Good. Let them watch. Let them see what it looks like when Omegas stop asking permission.
"Music?" Vespera asks, plugging her phone into the aux cord.
"Dealer's choice," I say.
She picks something with a driving beat and heavy bass, and we speed down the highway toward New York with the windows down and the music up and absolutely no idea what we're doing.
"So," Corvus says from the back. "Do we have a plan?"
"I have a plan," Vespera says. "You three are winging it."
"That's not reassuring," Oakley mutters.
"Reassuring isn't really my brand," Vespera counters. "Dramatic exits and burning bridges? Much more my style."
I laugh, reaching over to take her hand. "What's the plan?"
"Vivian Strasberg gave me a contact for temporary housing—subletting from an actress who's on tour. Studio apartment in Hell's Kitchen, month-to-month. I can afford it for three months with my savings."
"Then what?" Corvus asks.
"Then we figure it out." She turns to look at all of us. "I start rehearsals in two days. The show runs for six weeks. If it goes well, there will be more work. If it doesn't..." She shrugs. "We'll figure that out too."
"And us?" Oakley asks quietly. "What do we do?"
"Whatever you want," Vespera says. "I'm not your keeper. You want to defer graduate programs? Get jobs? Go back to school in New York? Your choice."
"Just like that?" I ask. "We follow you to New York and you're fine with us figuring out our own lives?"
"Just like that," she confirms. "I claimed you because I want you. Not because I want to control you. You're adults. You can handle your own shit."
"That's very reasonable," Corvus observes.
"Don't sound so surprised," Vespera says. "I can be reasonable when people aren't trying to cage me."
We drive in comfortable silence for a while. The highway is empty at this hour, just us and long-haul trucks and the occasional insomniac. The sky starts to lighten around five AM, dawn breaking over the landscape.
"Hey," Vespera says quietly. "Can I tell you something?"
"Anything," I say.
"I was terrified up there," she admits. "On that stage. Marking you in front of everyone. I thought I might pass out from adrenaline."
"You didn't look terrified," Oakley says. "You looked like a goddess."
"That's called acting," she says, but I hear the smile in her voice. "Inside I was absolutely losing my shit. What if you'd said no? What if you'd left the stage? What if I'd just humiliated myself in front of everyone?"
"We wouldn't have said no," I tell her. "Couldn't have said no. The moment you said 'kneel,' that was it. Biology, bond, whatever—didn't matter. We were yours."
"Are yours," Corvus corrects. "Present tense."
"Yeah," Vespera says softly. "You are."
We cross into New York state around six AM. The sun is fully up now, casting golden light across everything. It feels symbolic in a way that's probably too on-the-nose to actually articulate, but I feel it anyway.
New dawn. New city. New life.
"There it is," Vespera says as the Manhattan skyline comes into view. "Home."
