Page 16 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

twelve

Dorian

Studio C had been carefully prepared. I'd arrived an hour early, adjusting the space to maximize psychological advantage.

The overhead fluorescents were off, replaced by the warm amber of the rehearsal lights that created intimate pools of illumination and shadow.

I'd pushed the mirrors to optimal angles—she'd be unable to escape her own reflection, forced to watch herself submit from every angle.

I checked my watch. She'd arrive precisely at seven—not a minute early to seem eager, not a second late to give me ammunition. In the week since the casting announcement, she'd maintained that infuriating professional composure, treating our partnership like any other assignment.

She didn't understand yet that this was different. This was personal.

The door opened and Vespera Levine entered with her usual forced confidence, her blazer pristine, her script annotated with colorful tabs.

The rehearsal room's intimate lighting caught the gold in her hair, making her look even more vulnerable.

Her jasmine scent preceded her, cut with the sharp tang of anxiety she couldn't quite suppress.

"Dorian," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "Thank you for booking the space."

As if this were a normal rehearsal. As if I hadn't specifically chosen the most isolated studio in the building.

"Of course," I replied, letting my sandalwood scent expand to fill the room—dominant, inescapable. "We have significant work ahead of us."

She set down her bag. I noticed she positioned it near the door. An escape route. Smart girl. Not that it would help her.

"I've done extensive research on the scene," she began, pulling out her thoroughly annotated script. "There are several scholarly interpretations of Katherine's final speech that suggest—"

"Perform it," I interrupted.

She blinked. "What?"

"The monologue. Perform it for me now. No discussion, no analysis. Just show me what you've prepared."

A flash of indignation crossed her features before she smoothed them back to professional neutrality. "Without blocking? Without context?"

"Katherine doesn't get context," I said, standing slowly, letting my full height register. "She's been broken by this point in the play. Tamed. She speaks from pure submission. Show me that."

Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Fine."

She moved to the center of the room, took a breath, and began. Her interpretation was technically proficient but deliberately subversive, she played Katherine's submission as performance, each word dripping with barely concealed sarcasm.

"Fie, fie, unknit that threatening unkind brow..." The words were correct, but her eyes remained defiant, her posture proud rather than yielding.

I circled her slowly as she spoke, noting how she tracked my movement peripherally, never quite relaxing her guard. When she reached "Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper," I stepped directly into her space, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.

"Stop," I commanded.

She fell silent immediately, but her chin remained lifted, refusing to show weakness.

"You're not feeling it," I said, my voice dropping to something more intimate, more dangerous. "You're reciting words, but Katherine isn't reciting. She's confessing. She's surrendering everything she was for everything Petruchio will allow her to be."

"That's one interpretation—"

"It's the only interpretation that matters in this room," I cut her off, stepping even closer. Her jasmine scent spiked with alarm, but also with something sweeter that made my blood heat. "Again. From ' Thy husband is thy lord .' And this time, mean it."

She swallowed hard, and I watched the delicate movement of her throat, the pulse that betrayed her accelerated heartbeat.

"Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper," she began again, and this time I heard a tremor in her voice, not of fear, but of suppressed anger.

"Better," I murmured, beginning to circle again. "But you're still fighting it. Katherine has stopped fighting by now. Show me the moment she breaks."

We continued this way for twenty minutes—me pushing, her resisting, the tension in the room ratcheting higher with each repetition.

I made her perform it in different ways: to an imaginary audience of women, to her own reflection in the mirrors, even to empty space as if Petruchio were a god she was praying to.

When we reached the physicality of the text, everything shifted.

"Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth," she recited, and I stopped her again.

"Katherine is talking about her body here," I said, moving behind her, not touching but close enough that she could feel my presence like a physical weight. "She's acknowledging her physical inferiority, offering her softness as complement to male strength. Show me that awareness."

"I don't think—"

"Run your hands down your arms while you say it," I instructed, my breath stirring the hair at her temple. "Feel what Katherine is describing. Your softness. Your weakness."

Her scent shifted, anger mixing with something more complex. But she did as instructed, her hands traveling down her own arms as she repeated the line. The gesture was sensual despite her attempt to make it clinical.

"You're still too rigid," I observed, my voice almost catching in my throat. "Katherine has accepted her nature. She's embracing her submission. Feel the difference between your 'soft condition' and my strength."

I lifted my hand, holding it inches from her shoulder, letting her feel the heat without contact. "That's what Katherine is accepting. Her place beneath male power. Show me you understand."

She turned to face me then, and for a moment, her mask slipped. I saw real fury in her eyes, quickly banked but unmistakable.

"My mind hath been as big as one of yours," she said, and this time the emotion was real—raw and defiant. "My heart as great, my reason haply more, to bandy word for word and frown for frown."

The transformation was magnetic. She let her real frustration bleed into Katherine's words, and it was the most honest thing I'd seen from her since we'd started.

"There," I said roughly, affected despite myself. "That's real emotion. Now show me the moment Katherine surrenders it. The moment she chooses submission over strength."

