"Because I've been studying her for months." The comprehensive file appears—academic records, history, psychological profile assembled from observation and data. "She's driven by defiance, not despair. Every action she's taken has been about maintaining control, not surrendering it."
Even rejecting us was about control, choosing the pain of separation over the surrender of acceptance.
My phone buzzes. Dorian, texting from his destroyed room:Timeline?
Response:Day 3 of program. 11:47 PM. Walking route from theater to dorms. Clean vehicle acquired.
His response is immediate:Good.
"He's getting worse," Oakley says quietly. "The destruction, the obsession, the shrine of her things—"
"We're all getting worse." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "The biological imperative is absolute. Without intervention, systemic failure is inevitable."
"You mean we'll die."
"I mean our bodies will cease to function in the absence of their recognized mate." The laptop closes, exhaustion hitting suddenly. "Death is simply the terminology for that cessation."
Oakley studies me with those too-perceptive eyes. "When's the last time you actually slept? Not just dozed at your desk, but actually slept?"
"Sleep is inefficient when—"
"Corvus." He moves closer, and his scent hits—pack and comfort and not-her. "You're burning yourself out trying to solve this like an equation. But this isn't a problem set. It's biology."
"Biology follows patterns. Patterns can be predicted, manipulated, controlled."
"Not this." He reaches out, his hand settling on the back of my neck. "This is beyond control. Hers and ours."
The touch makes something in me crack, the careful walls I've built starting to crumble. "I can feel her," I admit. "Even from here. The bond pulls constantly, demanding I find her, fix this, make her ours properly. My body doesn't understand why I'm not hunting her down right now."
"Because you're not Dorian," Oakley says. "You think before you act."
"Thinking doesn't make it easier. Just more complicated." The touch gets a slight lean into it, allowing myself this single moment of weakness. "I've run 1,847 scenarios for how this could play out. Only twelve have acceptable outcomes."
"Acceptable meaning?"
"She survives. We survive. The pack remains intact."
"And she accepts the bond?"
Quiet for a moment, then: "That only happens in three scenarios. The rest involve... alternative arrangements."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we find ways to manage the biological imperative without her full consent. Proximity without acceptance. Survival without submission."
It's not ideal. It's not even good. But it's better than the alternatives calculated—the ones that end with obituaries and empty rooms and a pack that couldn't protect its omega.
"We can last," Oakley says.
"We'll last as long as necessary." The laptop opens again, pulling up the Columbus Theater schedule. "She has a callback for Medea on day two. She'll get the role—the director has a preference for omegas in tragic female leads. Rehearsals will begin immediately, running until midnight most nights."
"You've hacked their system."
"I've thoroughly researched their patterns." The distinction matters, legally speaking. "By day ten, she'll be exhausted from the schedule, weakened from ongoing rejection symptoms, isolated from any support system. Optimal conditions for acquisition."
"You're talking about her like she's a hostile takeover target."
"The methodology is similar." Another spreadsheet appears, this one tracking the logistics. "Identify the asset. Analyze weaknesses. Plan the acquisition. Execute with precision."
