"I would never." He paused. "Oakley does that."
"Hey!" Oakley protested. "I'm being supportive."
"You're being nosy."
"Can't it be both?"
Despite everything, I smiled. This was the dynamic we'd been building. Tentative. Careful. Stretches of normalcy woven between the complicated history and the even more complicated present.
I was still angry at Dorian for those three days of silence before the heat. Still testing whether he'd actually keep his promises. Still not entirely sure this whole thing wasn't going to explode in my face.
But right now, eating French toast while Oakley teased Corvus about his espresso addiction and Dorian planned the best route to avoid campus traffic, I could almost believe we were going to figure it out.
Almost.
Walkingacrosscampusfeltdifferent.
I'd done this walk dozens of times since classes started three weeks ago, but post-heat everything felt sharper. More intense. My senses were still heightened, picking up every scent, every sound, every fucking stare from the students we passed.
And they were staring.
Dorian had dropped me off at the edge of campus like I'd asked, but not before making sure I had my phone, had texted Stephanie where I'd be, and had promised—twice—to text himwhen rehearsal was over. Overprotective, but in a way that felt like care instead of control.
Progress. Maybe.
Now I was alone, walking the autumn-gold paths toward the theater building, and everyone was watching. Omegas gave me sympathetic looks. Alphas watched with calculated interest. Even Betas seemed curious about the scholarship student who'd disappeared for three days during "flu season."
My scent had changed. Not permanently, but enough that everyone could tell I'd been through heat. Could smell the pack bonds layered under my jasmine. Could see the claiming marks I wasn't bothering to hide.
Let them stare. Let them whisper. I was done hiding.
My phone buzzed. Stephanie:Are you okay? Where have you been??
Me:Heat. I'm fine. See you at lunch?
Stephanie:HEAT?! We're definitely talking at lunch. Are you SURE you're okay?
Me:As okay as I can be. Promise.
Another buzz. This time Ben:Glad you're feeling better. De Scarzis has been asking about you. See you at rehearsal?
Me:On my way.
The theater building appeared ahead like a sanctuary. My territory. The one place on campus where I was Vespera the actress, not Vespera the Omega. Where talent mattered more than designation.
Or at least, where it was supposed to.
I pushed through the doors, breathing in the familiar smell of old wood and stage makeup and decades of performances soaked into the walls. Home in a way the pack house was still learning to be.
The main theater doors were open, voices echoing from the stage. I was late—rehearsal had started fifteen minutes ago. Fuck.
I hurried down the aisle, my boots clicking against the floor. De Scarzis stood center stage mid-direction, but stopped when he saw me appear.
The entire cast turned to look.
"Ms. Levine," De Scarzis said, his Italian accent sharpening. Not angry. Assessing. "How nice of you to join us."
"I'm sorry," I said, moving toward the stage. "I was sick. I'm here now."
