Page 3 of His Drama Queen

Corvus's bond hums with cold calculation. The analytical one, already researching options, contingencies, legal precedents. Figuring out how to fix this problem I've created by having the audacity to choose myself.

They're probably together right now. Planning. Strategizing. Convinced that biology will win eventually, that I'll come crawling back when the sickness gets bad enough.

They don't know me at all.

The fever spikes again, and I curl into a ball, riding out the wave. My body screaming that I'm making a mistake, that I need them, that rejection will kill me.

Maybe it will.

But at least I'll die free.

The thought sustains me through the worst of it. When the fever finally breaks an hour later, I'm soaked in sweat but clearheaded enough to make a decision.

Columbus Summer Theater. Six weeks away from here, away from them, away from the constant pull of bonds I never wanted. Six weeks to prove I can survive this. That my will is stronger than biology.

That I'm more than what three Alphas decided I should be.

I reach for my phone and text Dad:I'll do the summer program. Thank you.

His response comes quickly:Proud of you, sweetheart. We'll get through this.

We will. Because the alternative—going back to Northwood, accepting the bonds, letting them win—isn't an option.

I'd rather burn.

And if I've learned anything from a lifetime in theater, it's this: the best performances come from the edge of destruction. From taking everything you are and everything you're not and transforming it into something transcendent.

They wanted to make me small. Manageable. Theirs.

Instead, I'll take this rejection, this sickness, this choice, and I'll use it.

I'll become exactly what they feared: an omega who refused to break.

The Drama Queen, unbowed and unbroken.

Let them watch from three hours away while I burn their expectations to ash and build something better from the flames.

The marks throb a warning, but I ignore them.

This is my story now. Not theirs.

Mine.

two

Dorian

Themirrorisamistake.

I realize this approximately three seconds before my fist connects with it, the impact sending spiderwebs of cracks across the surface and blood dripping from my knuckles. The pain is sharp, immediate, and utterly insufficient to drown out the howling in my chest.

She's gone.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours since Vespera Levine walked out of the claiming suite, leaving nothing but her scent and my marks on her skin and a rejection so complete it's killing me.

Literally killing me.

I stare at what's left of my reflection in the shattered mirror—sunken eyes with dark circles, cheekbones too prominent, skin too pale. I've lost twenty pounds. Maybe more. Can't eat. Can't sleep. Can't think about anything but her.