Page 73 of In Shadows We Dance

When the water turns cold, I step out, wrapping a towel around myself and staring at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror. My lips are red, sensitive, and I hate that part of me finds it exciting. My skin is flushed, not just from the heat of the water, but from the memory of his touch.

I press my fingers to my lips, my body buzzing with the echoes of him. It disgusts me. It thrills me. And I hate myself for feeling both.

I try to ignore the heat that still lingers low in my stomach, the way my body remembers every touch, every kiss, and head back to my room. The sheets are cold as I crawl into bed, wrapping myself tightly in them, trying to shut everything out, to make myself small enough to forget.

But sleep refuses to come. Every time I close my eyes, I see the photographs he took—revealed, aching, wanting. A version of me I can’t recognize, a stranger who let herself be stripped and ravaged without a fight. The images are seared into my mind, one after the other. Pieces of me, moments that no one else should ever see.

The memory of standing half-naked on the street, letting him touch me where anyone could see, stretched out in his car withhis hands on me, sends a wave of arousal through me, even as shame twists my stomach. It makes no sense. This pull he has over me, this need I can't suppress. He’s infected me, and now I’m left grappling with parts of myself he’s awakened. Parts I didn’t want to acknowledge. Parts that scare me.

I curl up tighter, pressing my face into my pillow, trying to silence the war inside me. The clash between fear and desire, disgust and need. I tell myself I hate him. Hate the way he makes me feel, the way he’s shattered every defense I’ve built. But the truth, the one I can’t escape, is that I don’t want him to stop. I crave the way he looks at me, like I’m something he’ll never let go of. The way he makes me feel visible, real. And that, more than anything, terrifies me.

Sunday passes in a haze of anxiety. I wake late, my body aching, my mind racing with thoughts I can’t silence. Every attempt to focus on something else—homework, chores, the book I’ve been reading—falls apart. My thoughts always circle back to him.

The way his hands moved over me, his voice, the way he looked at me like I was something he owned.

The way I let him.

The memory sends a shiver through me that I can’t control, and I force myself to push it down, to bury it under layers of shame.

Dad notices. He always does.

“You’ve been acting odd all day.” His tone is probing, as he watches me across the kitchen table. “What’s going on?”

I keep my gaze down, pushing the food around on my plate. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired. School is hard right now.”

His eyes narrow, and I can feel him scrutinizing me, dissecting every word. “Do I need to speak to the principal?”

My stomach twists. “No! It’s nothing like that.” I try to keep my voice even, but the bite in my tone makes his eyes narrow further.

“You’re hiding something.” His voice is calm, deliberate. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

My chest tightens, panic rising. Does he know? Can he tell what I let Wren do to me? “No,” I say quickly, too quickly. “I swear. I’m just tired. There’s a lot of homework. Tests coming up.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re lying.”

My heart skips a beat. “No. I swear. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

He leans back in his chair, his eyes still on me. “If you are, and I find out, there will be consequences. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The words are automatic, a habit ingrained in me since childhood.

He lets it drop, but the tension remains as I scrape my plate into the trash and retreat to my room. My hands are trembling as I close the door behind me, leaning against it for support.

Lying to him is easy. Too easy. It’s a skill I’ve honed over years of keeping myself invisible, of making sure he never has a reason to look too closely.

But this feels different. The lies feel heavier, harder to carry.

Wren’s words echo in my mind.

No more hiding.

He broke through every defense I’ve built, shattered years of careful walls with nothing more than a touch, a whisper, a look.

And I let him.

I hate myself for it. For the way I wanted him, even when I knew better. For the way my body still hums with the memory of his touch, the way I can’t seem to shake the desire he’s awakened in me. I try to push it down, to bury it under the shame, but it’s there, stubborn and unyielding. A part of me that wants him, that wants more, even though I know it’s dangerous. Even though I know he’s dangerous.

I drop onto my bed, my hands curling into the blanket as my thoughts spiral. I think about the way I melted under his touch, the way my body arched into him, the way I gasped for him like he was something I couldn’t survive without. The way I let him touch me and photograph me without resistance.

---