Page 64 of In Shadows We Dance

Why can’t I exist like other people do?

Why do I have to hide?

Why can’t I live?

But the words get stuck in my throat. I force myself to smile. “I’m just tired.”

The afternoon drags on, each minute stretching into the next, each second an echo of the emptiness around me. I try to focus on a book, but find myself staring into space. Homework sits unfinished. I have nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to talk to.

The distance I’ve kept from the world isn’t a shield. It’s a cage, and I’m trapped inside it, isolated and empty.

And beneath it all is a truth I don’t want to acknowledge.

I miss him.

The thought comes unbidden, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force it away. But it’s there, stubborn and relentless.

I miss him.

I hate how much I crave it—how much I cravehim. The danger, the intensity, the way he makes me feel like I'm his, like I'm meant to be his.

Night falls too quickly, shadows creeping across my room. I leave my bedroom long enough to have dinner, to clean up afterward, to take a shower. My body goes through the motions while my mind is stuck on him. I double-check the window locks, draw the curtains tight, and lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

But it’s not just Wren. It’s everything.

I can’t stop thinking about that couple on the street, about the bright dresses I’ll never dare to buy, about what they might have done once they got home. The way her laughter might have turned into soft gasps, the way they might have tangled together, their bodies moving in rhythm, lost in each other. I think about all the ways I’ve made myself small, invisible, denying myself that kind of connection.

About how Wren strips those layers away, piece by piece, with just a look—how his eyes seem to reach inside me, peeling back everything I use to protect myself, leaving me defenseless. The hunger in his gaze, the way it promises danger and ecstasy, makes my pulse race, my body tighten in anticipation.

Maybe it wasn’t the orange juice that caught his attention. Maybe he saw how desperately I tried not to be seen. Or maybe … maybe he saw something in me. Something that I’ve never let myself see. A spark of hope, a longing to be free of these walls I’ve built. I want it. I want to feel alive, to be touched, to be wanted. And yet, I’m scared of what it means, scared of what I might lose if I step into the light. But the need is there, growing, twisting inside me, impossible to ignore.

Sleep is restless, broken by flashes of dreams. Dark eyes locked on mine, hands gripping my wrists, holding me down, hot breath against my skin. His face, the intensity in his eyes as he leans closer, the weight of his body pressing against mine. A shiver runs through me, a mix of fear and desire that makes me press my thighs together.

His hands explore, fingers trailing down my sides, igniting a desperate, aching need. The dizzying thrill of being truly seen, ofbeing wanted, consumes me. My heart hammers against my ribs, each heartbeat a reminder that I'm alive, that I'm here, that I crave more than just to exist.

I want to be touched, claimed. I want to lose myself in the heat of him.

A noise wakes me. The prickle of awareness skates over my skin, and my eyes snap open.

A shadow moves.

“Hello, pretty Ballerina. Did you miss me?”

CHAPTER 34

Hunter's Obsession

WREN

The first photographI take of Ileana with my new camera is through her bedroom window at dawn—the curve of her shoulder as she sleeps, unaware that I've already claimed her day as mine. The camera captures every detail perfectly. The slight furrow between her brows, how her fingers curl into the sheets.

My hands shake slightly as I lower the camera. The urge to break in, to wake her, to start the day's events early is hard to resist. But patience is part of the hunt. The most rewarding part. First, I want to document how thoroughly I'm getting to her.

She emerges from her building at eight-thirty. Something about the way she moves today sets my blood on fire. She seems different. Less a ghost, more a girl beginning to question her chains. My camera captures every subtle rebellion. Her slightly straighter spine, the way she catches her reflection in store windows, how her gaze lingers on people who dare to exist without apology.

I follow her at a distance, my camera documenting her transformation.

Click. The way her eyes watch a passing couple, curiosity clear on her face.

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