Page 101 of In Shadows We Dance

The Game Changes

WREN

Patience is an art.

One I've mastered over years of watching people, learning their weaknesses, finding the perfect moment to strike. But tonight that patience feels like a living thing under my skin, making my fingers tap against the surveillance photographs spread across my desk.

Images of Ileana fill my screens—evidence of my obsession. Walking home, sitting in class, dancing alone. My fingers trace over her face in the latest print. We’re standing in front of the mirror, her body leaning back into mine, the fingers of one hand between her legs. It makes me hard, makes me regret not bending her over the barre and fucking her. But I have a plan, and that final scene is reserved for when I give her the final truth about who she is.

The way her body felt against mine in the dance studio, the push and pull, the way she surrendered to my touch. It ignited something in me, a hunger that grows with every boundary I step over. I need to see her again. To touch her. To mold her. To claim her as mine.

The security feed pings, drawing my attention. There’s movement at the front gate again. Probably another false alarm. Another deer wandering too close to the sensors. But I check anyway, clicking through camera feeds out of habit.

And everything inside me goes still.

There, bathed in the ghostly glow of the night vision camera, is Ileana.

In the blue dress.

Alone.

For several heartbeats, I just stare at the screen. This isn'tpossible. This isn't part of my plan. She's supposed to be at home, wrestling with the hints I gave her about her past, letting them torment her until tomorrow. She wasn’t supposed to come to me.

Not yet. Not like this.

But there she is, her chin lifted with that same defiance I saw when she challenged me in the studio. The cameras catch every detail. How she pauses at the gate, not in fear but in consideration. The way she straightens her spine before pushing it open.

Why is she here?

The tap of my fingers stops, tension moving through me as I watch her step onto my property like she has every right to be here. She looks different in the dress than she did in the dance studio. Not a symbol of my control anymore, but of her choice to wear it. To come here.

She moves forward with purpose now, the dress shimmering in the moonlight. She’s stepped right out of my darkest fantasies, refusing to follow the script I wrote for her. She looks ethereal,dangerousin a way I didn’t expect. A pulse of something visceral shoots through me—like missing a step in a dance I’ve perfected.

She’s here, in my domain, and with every step she takes, she’s defying me. But fuck, she's beautiful in that dress.

I track her through the feeds, watching as she passes the edge of the woods. Every step strips away another layer of my defenses. She hesitates at the fork in the path, one leading to the house, the other leading deeper into the trees. For a moment, uncertainty crosses her face. Then she lifts her chin and takes the wrong one.

Perfect.

I track her through the feeds, switching cameras as she moves deeper into the woods. The dress marks her like a target, weaving between dark trunks. My knowledge of these woods runs deep.

She doesn’t know these woods like I do. Every hidden path, every twist and turn. They’re all mine. A smile pulls my lips up.

She’s walked right into my favorite game.

My eyes move from the feed to the camera on my desk. Thelens I ordered specifically for low-light conditions sits beside it. Almost like everything has been prepared for a moment I didn’t expect to claim yet. I’m checking camera settings as I move through the house. She’s walked right into my territory, wearingmydress, ready to be captured in ways she can’t imagine.

The night air hits my skin as I step outside. Pine needles crunch beneath my feet, decay and loam filling my lungs. She's left traces—broken twigs, crushed leaves, the occasional flash of blue silk caught on branches. Amateur mistakes. She has no fucking idea how to move through the trees without leaving a path to follow.

But I do.

I circle wide through the trees, the camera bouncing against my chest with each silent step. Years of playing in these woods has taught me every shadow, every hidden path. A branch snaps somewhere ahead. I stop, head tilting as I track the sound. She’s close. Moving east, trying to find the house through the maze of trunks. I raise my camera, frame the shot through leaves.

Click. Her face turned away, shoulders tense but spine straight.

I make my presence known—rustle of leaves, the faint crunch of a footstep—before going silent.

She twists, catching me off guard. Breaks free, and runs.

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