Page 72 of In Shadows We Dance

Her eyes flutter open, and meet mine, wide and uncertain, but there's no mistaking the heat that’s replaced her fear.

“Do you see?”

“I don’t …” She shakes her head.

“You don’t what?” I push a finger inside her, and she gasps. “Don’t want this? Or don’t want to admit that you do?”

Her hand finds my wrist, fingers wrapping around it, nails digging into me as her body begins to move in time with my fingers thrusting in and out of her. The tension holding her taut changes, is replaced by a new kind. Her hips tilt, chasing my fingers, and a soft moan escapes her lips.

“Oh god …” The words catch in her throat.

“Do you want to come?” My fingers pump steadily, sliding in and out of her body. My thumb finds her clit, sweeping over it in a matching rhythm, and she whimpers, arching into me.

Her cheeks flush, her back bows, and her teeth sink into her bottom lip. Her nipples, hard and pointed, tempt me, and I shiftposition so I can suck one into my mouth, tongue flicking over the tip once … twice … before I take it between my teeth and bite gently, tugging upwards until it pulls free.

“You’re mine, Ileana. Every inch of you, every fear, every desire. All of it belongs to me now.”

CHAPTER 37

Aftermath

ILEANA

The car ridehome is a blur. My body feels foreign, my skin hypersensitive to every brush of fabric, every shift in position. His cologne clings to me, mingling with the faint metallic scent of the camera he used to immortalize every humiliating moment. I can still feel him—his hands, his mouth, the way he coaxed responses out of me that I didn’t know I was capable of.

And the worst part? I let him.

When he stops the car in front of my building, my stomach is twisted into knots. I open the door and step out, my legs shaking and unsteady, but he’s right there, following me, his presence looming behind me like a shadow I can’t shake. I don't turn around, but I can feel his gaze burning into my back as I walk toward my window.

At the last moment, he grabs my wrist, pulling me back to face him. His eyes lock onto mine with that relentless intensity, the kind that makes my heart race and my chest tighten.

“Remember, pretty Ballerina. Monday. Six A.M. The dance studio. No more hiding.”

His lips brush against mine, and I respond without thinking, leaning into him like he’s the only anchor keeping me upright. My hands press against his chest, his heat seeping into my skin. When he finally pulls away, I feel unsteady, like the ground beneath me has shifted, leaving me scrambling to find balance.

I climb back in through the window, my body still buzzing from everything he did to me. From the orgasms he coaxed out of me. From the confusion, the fear, and then undeniable desire.It's the first time I've let anyone touch me like that. The first time I’ve let myself want it.

Or is that what happened?DidI let him? I didn’t have a choice, did I? He forced me, didn’t he? I couldn’t fight him. But the memory of the way I gasped for him, the way I arched into his touch, the way I begged without using words tells a different story.

My bedroom feels different now. Like Wren’s presence has altered the air, twisting it with something dark and potent that I can't shake. The room that used to be my refuge feels almost alien, a place where I can no longer hide. Every familiar object—my bed, the posters on my walls, the neatly stacked books on my desk—seems to be touched by his energy. I swear I can smell him—a mix of cologne and something primal, like his need has soaked into the walls.

My skin still burns where he touched me, where his mouth claimed me. It's like the ghost of him lingers, tracing over my skin, reminding me how easily I bent to him. I close my eyes, and I'm back there—his fingers on my hip, between my legs, his breath against my neck, the click of the camera capturing my weakness.

The urge to shed my skin, to escape his touch, drives me to move. I listen carefully for any creak of a floorboard, making sure my parents aren't awake. The apartment is silent, and I creep down the hallway, my heart pounding, until I reach the bathroom. I shut the door behind me, lock it, and let out a shaky breath, tears stinging my eyes.

I peel off my clothes, hands trembling as I drop each piece to the floor. My shirt clings to me, damp with sweat, and I hate it. It feels like his hands are still on me, his fingerprints stamped into the fabric.

The water scalds my skin as I step into the shower, twisting the handle until the heat burns away everything else. I scrub my arms, my chest, everywhere his hands touched, but it’s not enough. I can still feel him, his breath on my neck, his fingers exploringevery part of me, the click of the camera capturing my surrender.

Surrender.

I shake my head, leaning into the spray. No. It wasn’t surrender. He didn’t give me a choice. He orchestrated every moment, forced me to react, to feel things I didn’t want to feel.

But that’s a lie, isn’t it? Did I give in? Or did he take it from me?

I clench my fists, the water streaming down my face, mixing with the tears I can’t hold back anymore. I wanted it. Not at first, but at some point, I did. And that’s the part I can’t escape.

The steam fills the small bathroom, fogging up the mirror, and I wish I could disappear into it. Dissolve until there's nothing left of his touch. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop feeling him, the imprint he’s left behind.

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