Page 47 of In Shadows We Dance

But it doesn’t matter how many times I repeat that, it doesn’t reduce the way my stomach twists, or the way the lock resists my fingers twice before finally clicking open. The paper floats to the floor like a fallen leaf. I ignore it because inside is the black rose from yesterday. My finger throbs with remembered pain. A small bloodstain marks my notebook where I'd shoved it, desperate to hide the evidence of hisgift.

My gaze drops to the fallen note. What is it? Do I even want to know? My mind screams at me to leave them both there, to turn and run. But I can’t.

Running didn't save me last night. It won't save me now.

I crouch and snatch up the sheet, unfolding it as I straighten. One word sprawls across the heavy paper in elegant script:

Mine.

A shudder runs through me, memories flooding back—dancing in that massive ballroom while his phone documented every move. Running through dark woods while he hunted me. The pressure of his body when he caught me, his fingers stroking my body, the heat of his mouth ...

No. I won't think about that.

I crumple it in my fist, scanning the empty hallway.

He’s been here already. How early did he come in to leave this? Or did his friends do it for him? Are they watching even now, reporting back on my reaction?

My fingers brush against one of the rose’s thorns as I shove both items into my bag. Fresh pain blooms. Another wound to match the scratches already decorating my skin. How many more marks will he leave on me before he’s done?

The classroom offers temporary refuge. I go inside, choosing my usual seat, although sitting with my back to the door feels dangerous now. I hide behind my textbook, but the words blur together, meaningless shapes unable to compete with the memories of last night.

Other students arrive in groups. Their normal chatter feels surreal against my growing terror. Each new arrival makes me tense, but none of them are him. None of them are his friends. They move around me like I’m invisible, just like always, but now that invisibility feels unnatural, wrong, and on the verge of breaking.

Like me.

A hand brushes across my neck, and my whole body goes rigid.

"Good morning, Ballerina."

His voice snakes through me, a whisper of danger that first chills my skin, then makes me flush hot. His shadow moves across my desk, and he claims the seat behind me.

“Did Daddy see those pretty little scratches when you got home last night?” His words carry just far enough for me to hear. “The bruise I left you with? Or did you manage to sneak past him?”

I clench my jaw, swallowing down words that would only feed his need to control me. But I can’t stop the way unease ripples through me at the memory of my father’s searching gaze, of the lies that tasted like ash in my mouth.

"No answer?" He laughs softly. "That's okay. The evidence on your throat says enough."

My fingers fly up before I can stop myself. Anger flares as I drop my hand quickly, but not before his quiet chuckle confirms he noticed.

“How long do you think you can hide it?” The possessive edge in his voice makes my stomach drop. “Should we find out?”

I don’t know which emotion is stronger, terror or anger. "Don't."

“There’syour voice.” His voice is low, each word a reminder of his focus. “I was starting to miss it.”

“Why are you doing this?” I don’t know why I ask him again. I don’t know why I give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting under my skin.

“Because I can, Ballerina. And because watching you try to fight when you already know the outcome?” He pauses. I hold my breath. “It’s captivating.”

Students continue filing in, taking their seats, but none of them notice what’s happening. None of them see how thoroughly he owns this space between us. How completely he’s shattered the defenses I put into place. I want to scream, to make them look, to make them understand, but the words stick in my throat.

The teacher’s arrival should provide relief, but I barely register his voice over the thunder of my pulse. All I can focus on is Wren behind me. The weight of his presence. The memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he made me feel things I never thought about before.

My hoodie feels suffocating now, too hot, too confining. But I don’t dare adjust it. Don’t dare risk removing it. People will see the bruise on my throat, the evidence of how thoroughly he’s claimed me.

You're going to want more.

His words from last night echo in my head, and the worst part? There’s a tiny voice deep inside that whispers he might be right.

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