Page 18 of In Shadows We Dance

His head angles, his smirk growing wider. “No? Then why are you so scared?”

“I’m not scared.” The words rush out too fast.

“Liar.” The word comes out lazy, amused. “But that’s okay. Fear suits you. It’s just another kind of secret, isn’t it? Something you don’t want anyone else to see.”

I press my lips together, willing myself not to react.

“Secrets make everything more interesting, don’t you think? They bind people together.”

I try to turn my head, but his fingers tighten on my jaw, just enough to keep me in place. It isn’t painful, but it isn’t meant to be. It’s a reminder that he’s the one with all the power right now.

“You’re not invisible anymore.”

I force myself to meet his gaze. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“No? Then tell me, Ballerina … when was the last time anyone saw you?Reallysaw you?”

My lips part, but nothing comes out. His smirk shifts, something darker creeping into his expression.

“I see everything. Every crack. Every fracture. And it’s beautiful.”

The bell rings, making me jump. Wren doesn’t move for a long moment, eyes locked on mine. Whatever he sees makes his smile widen.

“See you in English, Ileana.”

He steps back, and I practically run to my first class, my heart thundering in my ears.

English comes too quickly, and I find myself trapped at my desk while Wren sits behind me. Every few minutes, I feel the light touch of his pen against my back, tracing patterns I can't decipher. Each touch makes me flinch.

"Your father called the school three times last year," he murmurs. "Asking them to make sure you weren't participating in any after-school activities. Interesting, don't you think?"

I grip my pen tighter, trying to focus on the teacher's discussion of Shakespeare's sonnets.

"He seems very protective." Another light touch of his pen. "Or controlling. I wonder which it is."

How does he know these things?

"Did you know you have exactly seven leotards? All black, all worn in the same rotation." He lets out a low laugh. "You wash them on Tuesday nights after your father goes to bed. Very organized."

How did he get into the building? When did he watch me do my laundry?

I stare hard at my notebook, where I've been writing the same line from Sonnet 18 over and over.

"Mr. Carlisle." The teacher's voice cuts through my panic. "Since you seem so engaged, perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts on Lady Macbeth's manipulation of her husband? How she uses his weaknesses against him?"

Although I can't see his face, I can hear the smile in Wren’s voice.

"Lady Macbeth understands the art of control." His voice is smooth, confident. "She recognizes that true power lies not in forcing someone to act, but in making them believe they want to. The best manipulation is the kind where your target doesn't even realize they're being led."

"Very good." The teacher nods approvingly, completely missing the way Wren's pen presses harder against my back on the word 'target'.

"Speaking of manipulation," he murmurs once the teacher turns away, "I wonder what it would take to break those routines of yours. I wonder how far you’d go to keep your secrets safe.”

My breath catches. "You wouldn't."

“Wouldn’t what? Test your limits?” His voice is soft. “But you’re too intriguing not to. After all, what’s the point in knowing all your secrets if I can’t see how much they mean to you?”

The teacher's voice drones on about Shakespeare's use of metaphor, but all I can focus on is Wren's voice and the threatening promise in each word.

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