Page 3 of Devil of Vegas

I should scream. I should run. I should do something, anything, but I'm frozen like a butterfly pinned to velvet. Those eyes hold me more surely than any hands could.

He takes a step toward me.

The spell breaks.

I run. My dance bag hits the floor as I sprint for the stage door, shoes slapping against wood, then concrete, then asphalt. Behind me, footsteps—calm, measured, inevitable. He's not running. He doesn't need to.

The night swallows me whole. I don't know where I'm going, only away from here. My lungs burn. My legs scream. A lifetime of training means nothing now. Grace is useless. Beauty is irrelevant. There is only prey and predator, and I am so very clearly prey.

Footsteps echo closer. How is he gaining on me when he's only walking?

An arm snakes around my waist, yanking me backward. I open my mouth to scream, but a cloth covers my face. Something sweet fills my lungs.

The world tilts. My knees buckle.

As darkness creeps in from the edges, dragging me down, I have one last absurd thought:

Blood has no place in ballet.

CHAPTER 1

ISLA

Idon’t dream often. And when I do, I usually wake up wishing that I hadn’t.

That’s because my dreams seem to pull from the same corner of subconscious memories that I’d rather forget. This dream is no different. Fear and helplessness fill my foster sister’s eyes while she’s dragged down the hall by her ponytail in the house we shared. Our foster parents wanted the house to look perfect from the outside, and it did. On the inside, it was the place of unspeakable acts, things that were done to her and not to me.

To this day, I still wonder why they forced her into trafficking, while they expected me to smile, nod, and pretend everything was okay. I thought that once we left that house and returned to the group home, her horrific experiences would end. But I was wrong. And it was then that I learned how to survive alone.

The last thing that I remember after running out of the theatre and onto the street last night is the sound of footsteps behind me. Ignoring whoever was behind me, I continued running. Itwas my best chance at escape, since surely I was faster and lighter on my feet than the figure behind me.

I half-expect to open my eyes now and wake up back in my bed, in my apartment. Remembering the sensation of a damp cloth on my face and the force of an arm encircling my chest, dragging me back on the street, I conclude I didn’t make it.

So much for my escape.

The luxurious softness of silk sheets is the first thing I notice, even before my eyes fully open. I can’t afford sheets like this, not yet anyway. I open my eyes slowly, giving space for the foggy, aching feeling in my head to subside a bit before attempting to sit up in bed.

The room all around me is foreign andstunning. In front of me, floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Vegas Strip. I must be at least a dozen floors or more above the city. And from the looks of the room that I’m in, this is averyexpensive place.

On the bed beside me, there’s a tray with a full glass of water and a bowl of freshly cut fruit. If I didn’t know better, I’d be tempted to think that this is all still a dream. But then the nightmare of whatactuallyhappened last night overrides my senses, and I panic.

I jump up from the bed, still reeling with fear and adrenaline, and examine my body for harm or worse. As far as I can tell, I’m completely fine. Scratch that—mybodyis completely fine, but my head is spinning, and my emotions are spiraling. My bun from the performance holds, though a few chestnut curls have escaped. I’m still in my theatre outfit. After a quick glance around to see that there’s no one in here with me, I go to the door and try to open it. I’m surprised when the handle turns easilyand prematurely relieved—untilI meet with the same eyes that locked with mine last night backstage.

“Good morning, Isla,” the man says as he steps inside the room, urging my body to back up as his fills the doorway with a lean but powerful build.

At any other time, such a man—tall, handsome, and with piercing steel-blue eyes that look straight through me—might take my breath away. But this is the same man that I just sawmurdersomeone.

His voice is calm and cool, and his presence is commanding. A blend of fear and curiosity stemming from my uncertainty. “Who are you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady and exude a confidence that I don’t feel. “Why am I here?”

He smiles, and I stare at his angular jawline as power drips from his momentary silence. I wonder ifI’mgoing to be his next kill and resist the urge to tremble, because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid. I read something once about predators in the wild being able tosmellfear.

“You saw something that you shouldn’t have seen,” he says coldly as he takes a step closer toward me. “And now you’re mine until I decide what to do with you.”

His assertion of control instantly triggers a response within me, not unlike the one I was just having in my dream before waking up here. I’m terrified, possibly facing death, yet I refuse to surrender. “People will be looking for me,” I assert. “Madame Durant will see my dance bag and she’ll wonder where I?—”

“That dance bag?” He asks as he points toward a chair in the corner of the room.

I turn to look and see not only my dance bag but also my tutu draped over the arm of the chair.

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