Page 87 of The Drama King
The scene continued, building to Benedick's promise to challenge Claudio, but I was drowning in sensation. The way Dorian's free hand came to rest on my lower back, anchoring me against him. How his scent seemed to intensify, calling to something primitive in my biology that had nothing to do with conscious thought. The heat building between us that felt real, dangerous, impossible to dismiss as mere performance.
When Wells finally called the scene, neither of us moved immediately. Dorian's hands were still on me, his body close enough that I could feel every breath he took. His eyes searched my face with an intensity that made my skin flush, and I saw the exact moment he registered the scent of my arousal.
His smile was slow, predatory, triumphant.
"Excellent work," Wells said, seemingly oblivious to the charged atmosphere between us. "That's exactly the kind of sexual tension this play needs. The way you're both responding to each other physically: it's compelling to watch."
I jerked back from Dorian's touch like I'd been burned, but the damage was done. He'd felt my body's betrayal, scented my unwanted response to his proximity. And from the satisfied gleam in his eyes, he planned to use every second of it against me.
"We'll continue with this tomorrow," Wells continued. "Same emotional depth, but I want to explore the physicalchoreography more. The way these characters use touch to seduce each other, the intimacy that develops when they stop fighting their attraction."
Physical choreography. More touching, more forced proximity, more opportunities for my traitorous biology to betray me while Dorian systematically dismantled every defense I had left.
As the other actors filed out, discussing lunch plans and weekend assignments, I found myself alone in the rehearsal room with Dorian. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken tension.
"You felt it too," he said quietly, not bothering with pretense.
"Felt what?" But even I could hear how breathless I sounded.
"The way your body responds to mine. The way your scent changes when I touch you." He moved closer, and I caught myself breathing deeper, taking in more of his Alpha pheromones. "That wasn't acting, Vespera."
"Don't." The word came out weak, unconvincing.
"Don't what? Don't notice the way you lean into my touch? Don't acknowledge that your biology recognizes something your mind won't admit?" His voice dropped to something intimate, dangerous. "Don't point out that you're fighting a battle you're already losing?"
"You want to know what I felt in there?" I said, grabbing my bag. "I felt sorry for you."
His expression flickered, the smallest crack in his composure.
"I felt sorry that you're so desperate for connection you have to manipulate Shakespeare into providing it. That you can't tell the difference between professional chemistry and actual attraction." I slung my bag over my shoulder. "Most of all, I felt sorry that this is probably the closest you'll ever get to genuine intimacy with another person."
The words hit their target. I saw his mask slip, saw something raw and angry flash across his features before he recovered his composure.
"We'll see," he said quietly. "We have five more weeks of rehearsals, sweetheart. Plenty of time for you to discover what you really feel."
I left him standing in the empty rehearsal room, but his words followed me out into the hallway. Five more weeks. And now I'd be facing them completely alone, without even Stephanie's distant support to sustain me.
I was on my own now, facing down a coordinated assault from people with more power, more connections, and more resources than I could ever hope to match.
But I'd be damned if I'd make it easy for them.
If Dorian wanted five more weeks of psychological warfare disguised as Shakespeare, he could have them. But he'd discover that cornered prey could be far more dangerous than he'd anticipated.
I had nothing left to lose, which meant I had nothing left to protect.
thirty-two
Dorian
Thecostumemadeeverythingworse.
I stood in the wings, adjusting the doublet that fit like a second skin, and watched Vespera transform into Beatrice on the other side of the stage. The period dress—deep burgundy velvet with a corset that emphasized every curve—should have been another theatrical element. Instead, it was driving me slowly insane.
For weeks, I'd maintained control. Played the long game, used rehearsals to systematically break down her defenses while keeping my own composure intact. But seeing her in costume, seeing her embody the role so completely, was unraveling every carefully laid plan.
She moved differently as Beatrice. More confident, more sensual, like the character gave her permission to be everything she normally suppressed. And her scent—fuck, her scent had been getting stronger for days now, bleeding through whateverinferior blockers she was using, calling to something primal in my hindbrain that had nothing to do with strategy.
"Places for Act Two," the stage manager called.