Page 11 of Corrupted Heart

Tragically, no murderous psychos stop me between my apartment and practice.

The fact that I begin that thought with “tragically” is probably grounds for immediately checking myself into a psychiatric ward.

But I can’t help it. Mostly because as terrified as I was last night when I looked up into that bleak neon mask of malice, it was a different kind of fear. True fear is awful. I’ve felt that before. It’s what I felt when those two men slammed me to the ground with every indication that they were going to hurt me. It was a numb, eviscerating fear that felt like being stabbed.

But the “fear” I felt looking up into that neon mask was more like terror mixed with…excitement. It was the sort of anticipatory fear you get right before the rollercoaster gives in to gravity and gets yanked down that first drop. The fear that you get watching a great horror movie, waiting for the jump-scare.

That’s the sort of fear my masked defender injected into my veins last night. Terror, yes. But a thrilling, exciting, electrifying sort of terror. A…can I say it…good kind of terror?

“Quick quick, Bianca!”

I jolt out of my thoughts when I hear the cold, staccato sharpness of the Russian-accented voice.

My creepy masked stranger might be a thrilling sort of fear. But the wrath of Madame Kuzmina when you’re this close to being late for class or rehearsal is the true definition of scary.

“Izvini, Madame,” I blurt.

Her mouth turns up just a hint at the corners. I’ve also known her long enough to spot the amusement in her eyes.

“Using one of the, what, five words you know in Russian will not make you any less late to being in position at that barre in three minutes, Miss Sartorre.”

I flash a weak smile.

“But nice effort,” she smirks. “Now get moving. Alicia was an hour early today.”

I ignore the obvious barb. Madame Kuzmina is old-school Russian, and she’s definitely not above pitting us dancers against each other in the name of “inspiring greatness”.

“I’ll be right there,” I blurt with a smile.

I grab my stuff out of my locker, stripping down and pull on my tights and leotard in record time. I’m sitting on the dressing room bench putting on my ballet shoes when the door bursts open. I startle, ripping my gaze up just in time to see a terrified-looking Alicia come barreling inside.

“Oh my God, Bianca!” she gushes, her voice laden with surprisingly genuine concern. “I am so fucking sorry?—”

“For leaving me?” I snap, bristling a little.

Alicia winces. She might be a bit of a bitch sometimes. But she’s not a psychopath.

“Bianca, I’m seriously so fucking sorry. We both thought you were right behind us! And we were so scared when we got into the car, we didn’t even notice you weren’t in the back seat for like two blocks!”

I flinch as Alicia suddenly hugs me tightly. Okay, her tact could use some work. I’m not sure “we didn’t realize we’d fucked you over because we didn’t even know you weren’t there” is much of an apology. But it’s clear she feels terrible about it.

“It’s okay. I got away,” I mumble, a shiver ripping its way up my spine. “There was a police siren in the distance, and when the two of them bolted, I ran the other way.”

She pulls back, her hands on my shoulders and a stricken look on her face. “I seriously can’t say sorry enough times. I feel fucking awful!”

I incline my head as nonchalantly as I can. “Well, it’s over. And I’m not dead.”

She flashes another weak smile. “Thank God.”

I nod, looking away as heated flashbacks of my vicious and X-rated dreams from last night tease through my thoughts.

Huge hands. Massive, broad shoulders. Blackness like the mouth of Hell calling to me from behind the leering neon.

“We should get out there.”

I pull away from Alicia and turn to head out.

“Bianca…”

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