Page 39 of His Drama Queen

The glass doesn't fall—his grip tightens instead. Knuckles going white. The whiskey inside trembling from the force.

I watch his throat work. Watch him try to swallow and fail. Watch color creep up his neck despite his perfect control.

His scent spikes. Sandalwood going sharp and possessive and rut-thick enough to choke on.

"Going somewhere?" His voice comes out rough. Destroyed.

"Swimming."

"In that?"

I meet his eyes. Hold them. "Should I have asked permission for swimwear too? Or is there a dress code for your pool I wasn't informed about?"

His jaw ticks. "You're—"

"I'm what?" I take a step closer. Then another. Close enough now that he has to breathe me in. Jasmine and defiance and the sweet, desperate scent of an omega in proximity to her fated mate. "Following the rules? Staying on the property? Engaging in appropriate recreational activities?"

Another step. We're close enough now that I can feel heat radiating from his body. See the pulse hammering in his throat.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" My voice drops. Softens. Dangerous. "Me, here, making myself at home in your gilded cage?"

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. Want and anger and frustration tangled together. His free hand lifts—reaching for me or stopping himself, I don't know.

"Careful, little omega."

"Or what?" One more step. So close now that my scent must be overwhelming. So close I can see his pupils blow wide. "You'll lock me up? Oh wait. You already did that."

I brush past him. Shoulder to chest. Brief contact that sends electricity through both of us.

He makes a sound. Low in his throat. Almost a whimper.

I don't look back.

The terrace opens onto paradise. Infinity pool stretching toward the lake. Smooth stone heated to perfect temperature for bare feet. Loungers with weather-resistant cushions. A covered bar area with a fridge probably stocked with champagne.

Wealth. Excessive, casual wealth.

I drop my towel on the nearest lounger. Don't fold it. Don't arrange it carefully. Just let it fall.

Then I walk to the pool's edge and dive.

The cold is a shock. Driving air from my lungs. Stealing thought.

But it's good. Clean. The first thing in days that's felt entirely within my control.

I stay under. Eyes open. Watching the way the world looks through water—distorted and peaceful and separate from everything.

My lungs start to burn. I stay down longer. Longer.

Until I can't.

I surface with a gasp.

All three of them are there.

Dorian at the pool's edge. Shoes off, pants rolled to his knees. He looks like he's considering joining me. Looks like he's considering drowning us both.

Oakley has taken the far lounger. Book in hand but pages not turning. His eyes are locked on me. Guilty and hungry and something close to devastated.