Page 140 of In Shadows We Dance

The sound of more footsteps pulls my attention. People are walking into the chapel, their voices low as they settle into pews toward the front. A woman adjusts her scarf, her fingers quick and precise, while an older man kneels briefly in prayer before taking his seat.

The organ begins to play, its low notes rolling through the space like a tide. The sound swells, filling the room as more people trickle in. The small congregation is unassuming,ordinary. I pull my hood lower, sinking further into the corner of my pew. The less attention I draw, the better. My hands grip the mug tightly, its warmth the only thing keeping my fingers from trembling.

Father Michael steps forward, his voice rising above the soft hum of the organ.

“Welcome.” His voice is gentle, soft, but it reaches every corner of the room. “Let us begin.”

A hymn follows his words, and the voices of the congregation blend into a melody that sounds almost mournful. I don’t join in. I keep my head slightly bowed, while the music flows around me, through me, but it doesn’t touch me. I’m not here to be moved by it. I’m here because there’s nowhere else to be.

The sermon is next, a reading from the bible, followed by prayers, murmured words rising and falling in rhythm. Father Michael’s words are confident and sure, but I don’t pay attention to their meaning. Something about light in the darkness, about finding refuge in times of trial. I try to let the cadence sootheme, but it doesn’t. I’m too aware of the people around me, of their movements, their glances. I shrink further into the shadows, willing myself to disappear.

The organ hums to life again, voices raising in another hymn. More words are spoken, and then the congregation begins to move. The scrape of wood, the soft shuffle of feet fill the air as people rise and start to leave. A few pause near the door, their voices low as they exchange goodbyes with Father Michael. I don’t move. I barely breathe. I just wait until the last door closes, until the sound of footsteps fades completely, and then exhale.

Once the chapel has emptied, I set the mug down on the pew beside me. The candles on the altar flicker, their light steady but dim.

Wren is coming. I know it with the kind of certainty that leaves no room for doubt. He will keep his promise. He told me to stay safe and so I have. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for him to find me.

The thought doesn’t bring me peace. It brings anticipation and a tension I can’t shake. I glance toward the door, half-expecting it to open. It doesn’t, but for a moment, I let myself imagine him arriving. The door opening, his presence filling the room. I can almost feel his hands on me, his lips against my skin. A shiver runs through me, my pulse quickening at the memory.

Wren doesn’t need to be here to consume me. He’s already under my skin, woven into every breath, every thought.

Sometimes salvation comes in the form of an angel’s wings, but mine—mine wears the devil’s smile. And I think that maybe, just maybe, I’m okay with that.

CHAPTER 72

Predator's Hunt

WREN

The outskirtsof Marshall Cross rise against the night sky. The street lights flicker sporadically, casting faint halos that barely touch the sidewalk. The whole place feels like it’s holding its breath, and so am I.

Two and a half hours of driving. Two and a half hours of nothing but the sound of the engine, and the ache in my chest. Each second feels like an eternity, pressure building, twisting tighter and tighter until I’m on the verge of snapping. Somewhere in this maze, she’s waiting for me.

My ballerina.

The image of her—exhausted, scared, barely holding it together—has been etched into my thoughts since she called me. She shouldn’t have had to run like this. She shouldn’t have had to hide. This isn’t the way a hunt should be. It should be about building anticipation, about desire, about turning fear into need. But the world doesn’t care about what should be, and the only thing that matters now is finding her before they can take her from me again.

A church spire comes into view, and relief rushes through me.

Most churches have unlocked side entrances.

That’s what I told her. It fits where I told her to go. Quiet, inconspicuous, a sanctuary no one would think to search.

I kill the engine and let the silence settle over me. The parking lot is mostly empty, save for a single car, probably the priest’s. My fingers clench the steering wheel before I force myself to let go. Anyone looking through the window would see perfect calm on my face, but beneath the surface, everything burns. The need to see her, to touch her, to confirm she’s still whole, is a storm raging inside me.

My phone buzzes as I step out of the car, but I don’t check it until I’m at the door.

Monty: They’re expanding the search radius. Still think you’re trying to get through their perimeter.

Me: Keep them busy.

The door opens with a slight creak, and I walk inside. The smell of incense and aged wood reaches me, grounding me. The air feels heavy, thick with anticipation. I pause just inside the entrance, giving my eyes time to adjust to the dim light. The faint glow of candles at the altar illuminates the room.

And then I see her.

She’s curled into the corner of a back pew, her knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes closed. The oversized hoodie,myhoodie, swamps her frame, surrounding her like a shield. There’s tension in her shoulders, in the way her fingers clutch at the hem, like holding onto it will keep the rest of the world at bay.

My chest tightens, the relief flooding me so fiercely it makes it hard to breathe. She’s here. She’s safe. But the sight of her like this awakens something darker inside me. Fury. Possessiveness. An all consuming need to ensure no one ever puts her in this position again.

---