She held my gaze as she continued, "But now I see our lances are but straws, our strength as weak, our weakness past compare..."

The transition was devastating. She went from fire to ash, from defiance to defeat, and she made it look like a choice rather than a collapse. It was brilliant. It was infuriating. It was incredibly arousing.

When she reached the final section, I knew I had to push harder.

"Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot," she said, her voice growing softer, "and place your hands below your husband's foot..."

"Stop," I commanded. "Katherine is speaking to the other women, but she's performing for Petruchio. He's watching from across the stage. Show me how she offers this submission when he's not even near her. Make me believe she'd debase herself just for his approval."

"But he wouldn't be—"

"Exactly. She's declaring her submission publicly, to everyone, while he watches. It's more humiliating because it's not even directly to him. Kneel."

She froze. "What?"

"The text says she'll place her hand beneath his foot. Show me that willingness. Petruchio isn't there to actually put his foot out —Katherine is offering something he hasn't even asked for. The submission is entirely her choice. Show me."

The silence stretched between us, taut as a wire. Her jasmine scent was a storm of conflicting emotions—anger, fear, and underneath it all, that sweet note of unwilling arousal that she couldn't quite suppress.

Slowly, maintaining eye contact that felt like a challenge despite the submissive gesture, she knelt, extending her hand toward an imaginary Petruchio.

"In token of which duty, if he please," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "my hand is ready, may it do him ease."

I circled her kneeling form, studying the picture she made. "Hold that position. Feel how exposed Katherine is. She's abasing herself in front of everyone, and Petruchio isn't even acknowledging it yet. The submission is complete before he accepts it."

I crouched beside her, close enough that she could feel my breath on her neck. "Your hand is trembling. Is that Katherine's shame or yours?"

She stayed frozen in that position, hand extended toward empty space, the gesture all the more humiliating for its lack of recipient.

"Do you understand what Katherine is doing here?" I asked, my voice low. "She's degrading herself for a man who isn't even looking at her. The ultimate submission—performed for an audience, hoping for his approval."

She rose, her cheeks flushed.

"Again," I said. "The entire monologue. And this time, I want to believe that Katherine wants this. That she craves Petruchio's dominance even from across the room."

She rose gracefully, and something had shifted in her bearing. When she began again, she weaponized her submission, making it so complete, so convincing, that it became a mirror reflecting my own cruelty back at me.

"Fie, fie, unknit that threatening unkind brow, and dart not scornful glances from those eyes to wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor..."

This time, she played Katherine as a woman in love with her own subjugation, and it was disturbing in its perfection. She made submission look like ecstasy, made surrender seem like salvation. Every word was honey-coated poison, sweet on the surface but corrupt underneath.

When she reached "But love, fair looks, and true obedience," something in me snapped.

I crossed the space between us in two strides, my body moving before my mind could stop it. She gasped as I backed her against the mirror, caging her with my arms on either side.

"Stop," I growled, and fuck, my voice came out more like a growl. "You're lying with every word."

"I'm performing the text—"

"No." I leaned in closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. Her jasmine scent was everywhere now, filling my lungs, making my blood burn. "Katherine means these words. She's been fucked into submission, broken down until she craves her husband's control. Show me that hunger."

Her breath hitched, and I watched her pulse flutter wildly at her throat. The urge to put my mouth there, to taste that frantic heartbeat, was overwhelming.

"I don't—"

"Look at me," I commanded, tilting her chin up with one finger. The touch was electric—such a small point of contact but it sent heat shooting straight to my cock. "Katherine would look at Petruchio like he owns her. Like she'd die without his touch. Like she gets wet just from his attention."

Her pupils dilated at my words, black swallowing the green of her eyes. She was trying so hard to stay professional, but her body was betraying her. I could smell it—that sweet note threading through her anxiety, the involuntary arousal that suppressants couldn't hide.

"Try the line again," I said, my thumb moving to trace her lower lip. It was soft, trembling slightly. "While looking at me like you want me to fuck you against this mirror."

"Dorian—"

"Say the line."

She held my gaze, and something shifted—a crack in her armor that let me see the real her underneath. Raw. Vulnerable. Wanting despite herself.

"But love," she whispered, and her voice was different now, breathless and broken, "fair looks, and true obedience..."

The words washed over me like a physical touch. My control, already frayed, snapped entirely. I pressed closer, eliminating the last inch between us, feeling her soft curves against my body. She made a small sound. A protest or a plea, I couldn't tell.

"That's it," I breathed against her lips. "That's what submission looks like. Complete surrender."

Her hands came up to my chest, whether to push me away or pull me closer, I didn't know. Didn't care. All I could think about was how she'd taste, how she'd sound if I claimed her mouth the way Petruchio claimed Katherine.

"You feel it now, don't you?" I murmured, my lips barely grazing hers, not quite a kiss but close enough that we breathed the same air. "The power in giving in. The freedom in being owned."

She swayed toward me, her body betraying what her mind fought against. Her scent was pure arousal now, sweet and intoxicating. I was rock hard against her, and she could feel it—I saw the recognition in her widening eyes.

"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.