Page 33 of The Drama King

"Dorian," she breathed.

I was going to kiss her. I was going to devour that smart mouth, make her moan the rest of Katherine's speech against my lips, make her understand what real submission felt like—

She jerked back suddenly, pressing hard against the mirror. "No."

The word cut through the haze of lust like cold water.

"I understand the character now," she said, voice shaking but firm. "I can perform the submission without... this."

The rejection stung more than it should have. I stepped back, rebuilding my own walls, though my body still hummed with frustrated desire.

Time was up. She gathered her things with hands that shook slightly. As she reached the door, I couldn't resist one final push.

"Vespera."

She paused but didn't turn.

"You're performing submission, but you don't feel it. The audience will know."

She looked back then, and there was something knowing in her eyes. "How would you know what I feel?"

"Because I can smell your defiance under all that jasmine and fear."

A small smile played at her lips—the first genuine expression I'd seen from her all evening. "Maybe that's what Katherine smells like too. Performing surrender while planning survival."

She left before I could respond, but her words lingered in the empty studio. I stood in the carefully orchestrated space, surrounded by mirrors that reflected my solitary figure from every angle.

The rehearsal had been intended to break her down, to use the text itself as a weapon against her pride. Instead, she'd turned her submission into a form of resistance, making her surrender so complete it became an indictment.

I ran my hand through my hair, trying to dispel the lingering arousal, the memory of her on her knees, the ghost of her scent in the air.

Now that I was alone in the rehearsal room, I couldn't shake the feeling that she was the one who'd won this round. She'd given me exactly what I'd demanded and somehow made it feel like her victory.

thirteen

Oakley

Itwasmyturnto play with our little shrew.

I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes until Professor Williamson's intimacy workshop. My shoulders tensed at the thought.

“You’re early,” Dorian said as he rounded the corner, his presence immediately commanding the space. "All set for today?"

"Ready," I replied, but my attention had already shifted.

Vespera had arrived.

Even from across the hallway, I caught the subtle notes of jasmine beneath her suppressants. She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, her usual defiant stance forced, as if running on determination alone. Her blonde hair caught the October light streaming through tall windows, and something in my chest tightened unexpectedly.

"Remember why we're doing this," Dorian murmured, tracking her movement. "Better a harsh lesson now than a lifetime of delusion.” He chuckled, bumping my shoulder. “Have fun, I’ll see you at the pack house.”

Inside the studio, I deliberately positioned myself across from Vespera. The harsh fluorescent lights revealed the strain she was under, yet when Williamson began discussing consent practices, Vespera's focus sharpened, taking meticulous notes.

"Places, everyone," Professor Williamson called, bustling through the double doors. "Today's workshop focuses on stage intimacy—navigating emotional vulnerability and physical proximity with authenticity." He paused. “Oakley Sinclair and Vespera Levine. You'll be working with the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet."

Vespera's scent spiked with fear, sharp and acrid, before she managed to control it. Her pulse visibly quickened at her throat.

I approached slowly, and she tracked my movement with the vigilance of prey. I'd been deliberately cruel all week, overcompensating for doubts I couldn't voice. She'd learned to fear me.