothing to do with his own arousal—still evident in his sleep pants—and everything to do with having taken care of me.
"Better?" he asks softly, gathering me back into his arms.
"Yeah." I burrow against his chest, my purr returning as contentment replaces the desperate need. "Thank you."
"Nothing to thank me for." He pulls the covers over us both, one hand resuming its gentle stroke through my hair. "Taking care of you isn't a favor, little star. It's a privilege."
"That's it," he encourages, his cedar scent wrapping around us both. "Let it out. Let me hear how safe you feel."
I burrow closer, tucking my face against his neck where his scent is strongest. My purrs become almost musical, a sound of pure contentment that I haven't made since before everything fell apart with Dorian.
"I've got you," Oakley murmurs, holding me tighter. "I'm not going anywhere. No matter what Dorian decides, you have me. You'll always have me."
The promise should scare me. Should feel like too much. But instead it feels like the first solid ground I've stood on in days.
I fall asleep like that—wrapped in Alpha arms, purring softly, my bare chest pressed against his. Safe. Wanted. Cared for.
Even if Dorian doesn't choose me, at least someone does.
I wake to my phone buzzing insistently. Early—barely past six AM.
Stephanie: CAST LIST IS UP EARLY. CHECK NOW. VESPERA OMG CHECK NOW.
I'm still wrapped in Oakley's arms, his breathing slow and steady against my hair. I fumble for my laptop on his nightstand, careful not to wake him, pulling up the theater department website with shaking hands.
HEDDA GABLER - FALL SHOWCASE CAST
Hedda Tesman: Vespera Levine Eilert L?vborg: Ben Rosen
I got it.
I actually got it.
The lead role. The showcase that could define my career. Broadway scouts in the audience. Everything I've worked for since I was fourteen years old.
And all I feel is empty.
Because Dorian should be the first person I tell. Should be here celebrating with me. Should care that this is the biggest thing of my college career.
Instead, he's locked in his room, drinking his father's scotch and treating me like I don't exist.
Oakley stirs beside me. "What is it?"
"I got Hedda." I show him the screen, and his face lights up in a way that makes my chest ache.
"Vespera, that's amazing!" He pulls me into a hug, genuine and warm and everything Dorian should be. "I'm so proud of you. This is huge."
"Thanks." I return the hug, trying to feel something other than hollow.
"We should celebrate. Wake Corvus, make a huge breakfast, do something special—"
"No." I pull back. "I mean, yes, we can tell Corvus. But no celebration. Not with Dorian like this. Not when he won't even look at me."
Oakley's expression shifts—understanding mixed with frustration. "He'd want you to celebrate—"
"Would he?" I meet his eyes. "Because I don't think he'd even notice. I don't think he'd care at all."
Oakley doesn't argue. Can't argue. Because we both know I'm right.
I get dressed in yesterday's clothes, splash water on my face in Oakley's bathroom, and head downstairs. Corvus is already up, coffee in hand, and when he sees my expression he raises an eyebrow.
"You got it," he says. Not a question.
"Yeah."
"Congratulations. That's a significant achievement. De Scarzis rarely casts freshmen in lead roles, especially for the fall showcase." He gestures to the coffee pot. "Broadway scouts will be there. This could be career-defining."
"I know." I pour myself a cup, staring out the kitchen window at the early morning light. Trying to feel something. Anything. "First rehearsal is Monday."
"With Ben Rosen as your leading man," Corvus observes, and there's something in his tone I can't quite read.
"Yep."
"That will be... complicated. Given the bonds.
Given Dorian's current state." He takes a sip of his coffee.
"You'll be spending significant time in intimate proximity with someone you're attracted to while your primary Alpha is having a psychological crisis.
Statistically, that's a recipe for disaster. "
"Everything's already a disaster." I take a sip, the bitter coffee matching my mood. "What's one more thing?"
Upstairs, Dorian's door opens. Footsteps in the hallway. The bathroom door closing. The shower turning on.
He's awake. Functional. Going through the motions of being alive.
But he's not here. Not really. And I have no idea how to bring him back.
Or if he even wants to come back at all.