Page 115 of His Drama Queen

The master bedroom is bigger than my entire dorm room. King bed. Walk-in closet. Bathroom with a soaking tub. Windows overlooking the garden. It's beautiful and excessive and so completely not meant for someone like me.

"Lock's on the inside," Dorian says, demonstrating. "Only you have the key."

I take it. Hold it in my palm like a promise. "Thank you."

He leaves. They all leave. Give me space to unpack, to breathe, to process.

I sink onto the bed and pull out my phone.

Ben:Just confirmed my move-in date. I'll be there Monday. Can we get coffee? I really want to see you.

Me:Yeah. Coffee sounds good. Text me when you're in town.

Ben:Can't wait, evening star.

I set the phone down. Touch the claiming marks on my neck. Stare at the lock on my door.

A knock. Dorian's voice: "Dinner in an hour. If you want to join us."

"I'll be there," I call back.

I will be. Because I'm part of this pack now, for better or worse. Because the bonds won't let me stay away even if I wanted to.

I look at Ben's last message one more time before closing my phone.

Evening star.

Three days.

twenty-eight

Dorian

Iwakeuptosunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and the scent of lilac and rain so close it makes my chest ache.

For a second, I forget where I am. Then it all comes rushing back—the lake house, the drive home, Vespera in the master bedroom down the hall.Ourhouse.Ourpack.

She's here. She's actually here.

I roll out of bed, noting the time: 6:47 AM. First day of fall semester. The day we prove we can do this. That we can be a functioning pack in the real world instead of a disaster contained at a lake house.

The claiming marks on my neck throb dully. I touch them—her teeth, her choice, her claim on me. The bond hums contentedly at my proximity to her, even through walls and doors.

Down the hall, water runs. She's awake. Showering.

My Alpha instincts immediately catalog details: what she's wearing, how she smells, whether she needs anything. I forcemyself to stay in my room. To give her space. To remember that being pack doesn't mean I have unrestricted access.

The lock on her door proved that last night when I'd stood outside at 2 AM, listening to her breathe through the wood, fighting every urge to knock and ask if she was okay.

I shower in my own bathroom—smaller than hers, less luxurious, but I don't care. She gets the best. That's how it should be.

By the time I'm dressed and downstairs, Oakley's already in the kitchen making coffee. He looks better than he has in weeks. Lighter. The tension carved into his shoulders since we kidnapped her has eased.

Things between us have been... different since the lake house. Better. We've finally stopped dancing around what we've always been to each other and are. The relief of it still catches me off guard sometimes.

"Morning," he says, handing me a mug without being asked. "She up?"

"Heard the shower."