Page 84 of Forged By Shadows

“It’d be nice if everyone was there.” Nice, ugh - Mrs. Patrick would have a fit at my choice of adjective. Wyatt straightens, pushing his hands into his pockets. He’s actually considering it. I was certain he’d laugh cruelly and walk away. Instead, he steps forward and stops right in front of me.

“Okay then.”

“Okay then,” I parrot back, nodding several times. Axel’s arm tightens around my waist, successfully tugging me into the house this time. I’m going to need another shower and a head start of binging food and festive movies.

“I’m proud of you,” Axel mutters beside my ear. Guiding me up the stairs, he diverts us to the bathroom he keeps private for himself. “Let me show you how much.” I grin from ear to ear. Well, there’s an offer I can’t deny.

Chapter Fifty Six

Istand backstage, heart pounding, the heavy curtain separating me from the expectant audience. My body shudders beneath the leotard, a proud tutu sticking out from my hips. Months of rehearsals have led to this moment. My muscles are tense, feet poised in my first stance, every detail of the routine running through my mind. The murmur of the crowd fades as I focus on my breathing, the floor cool beneath my ballet slippers.

The scent of the stage—wood, sweat, and a hint of old velvet—grounds me. I hear the faint rustling of the audience settling into their seats, the occasional cough or whisper. It’s a full house and the pressure is palpable. My fingers twitch involuntarily, a last release of nervous energy. I flex them, feeling the delicate fabric of my tutu brush against my legs, a reminder of the countless hours spent perfecting every move.

From the wings, Miss Nightingale watches me closely. A small incline of her head seems to speak volumes. She thinks this is where I belong, what I should be doing with all of my time. In reality, I don’t know where I belong. I just like to dance.

The curtain begins to rise. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. As the lights flood the stage, I scan the front row and there they are. Garrett, Axel, Dax, and evidently - Wyatt. I tried to convince Huxley to come but he’s not ready to face the outside world yet. Inside is fine, he roams freely now and is eating properly, but he still couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not even for me. I understand. I’m desperately trying to understand. I suppose the recording Garrett is taking for Meg will have to be enough.

Holding my pose, the silence before the music starting is deafening. Theo is on the ground level, his fingers on the piano keys. An orchestra accompanies him, the music students making their own debut for agents in the audience. I suppress a shiver, looking for a focus. I find it in Axel. His hazel eyes are fixed on mine, and at his neck, a sharp collar and tie. I withhold a gasp, the backs of my eyes pricking. He wore a shirt for me.

The music starts, and I launch into the first movement without a second thought. My body responds, every practiced step flowing with minimal effort. This routine is second nature to me now. The smile spread across my face is a real one, each leap and pirouette a small burst of joy.

The spotlight tracks my every move, but it’s the Shadowed Souls smiling up at me that sees my spirit soar. I let myself fully embrace the music. The melody is hauntingly beautiful, and I pour my heart into every step, every gesture. My movements become more fluid, more expressive, telling a story that words could never capture. I am no longer just dancing; I am living the music. I don’t even blink as Nikko enters, my counterpart. He joins the outstretched line of my body like a shadow. His fingers trail my arms, his hands on my waist and then I’m lifted.

During one practice, where it was glaringly obvious I was uncomfortable in Nikko’s presence, with his hands all over me, Miss Nightingale had taken me aside. ‘He’s a prop,’ she’d said bluntly. ‘You’re the prima ballerina. Everybody in the show is a prop at your disposal.’ I didn’t have such a hard time dancing with him after that.

Now, we’re completely in sync. My extended leg is lined by his, the flourish of my arms mimicked in unison. We feel each movement, ingrained through repetition and muscle memory, giving the piece the precision it demands. Reacting to the crescendos and decrescendos of the orchestra, we effortlessly glide from one piece into the next. Months of practice, and we sail through the first half of the intricate choreography.

My muscles burn, but it’s a good burn, the kind that tells me I’m alive and pushing my limits. The music swells, and I execute a series of grand jetés, my feet barely touching the ground. The audience fades into the background, and it’s just me, the music, and the feeling of weightlessness. My heart races. My breaths come quick and shallow, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears. I focus on a spot in the audience to maintain my balance, and there he is again, Axel. His eyes shine with pride, his smile widening with every flawless move I make.

As we enter the final section of the dance’s first half, Nikko lifts and then dips me low, my legs poised into perfect points. The climax of the piece approaches, a series of fouetté turns. I spin, faster and faster, my leg whipping around with each turn. The world blurs around me, but I am centered, focused. Suddenly, I fall still, chest heaving and arms suspended in front of my tutu.

