Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
I need a focal point. Something steady in my spinning world.
My eyes sweep the balcony, searching. There—a figure against the far wall. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Perfectly still in a sea of shifting bodies. Even in the shadows, he commands attention. Angular features carved from marble. A darkness that has nothing to do with the lighting.
I prepare. I spot. I turn.
One. The figure doesn't move.
Two. Three. Four. Absolute stillness.
Five. Six. Seven. My axis holds true.
Eight. Nine. He might be a statue.
Ten.
I land in the fourth position as the music swells to its conclusion. The applause erupts like thunder, washing over me in waves. Roses rain onto the stage—red as blood, red as victory. My cheeks ache from smiling. Everything I've dreamed of, everything I've bled for, it's here. It's mine.
"Stunning performance, my dear!" Backstage, Madame Durant sweeps me into a whirlwind of congratulations. "And those pirouettes—your strongest yet!"
She guides me through the crowd with strategic precision. "Come now, there are important figures who want to meet you. People who can make your dance dreams come true."
I shake hands, accept compliments, and make the right sounds at the right times. But my mind keeps drifting to that still figure on the balcony. My anchor. My focal point.
By the time the reception ends, exhaustion weighs on me like a lead blanket. I gather my things from the dressing room—street clothes pulled over my tights, pointe shoes tucked in my bag. The adrenaline fades, leaving only the ache in my feet and the lingering taste of copper in my mouth.
The backstage area is nearly empty now. A few stagehands moving set pieces. The ghost light standing sentinel on the empty stage. I head for the stage door, eager for home and a hot bath.
A sound stops me. Rustling from the wings.
Madame's training kicks in automatically. Always congratulate your fellow performers. Manners are what separate us from the beasts.
I change direction, stepping into the dimly lit wing space. "Beautiful show tonight—"
The words die in my throat.
A man stands in the shadows, his back to me. Broad shoulders. Tall frame. The same silhouette I'd used as my focal point. But it's what's at his feet that steals my breath.
A body. One of our male dancers—Kyle? Kevin? He'd only joined the company last month. Blond hair now dark with blood. Throat opened in a second smile. So much red spreading across the black floor.
The man turns.
Steel blue eyes meet mine. Angular face, sharp as a blade. Beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful. A knife drips in his hand, catching the ghost light like a ruby pendant.
We stare at each other. Predator and witness. Devil and dancer.
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. It was my best chance at escape, since surely I was faster and lighter on my feet than the figure behind me.