"Your body says otherwise." He moves into the room with that predatory grace, bringing his scent with him—all Alpha dominance and expensive cologne. "Even now, dying, you respond to me."
He's right and I hate it. My traitorous biology recognizes him, wants him, even while my mind screams refusal.
"Stephanie's looking for you," Corvus says suddenly, glancing at his phone. "She's called the police. Filed a missing persons report."
My heart jumps. "She has?"
"Guilt makes people do unexpected things." His tone is clinical, analyzing her motivations like a case study. "Too bad she didn't feel guilty when you actually needed her."
Using Stephanie against me is cruel, calculated. Exactly what I expect from them.
"At least she's trying now."
"Now is too late." Dorian's voice drops to that dangerous purr. "We've covered everything. Your father thinks you're getting medical treatment. The theater program thinks you had a family emergency. That boy Ben thinks you left because you were too sick to continue."
Each word cuts. Ben thinks I abandoned him. The show. Everything.
"He seemed quite concerned," Corvus adds, scrolling through what I realize with horror are my text messages. He's been monitoring my phone. "Several texts asking if you were okay. Offering to visit. We had to be creative with the responses."
"You pretended to be me?"
"We protected you from complications." Said like he's explaining a security protocol, not a violation.
"You isolated me from anyone who might help."
"Same thing," Dorian says with a shrug.
The casual admission of their manipulation makes me want to scream. Instead, I pick up the toast, take a small bite. I need strength if I'm going to fight them.
"Good," Dorian says, and the approval in his voice—like I'm a dog who finally obeyed—makes me want to throw the plate at him.
"Dinner will be at six," Corvus announces, already making a note on his tablet. Probably scheduling it. "Downstairs, all together. Pack proximity will help stabilize your symptoms."
"I'm not eating with you."
"You are."
"You can't."
"We can," Dorian cuts me off, stepping closer with that theatrical intensity he learned from years of drama classes. "You can walk or be carried. Choose."
They leave me with that ultimatum. I wait until their footsteps fade, then explore more carefully.
The windows are reinforced—I can tell by how they don't vibrate when I tap them. The balcony door is basically decoration. The bathroom window is smaller but also sealed.
Six o'clock. I dress carefully—something Dorian picked out, a dress that shows enough skin to be distracting without being obvious. If I'm playing this game, I need every advantage.
The dining room is ridiculous. Formal place settings, candles, wine I won't drink. All three of them cleaned up and waiting like this is normal.
"You came," Oakley says, standing to pull out my chair with perfect gentleman's timing. Ever the performer, hitting his marks.
"Did I have a choice?"
"There's always a choice," Corvus says, watching me sit with that analytical gaze. "You just don't like the options."
Dinner is perfectly prepared—soup, fish, things designed for someone whose stomach has been rejecting everything. They know exactly how sick I am.
"Tell us about the show," Oakley says, trying for normal conversation with that warm interest he uses to draw people out. "Medea, right?"
