Page 95 of The Drama King

"Let me..." she started to argue, but another wave of heat cut her off, leaving her gasping and pliant in my arms.

Corvus opened the door for us, his eyes dark with arousal as he took in the sight of me carrying our claimed Omega across the threshold. Behind him, Oakley's cedar scent spiked with something that smelled like satisfaction mixed with possession.

The mansion's warmth hit us immediately: polished marble, rich wood, the kind of understated luxury that spoke of generations of wealth. But all I could focus on was the weight of her in my arms, the way she'd stopped fighting and was now clinging to my shirt like I was the only solid thing in her spinning world.

"Upstairs," Corvus said, his voice rougher than usual.

I took the stairs two at a time, eager to get her somewhere private where we could finally finish what had been building for months. She buried her face against my neck, her breath hot against my skin, and I felt her tongue dart out to taste the salt there.

The innocent contact sent fire straight through my nervous system.

"Dorian," she whispered against my throat, and my name on her lips sounded like surrender.

We brought her to my suite: the largest, with the most comfortable bed and complete privacy from the household staff. She moved like she was underwater, completely lost to the heat consuming her system.

When I closed the door behind us, the sound seemed to echo with finality. No more interruptions. No more delays. The four of us and the imperative that had been building for months.

She stood in the center of the room, swaying slightly, the burgundy costume making her look like some kind of offering. Her scent filled the space completely now, so rich and desperate that all three of us were practically vibrating with need.

"I can't think," she whispered, pressing her hands to her temples. "Everything's so... hot."

"That's normal," Corvus said, but his clinical tone was undercut by the obvious arousal in his voice. "Heat affects cognitive function. Your body is prioritizing biological imperatives over conscious thought."

She looked at him with fever-bright eyes, then at Oakley, then finally at me. I saw the moment she registered our expressions: the predatory focus, the barely leashed hunger, the way we were all looking at her like she was everything we'd ever wanted.

"You planned this," she said, the words coming out broken. "All of it. The performance, the stress, everything to make my body—"

"Your body knows what it needs," I interrupted, moving closer. "What it's always needed. You've been fighting it for months, but now..."

I gestured to her obvious condition, the way she couldn't stop trembling, couldn't catch her breath, couldn't do anything but stand there and radiate desperate need.

"Now you can finally stop pretending."

But before I could reach for her, Oakley stepped forward with that concerned expression that meant his nurturing instincts were kicking in despite his obvious arousal.

"She needs to nest first," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Look at her—she's fighting her instincts because there's no proper nest."

I started to argue, rut making me impatient, but Oakley was already moving with purpose. He surveyed my bedroom with practiced eyes, then began gathering soft items: the throwblanket from my reading chair, pillows from the settee, even my expensive cashmere sweater from the closet.

"You're right," Corvus acknowledged, his analytical mind processing the observation even through his obvious arousal. "Proper heat protocol requires nesting before claiming. It will make her more receptive."

I watched, fascinated despite my impatience, as Oakley methodically arranged the items on my king-sized bed. His movements were gentle, precise, driven by instincts that seemed to override even his rut. While Corvus and I were focused on claiming, Oakley's caretaker side was emerging.

"There," he said softly, turning to Vespera with extended hands. "This will help with the discomfort."

The relief on her face was immediate and profound. "Oh," she breathed, recognizing instinctively what he'd done for her. "Thank you."

My rut slammed into me with overwhelming force as I watched what happened next.

"We need to get you out of these clothes first," I said, my hands already working at the fastenings of her costume. "You're burning up."

The burgundy velvet was damp with sweat, clinging to her overheated skin as Oakley helped me peel it away. Underneath, her chemise was soaked through, practically transparent with perspiration and slick. She was burning up, her body producing everything it needed for claiming whether her mind was ready or not.

"So beautiful," Oakley breathed as we stripped away the last of the fabric, revealing flushed skin that seemed to glow in the lamplight. "Look how perfect you are."

She was trembling, fragile as spun glass, her skin sheened with sweat and arousal. The scent of her slick was intoxicating, so rich and desperate it made my vision blur around the edges. Everyinch of her screamed Omega in heat, ready for claiming, ready for us.

"There," Oakley said softly, guiding her naked form toward the nest he'd built. "This will help."