Page 91 of The Drama King

"I hate how good we look," she corrected, but she couldn't look away.

"Hate it all you want." I gripped her hips harder, pulling her back onto me with each thrust. "You're still mine."

"I'm not..." She broke off with a cry as I hit something that made her legs shake.

"You're not what?" I didn't slow down, didn't give her space to think. "Not mine? Not desperate for this? Not coming apart on my cock?"

Each question was punctuated by a harder thrust, and I watched in the mirror as her resistance crumbled piece by piece. Her eyes were glazed with pleasure, her mouth open as she panted my name, her body moving with mine in perfect rhythm.

"Look at yourself," I demanded again. "Look how beautiful you are when you stop fighting me."

She did look—really looked—and I saw the moment she stopped seeing Vespera the scholarship student, the victim, the girl trying to survive. In the mirror, she saw a woman being thoroughly claimed by an Alpha who worshipped every inch of her, and the sight broke something inside her.

"Dorian," she moaned, and my name had never sounded so sweet.

"That's it." I reached around to touch her where we were joined, feeling her clench around me. "Come for me, Vespera. Let me see you come."

She shattered beautifully, crying out as pleasure overtook her, and watching her fall apart in my arms sent me over the edge. I buried myself deep, fighting every instinct that screamed at me to knot her, to mark her, to claim her completely. Not here, not like this—but fuck, it took everything I had to maintain that control.

We stayed connected for long moments afterward, both of us breathing hard, her back pressed against my chest as wewatched our reflection. She looked thoroughly debauched, and I looked possessive and satisfied in a way that should probably have concerned me.

A sharp knock on the door made us both freeze.

"Five minutes to places!" The stage manager's voice carried through the wood. "Five minutes!"

We disentangled quickly, both of us moving with the kind of practiced efficiency that came from years of quick costume changes. But even as we straightened our clothes and tried to make ourselves presentable, I couldn't stop touching her: a hand on her waist as she fixed her hair, fingers trailing across her shoulder as I helped with her corset ties.

"This changes everything," I said quietly, meaning it.

She looked at me in the mirror, her reflection showing swollen lips and a flush that had nothing to do with stage makeup. "I know."

She turned in my arms, rising on her toes to kiss me softly. "After opening night," she said against my lips, "we'll see what we are."

"Vespera Levine and Dorian Ashworth to the wings, please!" The stage manager's voice was getting impatient.

We broke apart, both of us breathing hard, and I saw my own desperation reflected in her eyes. This wasn't over—couldn't be over, not after what we'd shared.

"After the show," I said, and this time it sounded like a promise we both intended to keep.

The rest of dress rehearsal passed in a blur of sexual tension and barely controlled need. Every scene we shared crackled with the memory of what had happened, every touch sanctioned by the script felt loaded with promise.

And when Wells finally called places for our final bow, when I saw Vespera transformed back into Beatrice but with my marksstill visible on her throat, I knew tomorrow night—opening night—would change everything.

She was finally ready to be claimed.

And I was finally ready to stop pretending this was about anything other than love.

thirty-three

Vespera

Thetheaterhummedwithopening night energy, but all I could think about was yesterday.

I sat at my dressing table, applying stage makeup with hands that trembled slightly, trying to ignore the way my body felt wrong. Too warm, too sensitive, like my skin was a size too small. The cheap suppressants I'd managed to scrounge were barely keeping me functional, and the stress of opening night was making everything worse.

But underneath the biological chaos, there was something else: the memory of Dorian's hands on my body, the way he'd made me feel, the things I'd admitted in that moment of desperate need.

I hate how good we look together.