Page 25 of In Shadows We Dance

His smile doesn’t falter. “No. You’ve done an excellent job of surviving. But you know … the thing about surviving? It’s not the same as living.”

His words dig into me, cutting away the layers I’ve spent years building around myself. My heart pounds painfully against my ribs, fear and fury warring inside me. I try to duck under his arm, but he’s faster. His hand catches my wrist, spinning me back against the mirror. His body presses against mine, a wall of heat and force that I can’t escape.

“You’re going to meet me tonight. Eight o’clock.”

"No."

His hand slides into my ponytail, the tug on my hair firm but not painful, forcing me to look at him. His lips hover inches from mine, his gaze burning into me. His other hand moves lower, fingers skimming the edge of my waistband, a light, teasing touch that makes me squirm.

“If you don’t show up, I’ll come to your door. And we both know what happens then, don’t we? What secrets might come out if I talk to your father?”

“He won’t believe you.”

“Won’t he? I can be very persuasive.” His smile hardens, his tone colder now. His palm flattens against my lower back, pulling me closer. The warmth of his breath heats my skin, and I struggle to hold my ground, to keep from giving him the reaction he’s so clearly waiting for.

“Do you want to test it? Should we see what happens when I tell him about his daughter’s secret passion? About how she defies him and lies about where she’s been when she gets home late from school? About the scholarship she could have had?”

“Don’t.”

Triumph flashes in his eyes, satisfaction curving his lips. But for a fleeting moment, there’s something else—something almost gentle. His hand tightens in my hair, his lips brushing mine, so close I can almost taste him.

“Eight o’clock, Ballerina. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

“Where?” I force the word out, hating how small it feels.

“I’ll be waiting at the end of your street.” He releases me, and steps back.

The loss of his warmth makes me shiver. My skin feels branded, every place he touched burned into my memory.

“Oh, and Ileana?” He pauses at the door, his smile turning dark,knowing. “I left something in your locker. Think of it as …inspiration… for tonight. If you’re going to stop hiding, you might as well do it properly.”

The door shuts quietly behind him, and my legs give out. I slide down the mirror until I hit the floor. Tremors ripple through me, stealing my breath and leaving my thoughts spinning, splintering into fragments of panic. Each one is worse than the last.

A scholarship. Mrs. Reynolds. The way my dreams were ripped away.

It takes ten minutes before I can get up. When I finally force myself to stand, my legs are unsteady, my steps slow and mechanical as I head for my locker. My hands shake as I spin the combination, and when the door opens, my breathing stops.

A black rose lies draped across my books, its petals velvety and dark, its thorns gleaming like tiny blades under the fluorescent light. Beneath it, a note, the handwriting bold and unmistakable.

Some flowers bloom best in darkness, Ballerina. But I prefer to watch them writhe in the light.

I pick up the rose, wincing as a thorn pierces my skin. A drop of blood wells, bright against the black petals. The sight sends a chill through me, as if the flower itself carries his promise, unspoken but impossible to ignore.

This isn’t a threat. It’s a warning. A declaration of intent.

He’s going to drag me out of the shadows whether I want it or not.

And he’s going to make me bleed in the process.

Four and a half hours. Not enough time to think. Too much time to feel. To wonder if playing his game is the only way to keep the rest of my world intact—or if calling his bluff will destroy everything anyway.

Sometimes they don’t end well.

Lottie’s warning echoes in my mind, louder now as I stare at the rose. At the blood. At the way both seem impossibly beautiful, even as they’re wrapped in something sharp and cruel.

Just like Wren Carlisle.

CHAPTER 12

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