Page 81 of The Devil and His Goddess

Fine, fine, fine.

“Morning,” Perseus started. His usual upbeat and charming voice was deep and flat now. There was a certain angry undertone as he spoke, and the people around me shifted nervously, not used to that sort of tone from him. “Today marks the third week of practice, which means three more weeks before opening night forDancing in the Dark.”

The many ballerinas and danseurs clapped timidly, like they worried too much excitement might set off their boss, who was strangely firm today. I kept my gaze fixated on the floor and waited to feel that same bubbling excitement that came from a moment like this. I waited to feel my smile stretch across my face or to feel determination set in. But instead, there was … nothing. I was empty. Hollow. Numb.

“I won’t take up anymore time talking,” Perseus said. “Let’s get practice underway.”

Those not dancing yet lined the back wall while those of us opening practice got in position in the room. We were beginning with practice for Act Three, because it was one of the pieces that would take the most work as it was the grand celebration among all of the Dark Wood beings, Psyche, and Malak.

Practice began with the corps de ballet entering and dancing. Perseus looked every bit like a man studying his dancers with his arms crossed and fingers braced under his mouth. But I knew him. Even while his green eyes appeared focused, there was a distance there, and I knew that, much like myself, he couldn’t be further from this room.

The répétiteurs called out reminders and corrections, and as the music neared the end of the opening set, I took a deep breath and accepted Elijah’s hand. Brittle ice zipped through my fingers and up my arm, nearly making me yank my hand back. I managed to keep it where it was. Elijah and I entered the center of the corps de ballet, ending the set with our joined hands held in the air. But there was no smile on my face. My eyes were too large, face too pale, and mouth deflated.

A fact that was pointed out quietly to me by Delilah, though she did so almost cautiously. I accepted the criticism with a robotic nod.

The corps de ballet took their corrections from the répétiteurs while Perseus remained a silent statue against the wall. Glances were cast his way in search of his reaction, but he gave none. The corps de ballet moved aside to give space for the start of the next set—mine and Elijah’s first of two pas de deux for the third act.

Every pair of eyes swung in my direction, but none seared into my very soul like those emerald ones. I couldn’t bring myself to catch them. I worried if I did, I’d crumble. Something dark and consuming was already trying to weave its way through my chest with the sharpness of briars. I had to ignore it. I had to focus on this dance and nothing else.

Drake doesn’t exist.

What he did to me doesn’t exist.

The pain doesn’t exist.

I’m fine.

As the music poured from the speakers, and Elijah and I began our slow and romantic start to the pas de deux, any hope I had of losing myself in the performance vanished.

The first sign that something was wrong was my face.

The scene we were meant to paint was one of merriment and passion, two lovers finally coming together and displaying their love for all the court to see. That couldn’t be further from what you saw when watching me. Instead of exuberance, there was emptiness. Instead of love in the way Elijah and I touched, there was stiffness. No matter how deep I dug inside of myself for that power, my fingers grasped at nothing. There was no emotion for me to pull at, no feeling to put into even the faintest of movements in my body.

Then came the second sign that something was wrong.

Every time Elijah and I made physical contact—which was nearly every step—the barbs piercing my insides cut deeper. The music, the technique of the dance, the emotion belonging to such a joyous and empowering scene couldn’t be farther from my mind. Only one word fired off inside me.

Stop.

A cold sweat broke out along my skin as I entered into the fourteen pirouette sequence with Elijah. His left hand braced on my hip as I went onto one leg, and the contact made a burst of panic bloom in my gut.

Stop.

I spun in his hold, yet the glee I should’ve worn on my face was twisted with rising discomfort. My reflection in the mirror whizzed by as I forced my body to keep going, to keep fighting the alarm bells growing louder inside of me.

Stop.

Elijah’s hands tightened on my waist as I finished the last pirouette by going into arabesque. Breath control, especially with a demanding set like what we practiced now, was vital, but the minute my leg raised, opening my center up, I couldn’t seem to find the ability to breathe any longer.

Stop.

Elijah braced my waist as I bent forward for my leg to raise in an arabesque penché. My stomach twisted with fresh nausea as his palms clutched me, and suddenly, I couldn’t see the floor past flashes of buried images.

“Stop,” I croaked, the miniscule plea deaf to all under the sound of the music.

Elijah straightened me, but it wasn’t him I saw in the reflection of the mirror. The tall danseur had grown shorter, his small frame hidden inside of dark clothes. It wasn’t Silverlight, full of coworkers and friends, around me. I now stood alone in my home ballet studio with a monster at my back. When I spun to brace a hand on my partner’s shoulder while clutching his hand in the other, it wasn’t rich eyes and flawless brown skin I saw. Giddy eyes framed in freckles and a slimy grin of crooked teeth set into a face I’d never forget met mine.

“Stop,” I whimpered with a small shake of my head. My lip began to tremble, and I fell off pointe.

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