Page 171 of His Drama Queen

Robbie:??

I get ready for bed, and for the first time in three days, I sleep in my own room.

Alone.

By choice.

thirty-nine

Dorian

Thescotchburnsgoingdown, but not enough to numb what I need numbed.

Three days. Three fucking days since I came back from my parents' house, and I've spent most of it in this room with the curtains drawn and a bottle that cost more than most people's monthly rent. The expensive kind that's supposed to be savored. I'm treating it like cheap beer.

"This is pathetic."

Corvus's voice cuts through the dim room like a scalpel. I don't bother looking up from where I'm sprawled in the leather chair by the window, watching shadows shift across the ceiling.

"Get out."

"No." The door closes with a soft click. His mint scent fills the space—sharp, clinical, completely at odds with the stale air and whiskey fumes. "We're having this conversation whether you want to or not."

"There's nothing to discuss."

"Bullshit." He moves into my line of sight, immaculate as always in pressed slacks and a button-down that probably costs what Vespera makes in a month at her campus job. The thought makes my jaw clench. "You've been hiding in here like a child having a tantrum while your fated mate is downstairs trying to pretend you haven't completely gutted her."

"Don't." The word comes out sharp. "Don't call her that."

"Why? Because it's true?" Corvus crosses his arms, studying me with those calculating eyes that see too fucking much. "Because admitting it means admitting your parents' suspicions are founded? That their precious legacy matters less than biological reality?"

I take another drink. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me." He settles into the chair across from mine, crossing one leg over the other with precise grace. "Explain how the most dominant Alpha I've ever met—someone who spent months orchestrating an elaborate campaign to claim an Omega—is now hiding in his room drinking expensive scotch and pretending she doesn't exist."

"They're asking questions." The admission comes out quiet. "My parents. They saw us together on campus. Someone sent them photos. They can smell her scent on me even when I try to hide it."

"So they're suspicious." Corvus leans forward. "Not informed. Not certain. Just suspicious. And instead of managing the situation like the strategic Alpha you are, you're having a breakdown."

"They compared me to Julian." The name feels like broken glass in my throat. "Asked if I'm planning to throw away everything they've built for me. If I'm going to be another disappointment."

"And that terrified you." It's not a question. "Because you've spent your entire life trying to prove you're not your brother. That you won't make his 'mistakes.' That you're the perfect heir they need."

"I don't want to lose everything."

"Then don't." Corvus sits back. "But right now, you're losing the one thing that actually matters. Vespera is downstairs thinking you regret claiming her. That she's an inconvenient mistake you're trying to distance yourself from. And every hour you hide in here reinforces that belief."

The words hit like physical blows. I set down the glass, running both hands through my hair. "I don't know how to do this. How to choose."

"You're not choosing between your family and her," Corvus says flatly. "You're choosing between who you've always been and who you want to become. Between fear and courage. And right now, you're choosing fear."

"That's not—"

"It is." He cuts me off. "I've known you since we were fourteen, Dorian. I've watched you manipulate situations, control outcomes, get exactly what you want through sheer force of will. But for the first time in your life, you want something your parents might not approve of, and instead of fighting for it, you're rolling over."

The accusation makes rage flare hot. "You don't know what they're capable of—"

"I know exactly what they're capable of," Corvus interrupts. "I watched them erase your brother from existence. But I also know what you're capable of. And this?" He gestures at the room, at me. "This isn't you. This is a scared child pretending the problem will disappear if he ignores it long enough."