Page 87 of In Shadows We Dance

More photographs fall from between my books as I gather them. Me in the dance studio last week, lost in movement. Walking home yesterday, unaware of being watched. Standing at my window the night before, my shirt riding up as I reached to close the curtains.

Heat floods my cheeks. He was there, watching, before I invited him in. Before his hands claimed me, before his mouth?—

"Morning, Ghost Girl."

I jump at Monty's voice, somehow both frustrated and relieved that it isn't Wren. He leans against the locker next to mine, eyes scanning the photographs I'm still holding.

"He's been busy." Monty's smirk suggests he knows exactly what happened after these were taken. "You should see his collection."

My face burns hotter. "What does he want?"

"You already know." His eyes move to my throat where Wren's mark is fading. "He wants to own you." He pushes off the locker. "And from what I hear, you're not exactly fighting it anymore."

I should feel ashamed. Should feel scared. Instead, something else unfurls in my stomach—dark and hungry and impossible to ignore. Because he's right. I'm not fighting it. Not anymore.

First period brings more photographs tucked into my textbook. Each one more intimate than the last. Me biting my lip as I searched the darkness outside my window. The way my hands gripped the windowsill. The exact moment I placed the rose—his invitation to enter my room, my life, my world.

But it's his note that makes my pulse race.

You're not invisible anymore, Ballerina. You never were. Not to me.

The words carry a promise that makes me shiver. Tomorrow, he'd said. Tomorrow he'd tell me everything. So, where is he?

In Chemistry, another photograph falls into my lap. This one's different, taken through my bedroom window. I'm sleeping, curled on my side, completely unaware of his lens capturing the moment. The image should disturb me, but instead it sends a spark of excitement through my body.

More images appear throughout the morning. Each new photograph is from the past week. Since that day I spilled juiceon him. Since the moment I accidentally caught his attention. The earliest ones are simple shots of me walking through halls or sitting in class, but they progress to more intimate moments. Evidence of how quickly and thoroughly he's inserted himself into my life. How completely he sees me when I've spent so long being invisible.

Between classes, I catch glimpses of him in the hallway. Just for a moment—a tall figure in black, watching me with that predatory stillness that makes my blood run hot. But whenever I try to find him, he's gone.

He's playing with me. Letting me know he's always there, always watching. Always one step ahead.

But for the first time, I'm not sure I want to run anymore.

I want answers.

I want truth.

I wanthim.

By lunch, I'm wound so tight with anticipation that my hands shake. The cafeteria doors loom ahead, and I hesitate. Part of me wants to retreat to the library, to hide in the stacks where I'm safe from stares and whispers. Where I can pretend last night didn't happen.

But before I can turn away, a warm hand catches my wrist. My heart stutters as Wren steps close behind me, his chest pressing against my back.

"Going somewhere, Ballerina?"

His breath stirs my hair, and memories of last night flood back. His fingers inside me, the way he made me come while my mother stood outside my door. Heat rushes to my face.

"I—"

"No more hiding." His grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to make his point. Then he's guiding me forward, through the doors, and straight to the center table. His territory.

I try to pull away, panic rising as heads turn to watch us. But his arm snakes around my waist, and before I can protest, hedrops into his usual seat and pulls me into his lap.

"Wren—" My voice catches as his hands settle on my hips.

"Shhh." His lips brush my ear. "Everyone is watching."

I sit stiffly in his lap, caught between wanting to run and being unable to move. His presence surrounds me, overwhelming my senses, making it impossible to think clearly. Every stare from the other students feels like a physical touch, stripping away the invisibility I've relied on for so long.

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