Page 46 of In Shadows We Dance

"If it bothers you, find your own toy. You know how to play without me."

The lock clicks behind me. Each image spills across my screen—her dancing, her running, those moments she thought were private. I zoom in on her throat in every photograph, fighting the grain of the digital noise, imagining how the bruise will darken by morning.

Tomorrow she'll enter school wearing my mark. She'll try to cover her throat, tilt her head just so. But I'll know it's there, reminding her with each movement that she belongs to me now. Others will see it too—proof that someone has claimed her. That she's no longer untouchable. I'll need better ways to document her reactions, her realizations, her slow acceptance of how her life is changing.

The school's floor plan fills my laptop screen. Every hallway has become a possibility. Every empty classroom a new opportunity. I’ve already cross-referenced our classes to see which ones we share, along with the routes in between whereour paths might cross. I don’t have to figure out when she’ll be alone. She’salwaysalone.

The dance studio will be her first refuge, but I’ve already claimed that space. Marked it like I marked her throat.

Where else might she try to hide from me? Library? Back stairs?

The screen's glow paints patterns across the walls as I memorize every possible path to her. Between classes. During lunch. After school. Each location is assessed not just for privacy, but for lighting. For angles. For how best to capture what's to come.

My collection will grow. Photographs. Videos. Moments stolen in dark corners. Sounds drawn from her throat when she can't hold them back. Every piece of her will be mine, preserved in perfect clarity. No more amateur attempts with a phone camera. No more grainy shadows and missed moments.

She's mine. And soon, she'll understand exactly what that means.

Tomorrow I’ll begin until nothing remains but her and me, and the darkness we'll share.

CHAPTER 23

Nowhere to Hide

ILEANA

I spendtwenty minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, trying concealer, foundation, scarves …anythingto hide the bruise on my throat. Nothing works. So, I end up digging out an old oversized hoodie from my closet. Nothing else hides last night’s evidence well enough. The bruise mocks me each time I glimpse my reflection—purple-blue against pale skin, impossible to ignore.

Last night feels like a fever dream, but the scratches on my arms prove otherwise. When I come out of the bedroom for breakfast, Dad’s coffee mug pauses midair.

“What were you doing last night? I heard banging.”

“I tripped in the dark,” I mumble, fighting not to turn red.

He frowns.

“I have to go to school.” I rush out before he can ask any more questions.

The morning air is crisp and cool, stinging my cheeks as I walk quickly along the sidewalk. I wonder if I’m coming down with something, because beneath the hoodie, my skin feels flushed and feverish. Each step closer to the school makes my stomach twist tighter. Hopefully, getting there early will mean I can avoid him, and delay whatever he has planned next.

The empty parking lot stretches before me when I arrive at school. At the start of the week, this place felt safe in its mundane familiarity. Now every corner holds potential threats. Even the dance studio doesn't offer sanctuary anymore. I can’t guarantee he won’t be there … watching me.

Lottie's warning rings in my ears, urgent and insistent.

Carlisle and his friends like to play games ... sometimes they don't end well.

If only I’d listened. If only I’d been more careful. If only I hadn’t let him see me.

But how could I have avoided it? How could I have known that he wouldn’t just forget about me, the way he forgets about everyone he toys with?

My footsteps echo against the linoleum as I navigate the empty halls. The sound bounces back, amplifying my sense of exposure.

Has he already arrived? Are his friends lying in wait somewhere?

The corner leading to my locker looms ahead. I pause, straining to hear any movement—voices, footsteps, anything that might warn me of his presence. But all I can hear is the distant hum of the heating system.

When I round the corner, my gaze zeroes in on the sheet of expensive paper protruding from my locker vent. It’s impossible to miss. Stark white against the metal. My throat closes up.

It’s nothing. Just a trapped piece of paper from when I closed my locker yesterday.

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