Page 34 of In Shadows We Dance

"Your body’s already answering," he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "I can see it. Feel it. The way you’re standing, the way your muscles twitch. You’re already dancing, Ballerina. You just haven’t taken the first step."

The music builds, and despite myself, I feel it seeping into my muscles. He's right. The floor beneath my feet is perfect. The space calls to something deep inside me, something that's always felt caged by the small studio at school. The war inside me rages, my reflection showing the cracks in my resolve.

"You’ll never have this chance again," he says, holding the shoes out. "The only question is whether you’ll take it."

He stops in front of me, letting them swing gently. "These deserve a proper dance floor. They deserve to be seen. Stop fighting it."

His words burrow under my skin, igniting something hungry and dark. The music shifts, darkens, becomes a force that demands movement.

My hand moves without permission, my fingers curling around the satin. The fabric feels like sin against my skin—soft, smooth, impossible to resist. I sink to the floor, slipping the shoes on withtrembling hands, each knot of the ribbons binding me closer to him. To this moment. To the darkness.

"That's it." He raises his phone again, and the soft click feels like a chain tightening around my will. "Show me what you can do when you're not confined. When you don't have to hold back."

When have I ever been able to really let go? How often have I wished that I could give myself completely to the dance without worry? What would it feel like to embrace it … just once?

When I rise, the first step feels like a surrender. But the second? The second feels like freedom.

The music crescendos, wrapping around me, pulling me into its depths. I leap, spin, twist—my movements raw and uninhibited. The mirrors reflect every angle, every emotion, amplifying the exhilaration coursing through me.

And through it all, I feel his eyes on me.

Watching. Consuming.

While the camera clicks again and again, capturing my descent into his world.

CHAPTER 16

Through the Lens

WREN

She's magnificent.

Every movement she makes consumes the space around her. Her limbs move like liquid silver under the dim light, turning the ballroom into her domain. My phone's camera keeps clicking, but it can't capture the essence of what I'm seeing. The lens flattens her—an insult to the electricity sparking off her every step. It’s like trying to trap the ocean in a glass—futile, frustrating. The way her body moves, every muscle taut and purposeful, can't be confined to pixels.

"Get out." The words escape through gritted teeth, when I catch sight of Monty and Nico by the doors. They're watching her with too much interest, their eyes focusing on something that belongs to me.

"What?" Monty's surprise is evident. "But?—"

"Out. Now." I don’t even look at them, my focus locked on Ileana as she dives into another turn, her body catching the light like an ember. "This isn't for you."

The door closes behind them with a soft click that gets lost under the music.

Now it's just us. Her dance and my hunger, spinning together in a storm. The air between us hums, every beat of the music syncing her movement to my pulse.

But the photographs are wrong. She’s here in front of me, burning with life, and the images reduce her to nothing but pixels and blurry shapes. The camera strips her bare, but not in the way I want. It misses the fire beneath her skin, the tremor in her breath, the way her fear fuels her grace.

"Higher," I demand as she lands a jump, my voice slicing through the music. "You're holding back."

She obeys instinctively, lost in the darkness the music pulls her into. Her next leap is perfection—her back arches, her body defies gravity, and for a heartbeat, she hovers. The sight burns itself into me, a scar I don’t ever want to fade.

My fingers curl around the phone, desperate for more than the cold distance of a screen. I want to press my hands against her skin, feel the tension coiled in her muscles, taste the heat radiating off her body. But not yet.

She spins again, her reflection multiplying infinitely in the mirrors. I circle her, changing angles, but no matter where I stand, the images fall short. They’re sterile. They can’t touch the storm of her presence, the way her body tells a story with every movement.

"Stop."

She halts mid-motion, chest heaving. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on her skin, catching the dim light like a second glow. The urge to reach out and trace it, to press my lips to her throat and taste her exhaustion, nearly breaks me.

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