Page 31 of His Drama Queen

The question surprises me. "How—"

"We've been monitoring everything," Corvus answers, tapping his tablet like he's referencing files. "You got the lead. Impressive casting for a second-year."

"Ben got Jason," I say, watching Dorian's jaw tighten at the name. "We had incredible chemistry on stage."

"Chemistry," Dorian repeats, the word sharp as a blade.

"The director said we were electric together. The way he touched me during the intimate scenes—"

Dorian's fork bends. Actually bends in his grip, that Alpha strength barely contained.

"Careful," I continue, meeting his eyes. "That's probably expensive silverware."

"Everything here is expensive," he says. "Including you."

"I'm not—"

The room spins suddenly, vision blurring. Not a seizure, just my body reminding me I'm dying. I grip the table, trying not to show weakness.

Oakley's beside me immediately, hand on my forehead with the gentle touch he probably uses with scene partners. "You're burning up again."

"I'm fine."

"You're not." His healer's instinct kicking in even as he signals the others. "Dorian, she needs—"

"I know what she needs."

Dorian lifts me from the chair before I can protest. His scent surrounds me and my body betrays me by relaxing into it, the rejection symptoms easing slightly just from his proximity.

"Put me down."

"No."

He carries me upstairs while I save my energy for what matters. The bobby pin is still in my pocket. Tonight, after they think I'm asleep, I'll work on that bathroom window frame.

"This isn't over," I tell him as he sets me on the bed.

"No," he agrees, brushing hair from my face with surprising gentleness. "It's just beginning."

They leave me with water, medication, and the suffocating weight of their concern. I wait an hour, then two, until the house is quiet.

Time to test that window frame.

Even if it kills me, I'm getting out of here.

eleven

Vespera

Dawnfindsmeatthe bathroom window with bleeding hands and the bitter taste of defeat.

The bobby pin lies on the tile, bent beyond use. My palms are raw, splinters embedded deep enough that I'll need tweezers. Six hours of careful, quiet work. Six hours of hope turning to desperation turning to this hollow ache in my chest.

The window finally gave around three AM. Ancient paint cracking, wood groaning, the frame sliding open with a whisper that made my heart race so hard I thought they'd hear it downstairs.

Freedom. Right there. Just squeeze through and—

I lean out now, looking down.