You're brilliant. The way you played that scene today - I couldn't look away
Want to grab dinner after rehearsal? Nothing fancy, just... I'd like to spend more time with you
I know you're dealing with a lot. But I'm here. Whatever you need
And then I find it. A text from the night before she was taken:
What I said on the roof - I meant it. Every word. You're the best thing about this summer. I'm halfway in love with you.
Halfway in love with her.
I stand up so fast my chair crashes backward.
The sound echoes in the room but I barely hear it over the roaring in my ears. This Beta. This nothing. This insignificant fucking Beta thinks he's in love with our omega.
Our omega. When did I start thinking of her as "ours"?
But the possessive rage coursing through me doesn't care about semantics. Doesn't care about logic. Only cares that some Beta touched her, called her pet names, confessed feelings, made her smile in ways we never could.
I pace. My hands shake. This isn't me. I don't lose control like this. I analyze, I strategize, I solve problems with data and planning.
But there's no data that will solve the image now burned into my brain of Ben Rosen touching her face on a roof at sunset.
I force myself to breathe. To think.
Ben Rosen is a Beta. No biological claim. The fated bond supersedes any emotional attachment. He's irrelevant.
Except he's not irrelevant. Because she apologized to him. Because she was kind to him in ways she'll never be kind to us. Because he represents something normal and safe that we can never give her.
I need more information.
I access her phone's photo gallery. Scroll through with hands that won't quite steady.
There. Pictures from the Columbus program. Her on stage as Medea, fierce and brilliant. Her with other cast members. And then—
Her and Ben. His arm around her shoulders. Both of them laughing.
Another one. On a roof, sunset behind them. His hand touching her face.
Another. Closer. Intimate. Like he was about to kiss her or just finished kissing her.
My vision goes red. Actual red, blurring at the edges.
I slam the laptop shut before I do something stupid like throw it.
This is irrational. This level of reaction is completely disproportionate. Ben Rosen is in Texas. She's here. The bond ensures she'll never fully connect with a Beta anyway.
But the images won't leave my mind. His hand on her face. Her smiling at him. The easy intimacy between them that we'll never have because we kidnapped her and destroyed any chance of her ever looking at us that way.
I open a new browser window.
Type in "Ben Rosen Austin Texas."
I shouldn't do this. I know I shouldn't do this.
But I can't stop.
His social media is public. Amateur security. Theater headshots, rehearsal photos, posts about the Columbus program.
