Page 26 of His Drama Queen

"She's stabilizing," Corvus reports, though his voice lacks confidence.

Stabilizing. Like she's a fucking stock portfolio instead of my dying mate.

The lake house appears through the trees—glass and wood and isolation. I'd sent staff ahead to prepare everything. The master suite converted into something between a bedroom and a medical facility. Everything she might need except freedom.

I carry her inside. She weighs less than she should, rejection eating her from the inside out. Two weeks of dying because she'd rather suffer than submit.

"Second floor," I tell them unnecessarily. They know the plan.

The room is ready. California king, clothes already in the closet—things I'd imagined her wearing, things I'll peel off her when she finally gives in. The windows don't open. The balcony door is decorative.

I place her on the bed and immediately want to do more. Want to strip her out of the clothes that smell like that theater program, like other people, like the life she was building without us. My hands shake with the effort of not touching.

"Don't," Oakley says from the doorway. Of course he knows what I'm thinking. He's always been able to read my worst impulses.

"I wasn't—"

"You were."

Corvus enters with medical supplies, all business. "Her temperature's dropping. We need to get fluids in her."

They work around me while I stand there useless, watching her breathe. She looks younger unconscious. Vulnerable. Nothing like the woman who stood on stage as Lady Macbeth and made an entire auditorium hold its breath.

A whimper escapes her lips—pain or fear, I can't tell. The sound makes something in my chest crack.

"This is necessary," I say, though no one asked.

"Keep telling yourself that," Oakley mutters, adjusting her IV.

She stirs. Just a flutter of eyelashes at first, then those green eyes snap open, unfocused and confused. The confusion lasts maybe two seconds before fury takes over.

Her fist connects with my jaw before I see it coming. For someone dying, she hits hard.

"You fucking—" She's scrambling back, pulling at the IV, eyes wild. "Where—what did you—"

I catch her wrist before she can rip out the line. Her pulse races under my fingers, bird-quick and fragile.

"Easy—"

"Don't!" She yanks away, nearly falls off the bed. "Don't you dare—I was at rehearsal, I had—Ben is waiting—"

"You collapsed," I say, though it's not quite true. "You were dying in the street."

"Liar!" Her voice cracks. "You took me, you—the show, I have the show—"

"Vespera—"

"Three weeks!" She's shaking now, trying to stand and failing. "Opening is in three weeks and I'm Medea, I'm the lead, I can't—"

"The show doesn't matter if you're dead."

She laughs, and it sounds broken. "It matters to me."

The raw emotion in her voice makes me pause. This isn't just about leaving Northwood. She'd built something in Columbus. Something that mattered.

"Who's Ben?" The question comes out before I can stop it.

Another laugh, bitter this time. "Are you serious right now? You kidnap me and want to know about—" She stops, sways. "Where am I?"