Page 35 of His Drama Queen

"The data is available if you want to review it," he says. "I can send you the academic papers, the genetic panels—"

"I don't want your fucking papers."

"Then what do you want?"

"To not exist as a percentage!"

The words echo in the study. Corvus's fingers pause over his tablet.

"You're right," he says quietly. "The data doesn't capture... everything. It explains the biological imperative, but not—" He stops. Starts again. "It doesn't explain why Dorian spent three days tracking down your favorite coffee blend. Or why Oakley has been studying musical theatre despite hating singing. Or why I've read every play you've ever performed in, trying to understand what you see in them."

I stare at him.

"The bond may be genetic," he continues, still not looking at me. "But what we feel isn't just biology. It's worse than that. Because if it was only genetics, it would be easier."

"Nothing about this is easy."

"No." Finally, he meets my eyes. "It's not."

Silence stretches between us. Outside, I hear the lake lapping at the shore. Birds calling. Normal sounds from a normal world where I'm not trapped by my own DNA.

"I need to think."

"Of course." He sits back down, already turning to his computer. Dismissing me. "Lunch is at one. I suggest you eat something. Protein deficiency is exacerbating your symptoms."

I leave before I start crying. Before I do something stupid like ask if it's real. If this is really happening.

The hallway feels endless. Past Oakley still pretending to read, his eyes following me with guilty concern. Past the kitchen where staff are preparing food. Past windows showcasing paradise wrapped in prison.

Dorian's waiting outside my door.

Of course he is.

"Corvus tell you?" His voice is rough. Like he hasn't slept either.

I try to push past him. He catches my arm—gentle but firm. The touch sends electricity through me. Wrong. Right. Devastating.

"Let go."

"Did he tell you?"

"Yes." I yank my arm free but the skin still tingles. "Genetic compatibility. Fated mates. All three of you. Congratulations. You didn't choose me. Your DNA did."

Something flickers in his expression. His jaw tightens.

"That's not—"

"Isn't it? You couldn't help yourselves. Biology made you do it. Must be nice having an excuse."

"It's not an excuse," he says quietly, stepping closer. "It's a reason. Maybe the only one that makes sense of this whole fucked up situation."

"The situation where you kidnapped me?"

"The situation where we're all suffering." Another step. He's so close now I can see gold flecks in his dark eyes. "You think this is easy for us? Watching you reject something you need? Feeling you pull away when every instinct says you're ours?"

"I'm not yours."

"The data says otherwise."