Page 7 of Devil's Thirst

When it comes to dancing, I’m an unapologetic addict. And when I love a production the way I adore this one, it’s easy for me to lose track of time. Some people see therapists. Some meditate or journal. I dance. No matter what I’m working through, I always feel better after giving myself over to the music.

My plan for a quick thirty-minute session draws into an hour in a flash. I’m able to lose myself in part because the telltale weight of my watcher’s stare never materializes—both a good and a bad thing. I’m glad he never showed, but it’s no excuse to be so reckless. The set workers and dancers have all left the theater. I’m alone now, and it’s time to quit pressing my luck and head home.

The evening dance session has left me feeling relieved and surprisingly peaceful. I smile to myself as I walk back to the dressing room. As expected, Hazel is gone, and all is quiet. I sit at the makeup vanity where I left my things and bend down to unlace my shoes. Once they’re off, my gaze lifts to the mirror and locks on an unexpected black figure reflected across from me. I gasp and whirl around as I spring to my feet.

He’s here.

The man in the shadows was here the whole time.

Shock and self-disdain wreak havoc on my ability to process. I feel like the worst sort of idiot for never even considering he might come backstage. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid. Maybe I deserve whatever it is he has in store for me.

A surge of fear electrifies the blood in my veins like a bolt of white lightning.

Now that we’re only a few paces from one another, I realize how huge he is compared to me. He rises well above my five-four frame and looks like he could snap my body in half with the flick of his wrist. Ballet keeps me lean, but that’s only part of it. He’s solid muscle. I can see the bulges through the hoodie he wears—the same hoodie he had on last time.

But most terrifying of all is what he’s added to his costume. A black ski mask and gloves. Not a hint of skin is showing anywhere. Nothing to identify him.

If I still needed evidence of the malicious nature of his intentions, a balaclava fits the bill.

He wields his threat with practiced indifference, leaning against the wall as though listless with casual boredom. As though he’s clueless to the terror seeping from my every pore.

“What do you want from me?” I hiss at him through clenched teeth. I don’t understand why this is happening—why The Society has decided to toy with me—and the helplessness spurs my anger.

His head angles to the side before he slowly peels himself off the wall.

I take a step back. “Stay over there. You have no reason to hurt me.” My gaze darts back to the vanity beside me, where an unplugged curling iron rests. I grab it and wield it angrily at him in my tightly clenched fist. “I’ll scream. The cleaning people will be here any minute.”

Still, he doesn’t say a word. Instead, his stare slowly sweeps the room as he takes a lazy step forward, followed by another.

“Goddammit,stop. I will fight you with everything I have. You hear me?” My voice takes on a savage edge as the reality of my situation sinks in. This man might not have been sent as a simple warning. He could be here to hurt me. Or silence me forever.

Well, he can fucking try, but I won’t go down without one hell of a fight. I bare my teeth at him and steady my stance in preparation.

The man stills, his head listing to the side as though he’s studying a circus attraction rather than a woman riddled with fear. “Devi calmarti, piccola ballerina.”

My brain stutters for a second.

His indecipherable words catch me off guard. It never occurred to me he might be foreign. I have no idea what that means or how to interpret the new information or his words themselves. The only thing I can grasp hold of is the word ballerina.

If The Society wants to threaten me, wouldn’t it make sense to use someone who speaks English? Or maybe he’s been sent to teach me a lesson—one that doesn’t involve words.

Or … maybe he wasn’t sent by anyone. Maybe he has his own agenda.

I clutch the curling iron and motion to the door. “Get out, or I swear to God, I’ll poke my fingers right through your eyeballs like they were fucking grapes.” I take one more small step back because, despite the fury of my words, I’m scared shitless.

“Ho detto calmati,” he clips back at me before continuing in a more placid tone. “Mi piacerebbe marchiarti, ma non così.” The melodic words spoken in his rugged baritone voice feel as intimate as a sensual caress. I get the sense he’s trying to lull me into a false sense of security. As if I’m going to realize I’m overreacting and laugh off the whole thing. He’s deranged. He has to be.

My heart threatens cardiac arrest, a vise clenching tight around my ribs.

He takes a determined step forward. “Maledizione, ti ho detto di smetterla.”

The suddenly harsh edge to his voice commands me backward. My foot lifts as he lunges forward. I don’t have time to scream before he grabs my wrist in his gloved hand and yanks me a foot to the side. He doesn’t send me crashing to the ground or pull me against him. His hand isn’t even clasped all that tightly around my wrist, though he still hasn’t let go.

Confusion muddles my thoughts until my gaze follows his to where I’d been standing seconds before, next to the ironing board Hazel was using. The iron stands upright, light still blazing red. She left it plugged in, and I was inches from pressing my arm against its scalding surface.

The man had stopped me from burning myself.

My mouth opens and closes, words escaping me.

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