Page 26 of In Shadows We Dance

Calculated Moves

WREN

She’s in my head.The way she moves, the way she dances—it's not just an image. It’s a pulse, a beat that syncs with my own, the rhythm of her existence locked into my veins. She’s lost in her own world, but I want in. I want to shatter the walls of that world, crack it open and pull her out. No more hiding, no more pretending.

Finding the scholarship information was a challenge. The usual digging through social media, public records—they all led to dead ends. She doesn’t exist in the digital world. Something that until now I’d have said was impossible.Everyoneexists somewhere. It makes her a ghost. A specter. And ghosts need to be brought into the light, need to be pinned down so they can’t disappear again. I needed another way to search. One that didn’t include online records.

So I did the most obvious thing, and hours spent in the school records room during study hall, volunteering to ‘organize files,’ sifting through ancient, dusty folders eventually paid off. The Richmond Dance Academy documents were like finding gold, but better. It was the first real piece of her I could hold, something that proved she was more than an illusion.

I wait for her to leave the dance studio, then follow at a distance until she reaches her locker.

Her hands shake slightly as she works the combination, and I smile, knowing exactly what she’ll find inside. Earlier, between classes, I slipped a note and rose inside. A message she won’t be able to ignore.

The note falls first, fluttering to the floor. Then the rose. The thorn catches her finger, and I see the tiny jerk of her hand, the way she cradles it, a small bead of red welling up. Something hotand possessive surges through me. That’s the first physical sign of my claim. A piece of me left on her skin, as real as the one I left in her mind.

Perfect.

She shoves everything back into her locker, and slams it shut. For a moment, she just stands there, forehead pressed against the metal, trembling slightly.

I’m tempted to approach her now, but I resist. Timing is everything, and tonight has to be flawless.

Four and a half hours until eight. Then the game shethinksI’m playing will change. It will become something she never imagined.

I follow her home, my eyes never leaving her form. The way her head tilts down, how her steps quicken, her constant glances over her shoulder—it’s intoxicating. She feels me, even if she doesn’t see me. She knows she’s being watched, and it’s driving her mad. I want to push her further. I want to see if I can make her run.

She fumbles with her keys again at the entrance to her building, and I have to duck behind a tree when she looks back one final time before going inside. Her bedroom light comes on a few seconds later, and I track the movement of her shadow behind the curtain.

Every second focused on her draws me deeper. I’ve never craved anyone like this. Never needed someone’s fear and presence to fill me. The orange juice incident might have sparked this obsession, but watching her dance—watching her turn into something transcendent—that’s what truly set me on fire.

The memory of her dancing is burned into my mind. Her feet barely touched the ground, her body bending and flowing like smoke. Her movements carried a quiet grace, as though they might shatter with too much force.

Iwantto break her. Not destroy—no, never that. I want to reshape her, make her mine. The thought of her dancing just for me, of watching that perfection fracture under the weight of fear,makes my blood boil. Makes me ache. Makes me hard.

I pull out my phone to text Monty and Nico.

Me: My house. Now. Got something special planned for this evening.

Their responses come quickly.

Nico: On my way.

Monty: This better be good.

I smile as I type.

Me: Trust me. You'll want to be a part of this.

Once I’ve retrieved my car, and driven home, I head straight for my room, and pull out the folder containing everything I’ve discovered. These secrets are mine.

Mine to know. Mine to use.

I’m not sharing them. Not even with Monty and Nico. They’ll get their usual fun, but beyond that, they’ll have to find their own entertainment. Ileana is mine. And I have no intention of sharing.

The folder contains more than just the scholarship documents now. It’s my collection. Everything I’ve found about her. Every scrap of information. Notes about her routine, her habits. Each piece feels like a trophy, proof of how deeply I’ve embedded myself into her world without her knowing. She has no idea that every secret she’s tried to keep is mine now.

The front door slams, followed by footsteps. I close the folder and slide it beneath the bed just before Nico and Monty walk in.

“What are we doing?” Nico asks.

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