Page 50 of His Drama Queen

Who has every right to hate us.

I'm reaching for a mug when I hear it—the soft creak of a floorboard. The whisper of bare feet on hardwood.

My head snaps toward the doorway.

Vespera freezes in the entrance like a deer caught in headlights.

She's wearing sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, her hair mussed from sleep, eyes wide with surprise. The fading bruise on her cheek is a stark reminder of what we did. What I helped do.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

"I was just..." She gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. "Tea. I wanted tea."

Her voice is rough with sleep, cautious. Not defiant like yesterday. Just... tired.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "Come in. I won't—I'm just making coffee."

She hesitates, clearly weighing her options. Fight or flight instincts warring with whatever need drove her down here at dawn. Finally, she takes a tentative step inside, then another, moving toward the stove with careful distance between us.

I turn back to the coffee maker, giving her space. Hear her open cabinets, searching.

"Tea's in the one to the right of the sink," I offer without turning around. "Kettle's already on the stove."

"Thanks," she mutters.

The kettle clicks on. Water starts to heat. I pour my coffee, add cream, try to look casual instead of hyperaware of every sound she makes. The silk of her shorts against her thighs as she moves. The soft exhale as she reaches up for a mug.

The faint scent of jasmine that makes my alpha sit up and take notice despite everything.

I should leave. Give her privacy. Stop being a creep who notices things like the curve of her neck or the way the morning light catches in her hair.

But I don't move.

"Couldn't sleep?" I ask, keeping my voice low, non-threatening.

She glances at me, surprised I'm making conversation. "No. You?"

"Same."

The kettle starts to whistle. She turns to grab it—moves too fast—and her hand catches the edge of the hot stove instead.

"Fuck!" She jerks back, cradling her hand.

I'm moving before I can think, crossing the kitchen in three strides. "Let me see."

"It's fine—"

"Vespera." My hands are already reaching for hers, gentle but insistent. "Let me see."

She could pull away. Should. But something in my tone—the alpha command I didn't mean to use, or maybe just genuine concern—makes her relent.

Her hand is small in mine. Delicate. The burn on her palm is already reddening, angry and painful-looking where she made contact with the heating element.

"Shit," I mutter. "That looks bad. Come here."

I guide her to the sink, turn on the cold water. Hold her hand under the stream while she hisses through her teeth.

"I know it hurts," I say quietly. "Cold water helps, I think. Just... keep it there for a bit."