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?"
