"Dorian—"
He kissed me before I could finish the protest. Soft at first, questioning, giving me room to pull back. But the instant his lips touched mine, something in me broke open. All the carefully controlled energy from the performance, all the fear about tomorrow, all the want I'd been pushing down—it flooded through me in a rush.
I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer, kissing him hard enough to bruise. He made a low sound in his throat and backed me against the wall, his body pressing into mine, one hand sliding into my hair.
This. This was what I needed. To remember I was alive, real, wanted—
"Get a room," Corvus said dryly from the hallway.
I broke the kiss, panting. Dorian rested his forehead against mine, breathing equally hard.
"Sorry," I managed.
"Don't apologize." Corvus's dark eyes were amused but warm. "Pointing out that the entryway probably isn't the best location."
He was right. But now I was even more wound up, body singing with want, Dorian's sandalwood scent wrapped around me like a drug.
Oakley appeared from the kitchen, took one look at us, and raised an eyebrow. "Should I make coffee or leave you alone?"
"I need to sleep," I said, even though my body was screaming the opposite. "Tomorrow—"
"Is important," all three said in unison.
I laughed, slightly hysterical. "I'm a mess."
"You're perfect," Dorian corrected. He stepped back, giving me space even though I could see it cost him. "Go to bed. We'll be here if you need us."
But I couldn't leave it like that. Couldn't kiss him like that and then disappear. It felt wrong. Unbalanced.
I crossed to Oakley first, rising on my toes to press a kiss to his cheek. Meaning it to be quick. Sweet. But he turned his head at the last second and caught my mouth instead, the kiss warm and surprisingly gentle for someone who'd watched me devour his pack leader instants ago.
"Sleep well," he murmured against my lips. "Dream of your kingdom."
Then Corvus, who I expected to dodge or make a comment. But he let me kiss him, brief and chaste, his hand coming up to steady my waist.
"You've got this," he said quietly. "Tomorrow and every day after."
I stepped back, looking at all three of them. My pack. My mates. My choice to make, every single day.
And right now, I was choosing to walk away. To focus. To be ready for the most important performance of my life.
Even though my body was screaming at me to stay.
"Goodnight," I managed.
"Goodnight, Vespera," they replied.
I made it to my room before my legs got shaky. Closed the door and leaned against it, heart racing, skin too hot, body thrumming with unfulfilled want.
Tomorrow. Focus on tomorrow.
I forced myself through the motions—washing my face, removing the last traces of stage makeup, changing into sleep clothes that felt like sandpaper against my oversensitive skin. Tomorrow's outfit was already laid out. Professional. Perfect. The dress I'd wear to meet scouts and maybe change my life.
On my nightstand, my mother's letter sat in its cream envelope. I picked it up, needing the grounding.
"I'm not you, Mom," I whispered to the quiet room. "I'm choosing differently. I'm choosing to stay and fight. To be bonded and free. To want them and still choose myself first."
The letter didn't answer. It never would.
