Page 148 of His Drama Queen

"Of course you will." His voice is careful. Controlled. Like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing. "Ben?"

"We talked. We're... working it out."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we're going to try to be friends and probably fail spectacularly and make everyone uncomfortable in the process." I walk past him into the house. "But that's a problem for tomorrow."

Corvus is in the kitchen, doing something complicated with vegetables that probably has a French name. He glances up as I enter, takes in my expression, and goes back to chopping without comment.

"Dinner in thirty," he says.

"I'm going to shower."

Upstairs in my room—the master bedroom with the lock I never use anymore—I strip off my audition clothes and stand under water hot enough to hurt.

Three days ago, I tried to sleep with Ben. Today I told him we could only be friends. Tomorrow I'll probably get callbacks for Hedda Gabler, and I'll have to spend six weeks playing a woman trapped by society's expectations while living with three Alphas who claimed me against my will.

The irony would be funny if it didn't hurt so much.

When I come back downstairs, they're all in the kitchen. Corvus plating food with surgical precision. Oakley setting the table. Dorian opening a bottle of wine that probably costs more than my scholarship.

They look up as I enter, and we stare at each other. Four people bound together by biology and circumstance and something that might be love if we're brave enough to admit it.

"Sit," Corvus says, and it's not a command. It's an invitation.

So I do.

And we eat dinner like a normal pack, in a house that's starting to feel like home, bound by marks I never asked for to people I'm learning how to choose.

It's not surrender.

It's not acceptance either.

It's what is.

And maybe that's all I can handle right now.

thirty-four

Dorian

ThedrivetoHiltonHead takes six hours, and every mile makes the separation worse.

By hour two, my hands are shaking on the wheel. By hour four, my chest feels like someone's sitting on it. By the time I cross into South Carolina, the bonds are screaming at me to turn around, go back, return to pack.

Return to her.

I grip the steering wheel harder and keep driving.

Mother's summons was not a request. "We need to discuss your fall plans, darling. And you've been avoiding my calls. Come to the house this weekend. Your father and I insist."

Translation: Show up or face consequences.

So here I am, alone in my car, fighting every biological imperative that says leaving my pack—leaving Vespera—is wrong. Dangerous. Unnatural.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder. Corvus, probably checking if I'm still alive. Or Oakley, worried about how I'm handling the separation. I should answer. Should let them know I'm fine.

But I'm not fine, and talking to them will only make it worse.