Page 24 of In Shadows We Dance

I grit my teeth, my arms sweeping wide as I launch into a jump, the music driving me forward.

Why me? Why did he care what I did or didn’t do, why I kept to myself?

I’m not one of the girls who flirt with him, who attract his attention. I’m not someone who makes an interesting target.

I spin again, faster this time, but the memory of his thumb touching my lip pulls me off balance. The sensation lingers, uninvited and unwelcome. I can still feel the way he leaned close, the way his breath warmed my skin.

Fear suits you.

The music swells, demanding my focus, but his words are louder, drowning everything out. My rhythm falters, just for a second, and I stumble, catching myself before I fall. I straighten, but the flow is broken.

He’s inside my head.

This is supposed to be mine. But somehow, Wren Carlisle has managed to take a piece of it away from me.

The music fills the room, sharp and demanding, guiding my every movement. My arms extend, my body curves, and for a moment, I feel weightless, caught in the rhythm. Each step pulls me further into the flow, shutting out everything beyond this moment. The air brushes against my skin, cool and grounding, as I spin, letting the music drown out the thoughts I’ve been trying to escape.

Strong arms lock around my waist mid-spin, breaking my focus and wrenching me backward. A wall of warmth presses against my back, trapping me before I can react. The scent of cologne hits me, familiar and unmistakable.

“Your arabesque is getting sloppy,” Wren whispers. “Too much tension in your shoulders. You’re letting fear affect your form.”

Terror grips me, freezing my limbs, while my mind races for a way out.

How did he get here? How longhas he been watching?

Before I can stop to consider the consequences, I drive my elbow back, aiming for his ribs. He catches the movement, his hands tightening before he spins me around, slamming me against the mirror. My breath escapes in a gasp as his hands rest on either side of my head, caging me in.

“There she is.” His smile turns predatory and confident, as if he’s been waiting for this moment. “I knew there was fire hiding inside you.”

“Get out!” The words tear from my throat before I can think. The anger in my own voice startles me, but it doesn’t faze him.

Instead of retreating, his smile deepens, his head tilting in amusement. “Make me.”

My pulse races, every instinct screaming at me to move, to fight, but I can’t. His presence feels like a heavy weight pinning me to the spot.

"This isn't a game. Leave me alone." My voice is firmer now.

“Isn’t it?” His lips touch my jaw, slow and deliberate, trailing down to my neck. A shiver runs through me, an involuntary reaction to his warmth. “Why do you practice over and over for an audience that doesn’t exist? Why pretend you don’t want something more?”

“You don’t know anything about me.” I turn my head, breaking the contact.

“You keep telling yourself that, Ballerina. But we both know you’re not as invisible as you want to be.” His laugh is quiet,dangerous. He shifts closer, his chest presses against mine, pinning me to the mirror. I twist, trying to get away, but his thigh moves, pushing between my legs. My breath catches as he traps me completely.

His voice drops, a low murmur against my ear. “I know about the scholarship offer from Richmond Dance Academy three and a half years ago. The one that disappeared before your father found out.”

My head jerks back, shock cutting through the fear. “My … what? What are you talking about?”

His fingers hook under my chin, tilting my face up. His other hand glides down my side, fingertips skimming the bare skin beneath my shirt, the touch light and delicate.

“Didn’t you know? Mrs. Reynolds wasveryimpressed with you. She wanted to help you escape from Daddy’s control. Too bad she disappeared before she could follow up.”

The words are like a punch to the gut, winding me. Memories I’ve tried to bury rise to the surface—Mrs. Reynolds’ encouragement, her soft-spoken praise, her promise of something better. I’d been fourteen, and excited at being offered the lead in the school performance. Years of ballet lessons during school, the only non-education thing my parents allowed, building to that moment. I’d gone home, excited and proud … and that’s when I really understood that my father’s behavior wasn’t normal, that the life I thought was unchangeable didn’t have to be. He tore up the permission slip, and told me I could no longer take the dance class. When I went back to school the next day, she was gone, and with her, the faint hope I’d allowed myself to believe in.

“How do you—Did you have something to do with that?”

He laughs. “Me? Not everything revolves around me, Ballerina. And I didn’t know who you were back then. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Because no one saved you. You’re still here.”

“I don’t need saving!”

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