Page 45 of The Drama King (The University Players Duet #1)
Wells continued the scene, calling for more touching, more intimacy, and I found myself trapped in a web of professional requirements and biological responses I couldn't control.
When the blocking called for Benedick to pull Beatrice against him, Dorian's arm around my waist felt like a brand.
When I had to press my face against his chest in simulated despair, his heartbeat thundered against my cheek and I caught myself breathing him in.
"Kill Claudio," I said, the words carrying all my rage at a world that protected predators and punished their victims.
But when Dorian's arms tightened around me, when he looked down with eyes that burned with something that wasn't entirely acting, I felt my body respond with shameful heat.
The way his hands spanned my ribcage, the solid strength of him, the predatory satisfaction that leaked through his professional mask—it should have terrified me.
Instead, it made something deep in my belly clench with unwanted need.
"Ha! Not for the wide world," he said, but his shock seemed genuine, as if my vehemence had only stoked whatever fire was burning in his eyes.
"You kill me to deny it. Farewell."
I moved to leave, putting real desperation into Beatrice's exit, but when Dorian's hand closed around my wrist, the contact sent heat shooting up my arm. His grip was firm but not painful, possessive in a way that made my hindbrain purr with dangerous approval.
"Tarry, sweet Beatrice."
The endearment, delivered in his low voice while his thumb rubbed circles on the sensitive skin of my wrist, made me shiver. And from the way his eyes darkened, he'd felt it.
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 physical choreography 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.