Page 61 of In Shadows We Dance

I press play on the stereo, the familiar rhythm of a warm-up routine filling the room. My body moves into stretches automatically, each move smoothing the edges of my frayed nerves, grounding me in the discipline I've always found here.

When the music changes, I move from warm ups to one of the dance routines I have memorized. I begin with a series of pliés, my knees bending smoothly as I find my balance. The tension in my shoulders begins to ease. I move into a pirouette, my body spinning effortlessly, the world blurring around me. A grand jeté follows, my legs extending in a graceful leap, feeling the rush of air against my skin. The fluidity of each arabesque, the arch of my foot, the stretch of my arms—all of it brings a sense of control and freedom. And slowly, I lose myself in the dance.

My feet glide across the floor, my arms extending as if I could push away everything that’s weighing me down. Sweat drips down my back, and my breathing is fast and shallow, but I don’t stop.

I dance until my lungs burn, until my muscles ache, until the only thing I can feel is exhaustion. Each pirouette is a release, every grand jeté a burst of fleeting freedom.

This is mine. This is me. In this moment, I am powerful, untouchable.

When I collapse onto the floor, heart pounding in time with the fading music, I feel lighter. Not free,neverfree, but strong enough to face whatever comes next.

CHAPTER 32

Shadows of Control

WREN

The darkroom is ready.Shadows spill from corners, interrupted by the crimson glow of a swinging bulb, painting everything in blood hues. A forgotten basement space now transformed into my haven of precision. Shelves line the walls, each bottle carefully labeled: Developer, stop bath, fixer. The acrid scent of chemicals clings to the air, stinging my nostrils, anchoring me. It feels right.

My fingers glide along the stainless steel counter, cool and smooth beneath my touch. This space is mine, a manifestation of my intent, where my plans will become reality.

The camera equipment lies spread across the table, each piece gleaming under the dim red glow. I pick up the new lens—a telephoto, capable of capturing every detail, every hidden moment, even from a distance.

I need to see it all. The tension in her muscles, the fleeting expressions she tries to hide. Each movement is a piece of the puzzle, and I can't afford to miss any of it.

The click of the lens locking into place echoes in the silence. I lift the camera, imagining her in the viewfinder. My ballerina, her body arching mid-pirouette, sweat glistening on her skin. Her lips parted, her gaze unguarded in those rare moments when she forgets the world is watching.

Lowering the camera, a thrill spikes through me—different from the usual rush that comes with a new game. I’ve never felt like this. More focused, more alive, and it’s because of her.

Because she isn’t like anyone else.

She defies my expectations, she makes everything else fade away. It's like she's the one thing in this world that isn't predictable,and that makes the chase so much sweeter.

I step back and take in the room. Hours have passed, time meaningless in the face of what I’m preparing, but there’s still too much to do, and every detail matters. Tomorrow, everything changes.

The ballroom comes next. Its vast emptiness yawns before me, the polished floor gleaming under the faint light filtering through the windows. There’s a light coating of dust everywhere, but I can see the faint tracks and scuffs her shoes left behind.

I move to position the cameras, high in the corners, hidden amongst the ornate carvings, where they’ll remain invisible, but all-seeing.

The room feels alive in a way it hasn’t for years. A smile tugs at my lips. Soon, she’ll be back. And this time, I’ll capture it all. Every leap, every twist.

Once the ballroom is ready, I move through the house, my laptop balanced on my arm, checking each camera feed. Screens come to life, each one showing a piece of my world—my territory. The ballroom, the darkroom, the hallways, the woods outside. All ready for her.

But there’s more to do.

The chill hits me as I step outside. The woods loom around me, branches thick and tangled, hiding secrets. Perfect for what’s coming. The ground crunches beneath my boots as I secure the cameras in chosen spots. These lenses will catch everything. The way her eyes will widen, the quickening of her breath, the realization that she’s not alone. That she’s being hunted.

The final camera clicks into place, and I step back, surveying the scene. The air is still, the leaves rustling softly overhead, the world holding its breath. It’s perfect. This is where she’ll understand—here, on my grounds, where every step she takes is mine to control.

I close my eyes, imagining her here. The tension in her body, the fire in her gaze dimmed by fear, the way her lips will partwhen she senses me. The thought settles deep within me, a thrill so visceral it leaves my skin humming.

I turn and head back inside.

Halfway up the stairs, my phone buzzes. The screen lights up with a name I haven't seen in weeks.

Mother.

I hesitate. Ignore it? Answering her means engaging with their world, where appearance and performance matter more than reality. Maybe I should let her wonder where I am, what I’m doing? It’s what they do to me. But habit wins, and I accept the call.

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