"Fuck the data!" I'm shouting again. "Fuck your tests and your percentages and your biological destiny! I'm not some genetic match to be claimed. I'm a person. And I didn't consent to any of this!"
"You think I wanted this?" His voice rises to match mine. "You think I wanted to feel like I'm dying every second you're not close? To lose sleep and weight and my fucking mind over a stubborn omega who won't admit she needs us as much as we need her?"
"I don't need you!"
"Your body says different."
"My body isn't me!"
We're inches apart now. Both breathing hard. The air between us crackles with pheromones and anger and something darker.
His scent is overwhelming. My body responds—heat pooling, a whimper building in my throat that I barely swallow down.
He notices. Of course he does. His pupils blow wide.
"You feel it too," he breathes.
I do. God help me, I do.
"You're killing yourself to prove a point," Dorian says, hands clenched at his sides.
"Better than surrendering to avoid the pain."
"That's not strength. That's stupidity."
"Call it whatever you want. I'm not giving up my autonomy because some test says we're compatible."
"Even if it means dying?"
"Even then."
We stare at each other. The moment stretches. Taut as wire.
His hand lifts. Almost touches my face. I can feel the heat of his palm hovering near my cheek.
Then he drops it. Steps back. The loss feels like grief.
"Lunch is at one," he says flatly.
"I'm not eating with you."
"Yes. You are." His voice goes cold. "You can walk down or be carried. But you're eating. Doctor's orders."
He leaves me standing there. Shaking with rage and exhaustion.
Inside my room, I lock the door—pointless, since I'm sure they have keys—and lean against it. My legs give out. I slide down to the floor.
The screens from Corvus's study burn behind my eyes. 99.97%. Three times. One in fifty million odds.
Biology as prison. Genetics as chains.
But my body doesn't care. Between my thighs, I'm wet. Aching. Every nerve ending screaming for something I won't give it.
The clock reads 11:47. Hour and thirteen minutes until mandatory lunch.
I look at my closet. At the clothes Dorian picked out. At the person he wants me to be.
Then I look at myself in the mirror.