For a moment, there is silence. The audience seems to hold its breath. Then, the applause erupts, a tidal wave of sound washing over me. I lower my arms, and absorb the energy of the crowd. The applause grows louder, a distant roar through the blood rushing in my ears. I bow deeply, gratitude and relief mingling in a heady rush.

As I straighten, I look out into the sea of faces, but it’s Garrett’s face that stands out now. His expression is full of admiration. So open, so in awe. I melt as the curtain falls and I step into the wings. I’m met with the hugs and congratulations of my fellow dancers. Miss Nightingale gives me a proud nod, her eyes shining with approval. I smile. I did it. I danced in front of a crowd, and an excited hum beats through me that I’m about to do it again.

“Twenty minutes, dancers,” a stage-hand calls out. “Find a place to stretch, make sure you hydrate!” I accept a bottle of water from an assistant, turning to the rear of the stage. As Prima Ballerina, I’m the only one with access to the wardrobe dressing room, whereas the other dancers are settling onto the wooden floor, their legs spread wide. I’ve barely made a step when a hand harshly grabs my upper arm, dragging me along. I try to yank myself free, only forcing him to hold on tighter.

“Wyatt?” I gasp, jerking against his body. “What the hell are you doing?!” I look around for backup, but we’re swallowed by the people bustling around. Elbowing the door open, Wyatt shoves me in the dressing room. He pauses to shut and lock the door, and then he’s coming at me. I struggle to stay on my feet, stumbling backwards until my back hits a wall. He doesn’t stop advancing.

“What’s your problem?!” I scream, shoving at him when he gets in my space. His green eyes are laced with rage, his face hard. I thought we were getting on okay. How freaking naïve that was. Pressing himself along the length of my body, his forehead presses against mine, roughly pinning me between the wall and the bun in my hair. I still, not even breathing as he steals the oxygen from my vicinity.

“Did you think prancing about with strangers was the way to get my attention?” Ignoring the obvious irony there, my lips part, dumbfounded. There’s that phrase again. Prancing about, as if dancing is some stupid notion to waste time and occupy my simple mind. I want to scream. Shove at him again to no avail, ready to tell him that Nikko isn’t a stranger - he’s been my dance partner for months. But that’s not what tumbles out of my mouth.

“I’ve been prancing around your best friends’ bedrooms and you haven’t seemed to care.” His hands are on my ribs, his fingers digging in through my leotard. He pushes me flush against the wall, the expensive cologne he always wears slamming into my senses. Lowering his head, his lips brush my ear.

“I care,” Wyatt growls, dropping his head and sinking his teeth into my neck. I gasp, a jolt of my body putting me flush against him, my head tilts of its own accord to permit him further access. His thigh shifts, pressing hard between my legs. I’m frozen in place, not daring to move as his mouth releases me and shifts. A gentle bite touches the place where my neck meets my shoulder.

“Wyatt,” I say, far too breathily. “What’s happening here?”

“Shhh,” Wyatt’s lips push against my skin, his mouth roaming upwards to nip at my jaw. My body betrays me. With each small bite, my hips tilt further forward, shamelessly rubbing myself against his thigh. I’m going to kill Garrett for planting this fantasy in my head. The amount of nights I’ve fallen asleep picturing it.

My head tilts, my high bun like a cushion. My eyelids lower, my senses taking over. His mouth is hot and seeking, his chest firm. Angling his thigh away, Wyatt’s hand palms my pussy through my leggings. The heel of his thumb is directly over my clit, the sweetest torture.

Did he picture me just like this when Garrett made me put on that slutty ballerina’s costume at the club? Did he slink off to the bathroom and jerk off over it? Questions I shouldn’t ask. Answers I shouldn’t want.

His thumb shifts and finds the right spot, pushing into me and drawing tiny little circles. The pressure is intense as I tiptoe to put some space between us. Everywhere I go, he follows. His tongue flicks over my throat, into the dip of my clavicle. I’m blazing from the inside, an inferno building within the leotard I long to shed. But I won’t make that move. I won’t encourage him. Any second, Wyatt will remember who I am, what I mean to him, and jerk back in disgust. I dare not wonder why I’m not doing just that.

“Kiss me,” Wyatt whispers. My head is angled upwards and away from him, even as I shake my head. No, I’m not giving him that. We’re not lovers. We’re enemies, at the precipice of our misdirected anger. There’s nothing else to be said, nowhere else to go, but straight over the blurred line we’ve been dancing along for months.

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