Page 30 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)

twenty-two

Vespera

Professor Blackwell's office felt smaller than usual, the early December afternoon light filtering weakly through frost-covered windows.

Two weeks had passed since my disastrous meeting with Assistant Dean McArthur, two weeks of increasingly pointed "suggestions" from faculty that I reconsider my position.

Now, sitting across from Blackwell's mahogany desk with my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling, I waited for her to finish reading whatever document had prompted this urgent meeting.

"I'm sorry, Miss Levine," she said finally, setting down the papers with a heavy sigh. "The complaint you filed has been... administratively resolved."

The careful phrasing sent ice through my veins. "Resolved how?"

"The review committee found insufficient evidence to proceed with formal disciplinary action.

" Her voice was professionally neutral, but something flickered in her eyes.

Frustration, perhaps, or disappointment.

"The incidents you described were deemed to fall within the normal parameters of intensive academic theater training. "

I stared at her, unable to process what I was hearing. "Normal parameters?"

"Vigorous critique, challenging physical exercises, competitive academic pressure..." She gestured vaguely. "The committee acknowledged that Mr. Ashworth's teaching methods are... intense... but found no violation of university conduct policies."

"He put his hands around my throat."

"During a stage combat exercise, according to his account.

With proper safety protocols observed and multiple witnesses present.

" Professor Blackwell's expression tightened almost imperceptibly.

"The committee found his version of events more.

.. consistent... with established pedagogical practices. "

The dismissal was so complete, so thoroughly orchestrated, that I felt dizzy. "What about the other incidents? The harassment, the attempted abduction—"

"Miss Levine." Her voice cut through my protest gently but firmly. "I understand your frustration. But sometimes in intensive academic environments, personal conflicts can be misinterpreted as institutional problems."

She leaned forward, her expression becoming more personal.

"You're exceptionally talented. Your Lady Macbeth was extraordinary, and your upcoming Beatrice shows tremendous promise.

But talent alone isn't enough in this industry.

You need to learn to navigate complex professional relationships without. .. complications."

"Complications," I repeated numbly.

"The Ashworth family has been instrumental in this department's success.

Dorian specifically has shown remarkable leadership potential and will likely graduate summa cum laude.

" She paused meaningfully. "Your future in theater would benefit from finding a way to work collaboratively rather than. .. contentiously."

The subtext was clear: stop fighting them or your career ends here.

"I understand," I said quietly.

"Good." Her smile was sympathetic but final. "Now, about tonight's rehearsal. Dorian requested additional practice time for the garden scene from Much Ado About Nothing. I've reserved Studio B-12 in the basement level for you both. It's quieter, more conducive to detailed character work."

My stomach dropped. "Just the two of us?"

"Individual scene work is crucial at this stage of production. Dorian specifically mentioned that your chemistry as Beatrice and Benedick needs... refinement." She made a note in her calendar. "After dinner. Don't be late."

I left her office feeling hollow, the university's marble hallways seeming to stretch endlessly in all directions. The administrative machine had spoken, and I'd been crushed beneath its wheels so efficiently I barely understood what had happened.

My phone buzzed as I walked toward the theater building: Studio B-12. After dinner. Don't make me come find you. - D

The message sent shivers down my spine, but what choice did I have? Professor Blackwell had made it clear that my academic survival depended on "collaboration" with Dorian. The complaint I'd filed had been dismissed so thoroughly it felt like it had never existed.

I spent the intervening hours in the library, trying to focus on end-of-semester assignments, but my mind kept cycling through the meeting with Professor Blackwell.

The careful language, the predetermined conclusions, the way my account had been systematically dismantled.

It felt like being gaslit on an institutional level.

As evening approached, I made my way to the theater building's basement level, still in my school uniform. Studio B-12 was tucked away in a corner, accessed through a maze of storage rooms and maintenance corridors. Soundproof, private, invisible to casual foot traffic.

Perfect for whatever Dorian had planned.

The door was already propped open when I arrived, warm light spilling into the dim hallway. I hesitated at the threshold, every instinct screaming at me to run. But Professor Blackwell's words echoed in my mind: Your future in theater would benefit from finding a way to work collaboratively.

I stepped inside.

"You're punctual," Dorian said, not looking up from where he was arranging two chairs in the center of the small room. His school uniform was still perfectly pressed despite the late hour, the charcoal blazer emphasizing his broad shoulders. "Good. We have a lot of work to cover."

The space felt intimate, almost claustrophobic. Mirrored walls reflected our images back infinitely, and the single door behind me seemed to close with finality even though I hadn't touched it.

"Professor Blackwell said you wanted to work on the garden scene," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Among other things." His ice-blue eyes met mine in the mirror, and I saw something there that made my pulse quicken with both fear and unwanted anticipation. "But first, I think we need to address what happened after you filed that complaint."

My breath caught. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?" He turned to face me directly, his sandalwood scent already beginning to fill the small space. "The administrative review, the careful dismissal of your concerns, the way your academic future was subtly threatened if you continued to be... uncooperative."

"How did you—"

"Know about your meeting with McArthur? With Blackwell?" His smile was sharp. "My family's donations to this department buy more than just naming rights, Vespera. They buy influence. Access. Protection."

The casual admission of corruption sent rage flaring through me. "You had them dismiss my complaint."

"I had them recognize reality," he corrected, moving closer with predatory grace. "That a scholarship Omega who bites the hand that feeds her won't survive long in this industry."

"And if I refuse to play along with your games?"

"Then your promising theater career ends here." His Alpha presence began to press against my psychological defenses, making my breath quicken involuntarily. "But if you're smart, and I know you are, you'll realize this doesn't have to be adversarial."

"What are you suggesting?"

His smile widened, showing teeth. "A different kind of collaboration. One where we both get what we need."

The heat in his eyes, the predatory way he was looking at me, made my body respond despite every rational thought. My breathing quickened, and I caught his scent deepening with satisfaction as he noticed.

"The garden scene," I said quickly, grasping for professional ground. "We should work on—"

"We will," he said softly, now close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "But first, let me show you what intelligent surrender actually looks like."

Before I could protest, he was moving, closing the distance between us with that liquid grace that made my knees weak. His hands came up to frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones with surprising gentleness.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his breath warm against my lips. "Say no, and we'll run lines until nine o'clock like good little students."

I opened my mouth to do exactly that, but no words came.

Because despite everything—the harassment, the manipulation, the institutional betrayal—my body wanted this.

Wanted him. The months of psychological pressure had created pathways in my nervous system that his proximity activated automatically.

"I can't," I whispered, and we both knew I wasn't talking about the scene anymore.

"I know," he said, and then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss was consuming, desperate, months of tension exploding between us in a rush of heat and need. His hands fisted in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wanted it, and I melted into him with a whimper that should have embarrassed me but only seemed to drive him wilder.

"God, the sounds you make," he growled against my lips, his sandalwood scent wrapping around me until I could barely think. "Do you know how long I've wanted to hear you moan for me?"

His hands were everywhere. Skimming down my sides, pulling at my sweater, finding the bare skin at my waist and making me arch into his touch with a gasp. The mirror behind me was cold against my back as he pressed me against it, his body a wall of heat pinning me in place.

"Dorian," I breathed, my hands fisting in his shirt, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.

"That's right. Say my name." His mouth found my throat, lips and teeth working the sensitive skin until I was trembling. "Tell me who's making you feel this good."

"You," I gasped as he found that spot just below my ear that made my knees weak. "You are."