Page 74 of In Shadows We Dance

My throat tightens, my stomach twisting with the memory.What kind of person does that make me?

What kind of person craves theattention of someone who sees me as a possession, as something to be captured and kept?

I tell myself I hate him. I tell myself I had no choice. That he forced me.

But the truth, the one I can’t escape no matter how hard I try, is that I didn’t stop him.

I didn’t stop him because I didn’t want to.

CHAPTER 38

Obsession's Gallery

WREN

The darkroom’sred light bathes everything in a bloody glow. I haven’t slept. I’ve spent all night coaxing moments from paper, watching her emerge from the chemical bath—each print more intoxicating than the last. Moments she wishes she could forget. Moments I will make sure she never can.

Her shock at finding me in her room.

Her trembling surrender outside her window.

The way fear and desire danced together in her eyes, her pulse racing beneath my fingers as I kept her on the edge.

The moment she came in the car, her body writhing under my touch, her eyes wide as I captured every second with my camera.

Now I’m in my bedroom, photographs strewn across the desk in front of me. They’re carefully arranged to tell a story—the evolution of my claim. Candid shots of her dancing, her body arching in exquisite lines when she thought she was alone. Walking home, head down, shoulders curled inward. And then, last night, her surrender bathed in moonlight, each frame capturing another piece of her—the invisible girl I’m dragging into the light.

"Beautiful." I lift one of the photographs. Her eyes are locked on the camera, her hair wild around her shoulders, lips swollen from my kiss. Every part of her I want to possess is frozen forever in a single frame.

But it’s not enough. This is just the beginning.

"Have you slept at all?" Monty’s voice interrupts from the doorway. He leans against the frame, eyes scanning the gallery I’ve created. His expression shifts as he takes in the sheer scope of it. The photographs, and the detailed plans.

"I’ll sleep when everything’s perfect." I glance at him, myfingers tracing the edge of a photograph where moonlight caught the fear in her eyes. A smile curls my lips as I pick up my favorite. Ileana, outside her window, half-naked under the streetlight’s glow. The longing on her face, the parting of her lips. She doesn’t even realize how much she’s already given me.

"Jesus, Wren," Monty says, his voice quieter now. "You’ve never been this focused before. This is … intense."

"She has layers no one else does." I trace her silhouette. "Everyone else is shallow, predictable. Boring. But her? She’s been taught to fade, to hide. And now ..."

"Now she’s yours?"

"Not yet." I smooth the crease my fingers made on the edge of the photograph. No marks. Not until I choose to leave them. "But she will be. Every photograph, every stolen moment—they’re all steps toward making her crave my attention more than she fears it."

Monty steps closer, his gaze sweeping over the photographs pinned to the wall. His brows furrow as his attention lands on a sequence of her, captured mid-dance.

"You’ve been busy," he mutters, a touch of unease creeping into his voice.

"You knew what this was the moment it started."

"Yeah, but this?" He gestures toward the photographs, the meticulous plans spread across the desk. "You’ve taken it to another level."

"She demands it," I reply, my voice even. "Every layer of her needs to be uncovered, revealed. That takes time and dedication."

Monty doesn’t reply immediately, his jaw tightening. He picks up a photograph—one I chose for its relative innocence—and studies it.

"Where’s this heading?" he asks eventually, setting the photograph back down. "You’ve never done anything like this before."

"Because no one else has been worth it. Come see what I’vedone with the rooms."

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