Page 6 of Butterfly

And god, why did Ilikeit?

“Maybe I do,” I said, breathless. If I hadn’t already lost my breath, I would’ve at the look in his eyes—intense and, if I wasn’t wrong, lustful.

He moved deeper into my space, wrapping a hand in my hair and pulling it back, and back, and back, so even though he was so much taller than me, I stared straight at him.

“Careful, butterfly. Or I’ll really think you want to play with me.”

There was a promise in his eyes, and I considered testing it, discovering what it was.

Fortunately, rational Leslie woke up and screamed at me to get the hell out of there. Take option one, like I should have earlier.

So I did, running out the door, the sound of people’s laughter following—as well as Mason’s inexplicable growl.

2

LESLIE

It didn’t take long for Mason’s games to begin.

They were tiny things at first: My contact solution going missing, then my car keys. The music was even louder the following night, but I didn’t bother going back down there to tell him to turn it down. Instead, I threw myself into dance, finding a studio within easy driving distance and signing up for classes. Dance was my version of self-care, even as it slowly destroyed my body. The blisters, the bruised toes and broken toenails, the physical strain and exhaustion—it was all worth it, for those moments when I lost myself in the music and became someone else: strong, powerful, beautiful. I loved that version of me.

Which was why I was so angry that morning.

I had a pointe class, my first since the wedding and the move. It seemed like a good way to get out of the house until our parents got home the next day. I didnotwant to be late to ballet. Instructors were notorious for holding grudges, especially regarding tardiness. And even though I was only going to be in Westchester for a few months, I wanted to make a good firstimpression. My reputation meant everything to me, and so did the approval of authority figures. Daddy issues, and all that.

I rolled my eyes at my thoughts as I bent down to pick up my pointe shoes from the corner of the room, only to immediately drop them.

They were soaking wet.

And slimy.

And covered in a white, viscous liquid that—I picked one up between my forefinger and thumb and carefully, warily, took a sniff—yup, smelled like sour sex.

My lungs went tight.

It was semen.

Mason—or one of his friends, but something about it made me sure it was Mason—had jacked off on my pointe shoes.

Who did something like that?!

I slammed out of my room, carefully holding the shoes in their only dry spot, ready to confront the nasty motherfucker and throw them at his head.

Only to slam to stop.

Sure, I could yell at him, but what good would that do? He’d only know he’d gotten to me.

No, I needed to get even. That motherfucker had destroyed something I loved. It was time I did the same to him.

I tossed the toe shoes in the trash, then grabbed my backup pair from the closet, checking my phone. If I hurried, I’d make it.

And then, after class, I was going to make a trip to the grocery store before returning to homesweethome.

“What the fuck is this?”

Mason’s usually icy, level voice rose to a low roar as he slapped a noxious smelling object down on the kitchen counter.

“I think that’s a dead fish,” I told him helpfully as I continued to chop a cucumber.

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