Page 5 of Blossom in Shadows

She gives a curt nod and then turns so quickly that when I reach out for her, my hands only find air. She moves fast, faster than my mind can catch up to what is happening. Then she’s gone.

I find a smile curving my lips. She can run. I’ll find her and it won’t take me long. She has no idea she’s caught the eye of the most powerful man in the city, but she’ll know soon enough. I’ll watch her bloom in the darkness which surrounds me and the pain she tries so hard to mask.

Zinnia. My queen.

CHAPTER 3

ZINNIA

My heart is pounding in my chest and not because of the audition. It’s all him. I don’t even know his name, but I know how it feels to have his eyes searing every inch of my body. I know what it’s like to move in front of him while finding a sense of bliss I haven’t felt in six months, longer if I’m being honest with myself.

I don’t know if I got the job, but somehow, whether I did or not is a distant concern. The man with hazel eyes and gravel for a voice was the only thing I could think about as I left Sala. I was moving faster than my knee should have allowed. I didn’t even acknowledge the huge man at the door as he nodded at me.

Even now, as I sit in the safety of my apartment, knowing I should make something to eat or do anything other than stare into space, the only thing which comes to mind is the heat in those eyes. He looked at me as if he wanted to devour me.

It’s not the first time a man has shown interest in me, far from it, but this was different. His eyes on me were a brand against my skin, painful and alluring. I’ve never felt something like that before.

It’s been more than six months since I’ve been with a man. Even then it was always a short fling. Men would want me, but then they would find out they weren’t the center of my universe. No man wanted to compete against pointe shoes and rehearsal times. Their eyes would glaze over when I spoke about my passion for dance.

Was that when my love for dance started to wane? When did it make me feel isolated? I ignored the way it rankled me how men would love the way my body moved, but not the years of sacrifice that gave me the fluidity they seemed to eat up.

That’s why I stopped even trying to date and, instead, would sometimes go out and pick someone up for a night of fun. It was easier that way and then I wouldn’t be let down. Dance was my mistress and it let me down enough as I tried to make something of myself in a world which was never made for dreamers and only brought heartache.

Since my injury, men have been the last thing on my mind. I felt like my body betrayed me and I have been grieving the death of my future. There was no room for a man in all my pain.

But this man, in the matter of minutes, had my body lighting up and responding in ways I don’t remember it ever doing before. I can’t explain it and it frightens me down to the center of myself.

Reginetta.

That’s what he called me. I blink for the first time in what feels like forever and push aside the memory of his hazel eyes. When I grab my phone and look it up, I find myself fighting a smile, but then it falls quickly as I scowl.

Little queen.

I am no queen. I’m broken. Whatever crown I could wear upon my head would be tarnished by disappointment.

The banging on my door makes me jump and yelp, which does not help me keep a low profile if I wanted to pretend that I’m not here. Fuck. I look at the door and watch as the force of the knocks shakes it, even against the row of locks and reinforcements.

My apartment is a shithole. I know it, but it is what it is and what I can afford. Well, could afford, but even that is becoming questionable at this point.

“Zinnia,” the voice which has been haunting me for the last few hours is on the other side of the door and my breathing quickens. “I know you’re in there. Open the door,” he growls.

I don’t move. In fact, I do the opposite and settle back into the couch more. I have so many questions. How did he find out where I live? Why is he here? Who the fuck is he?

None of those questions will be answered as long as I don’t open the door. However, I’ve lived in New York long enough to know not to open the fucking door when a man is banging on it and demanding for me to open it.

Yeah, no. I know how this ends, and it isn’t with glitter and rainbows.

I try and pull my legs up, but my knee, which I have put too much stress on today, protests. Pain shoots through me like lightning and I bite my lip so I don’t make a sound. Not a whimper. Not a shout. Nothing.

I absorb the pain. I’ve done it so many other times. This is no different.

“Open the door.” His voice takes on a threatening quality, “Last warning.”

What the fuck does that mean? Last warning? He’s going to go away?

Before I can contemplate farther, the door bursts open. It was always a shitty door which is why I put lock after lock on it, but even those were no match for this man.

I guess that answers my question about what he was warning me about.

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