Page 211 of His Drama Queen

In Dorian's car, heading back to pack, Oakley starts laughing.

"What?" I ask.

"You just marked us in front of everyone," he says. "In front of Dorian's mother, the scouts, the entire theater department. That was insane."

"That was necessary," I correct.

"That was perfect," Dorian says from the driver's seat, touching his bleeding throat. "You didn't just claim us. You made a statement."

"About consent," Corvus adds. "About choice. About power dynamics. It was elegant psychological warfare."

"It was me refusing to be Hedda," I say. "She shot herself to escape. I rewrote the ending instead."

"So what now?" Oakley asks.

"Now we pack," I say. "We have three weeks before rehearsals start. We need to find an apartment in New York, figure out logistics, and get the hell out of Connecticut."

"We're really doing this," Dorian says, and I hear the wonder in his voice. "Leaving Northwood. Leaving my mother. Starting over."

"We're really doing this," I confirm.

We drive back to campus in the early morning darkness. Behind us, Northwood and Eleanor Ashworth and everything they tried to make us.

Ahead of us, New York and uncertainty and freedom.

I touch the marks on each of their throats—my marks, my claiming, my choice.

"This is going to be everywhere by morning," Corvus observes. "The video. Someone definitely recorded it."

"Good," I say. "Let them see what it looks like when Omegas stop asking permission."

We drive into the night, leaving Northwood behind. Ahead of us is New York. Ahead of us is freedom.

And I claimed it myself, teeth and all.

forty-six

Dorian

Motheriswaitingoutsidethe pack house.

Of course she is. She probably left Morrison Auditorium the moment chaos erupted, calculated how long it would take us to drive back here, and positioned herself for maximum dramatic impact.

The pack house. The Victorian mansion on the edge of campus that my family owns, that we've lived in for two years. The property that technically belongs to the Ashworth estate.

She's standing on the front steps like a queen surveying conquered territory.

The claiming mark on my throat throbs like a brand. Vespera's teeth broke skin, drew blood, marked me so thoroughly that everyone who sees me will know exactly what happened in that lobby.

I've never been harder in my life.

"Keep driving," Corvus says from the back seat, reading the situation instantly. "We can go straight to New York. Skip packing."

"No," I say, pulling into the driveway. "If we run, she wins. And I'm done letting her win."

I park and turn to face them. Vespera in the passenger seat, Corvus and Oakley in back, all of us marked and bloody and choosing each other.

"Go inside," I say. "All of you. I need to do this alone."