Dating An Alpha At Weimar High

Episode Four

Every movement and whisper marks itself in my mind as I slowly watch the party unfold. Niklaus Vosberg's steady grip grounds me in the dark corridor outside the house as bits of conversation float about. Inner voices whisper, "Why do I always end up here?" Though the scene is chaotic, his familiar presence offers a flimsy solace. "Yoof Niklaus Vosberg! What's up, man? A voice shouts from among the throng. As I grip his wrist more tightly, direct conversation cuts through the fog. Focussing on him, I can hardly register the sound. Of course, someone here has to know him. He's among the most often used persons at Weimar, for better or for worse. From the gathering, indirect conversation suggests murmurs and perplexed exclamations, melding with the background noise. My other arm's agony gradually subsides as well, making me unstable. But the hand on my wrist moves, catching me with a softness that momentarily steadies my staggered walk. Expositional conversation inside my head whispers that his touch is the only anchor among the mess. I quickly glance back toward the house, where Adler hovers nervously, provoking curious stares from onlookers. There is a brief moment of conflict: one person mumbles a confused noise while another comment floats past, vague but full of mistrust. "Heyo." The voice of Niklaus Vosberg rumbles against my cheek—a soft, almost mocking murmur that almost causes me to forget my ruined state. "Sorry, just dropping by; I have a jet." His words cut through the party's buzz like a sharp breeze. As he guides us through the throng, he turns me away with easy strength and echoes, supporting my weight. A brief wave and a farewell parting, "I'll catch you guys later!" sound in the distance. Oh, um, sure. I say gently, a hint of doubtful resignation in my voice. My inner conversation objects silently: Am I even ready for this farewell? My left arm suddenly gets a strong hold. As I'm yanked back, I start to whimper in surprise. I see conflict in my head; tonight is not what I had in mind. Still, Niklaus pivots, glaring fiercely to dislodge the invading hand. His wrinkled brows mirror a quiet directive: "Back up." He draws me near and puts me behind him to protect me from the stinging stares of total strangers. A few laboured breaths later, I find my body starts to relax—if only slightly—despite the residual taste of fear. As I huddle behind him and hang on to the comfort his presence offers, my fingers curl reflexively into the back of his jacket. Adler had reached out in the periphery, his hand still extended in a silent plea, but I turned away, not ready to accept it. "Pull back." Valda made her decision, Niklaus says straightforwardly, his tone steely and devoid of any room for argument. Direct conversation calls out, dragging me into a whirl of conflicting emotions. "She didn't even say anything," says Adler, whose voice now seems far-off and frigid. My eyes meet his. I move even more behind Niklaus, withdrawing as though the weight of every word could bring me down. Indirect conversation whirls around us, broken by whispers and stifled gasps from people close. Look, I really have to straighten something out with her. She is my friend, Adler says, his tone tinged with expensive justification. Actually? His laugh is a brittle sound, hostile and heavy with irony. Not sure how roughly you handled her. The words leave a residual bitterness as they cut me like ice fragments. Adler starts, "She's just...slippery, that's all," but his voice stumbles as he reaches back towards me once more and extends his hand. My inner dialogue rebels silently; no, I won't take that; I feel the unsaid request, a conflict of wills. Niklaus seems to grow in a moment of inexplicable metamorphosis; his presence gets more commanding. A pressure develops around him, so tangible it freezes me in place. His low, rumbling voice vibrates deep in my chest, "Valda made her choice," and even the clamour of the party dims for a heartbeat. Consider the no, Adler. His direct conversation cuts through the residual noise, a last order with unquestionable power. And that marks the end of that chapter of the night. Niklaus circles, guiding me away from the disorganised glare of the house. Carefully seated in his car, he ignores the traces of cupcake icing still clinging to me. His motions are erratic and encouraging; I can close the door without thinking twice. Still numb, my fingers fumble over an empty paper bag he is handing me. Breathe, just breathe. A spark of inner conversation sharpens my mind into clarity. I inhale, filling my lungs, then settle into the dubious comfort of his car. He reaches past me, and I sense the faint click of a mechanism—a fastening tightening against me as the car lurches forward, starting its steady trip away from the anarchy. A quick monologue reminds me that, even with a throbbing headache, my blood has returned to my limbs. I pause to gather myself; although the ringing in my ears is constant, the car's steady hum offers an odd comfort. Still, my phone bursts once more with constant sounds—Ding! Ding! Ding!—each chime cutting through my ideas. I drag it out and squint at its blinding screen until I locate Adler's contact. I hit Block right away without thinking. I start a moment of questioning conversation inside me. What should I do now? The calls and alerts stop instantly, a little break from the assault. Br NG! Another sound catches me back: a sudden reminder of the continuous universe outside. I look at Niklaus, who has one hand in a laid-back but firm hold on the wheel. His phone pings with sporadic texts, but he ignores them, lost in contemplation. From the party, "...Uhm...is that?" I ask haltingly, my words sounding like interrogative conversation, trying to grasp. Ah, maybe, he says, shrugging easily. His direct communication is accompanied by almost funny nonchalance. "I was supposed to meet someone, so it might be them." I fumble, then say, "I... I'm sorry...uhm...you can just, uhm...bus station. You can let me drop off. My voice is hesitant and contradictory; my inner conversation is whirling with uncertainty. Hey? Oh, not to worry about it. His answer is fast, contemptuous, yet sympathetic. Really, don't. Okay, I want you home. His tone's honesty speaks to a subdued subtext of concern. I nod, struggling to find my words, and my silence says volumes.

***