Maybe that’s why Damon treated me like I wasn’t made of glass. Maybe he knew.
I thought back to the boy in the fountain, bloody with a silent tear streaming down his face, because something—or many things—happened to him that he didn’t want to talk about, and now he was nearly a man who would never cry again and only made other people bleed.
I hated him, and I would never forgive him, but maybe we had that one thing in common. We had to change to survive.
Winter
Present
“Arms up!” Tara called out.
I reached up, leaping across the floor, the muscles in my back and shoulders stretching tight as I tilted my head back and my face toward the sky.
“There’s the energy!” she shouted. “Let me see it again! Good!”
I exhaled as I hit the ground again, my right foot landing on the border of sandpaper lining the perimeter of the “stage” to signal when I was within two feet of the edge. Beyond that, there was another six-inch-wide border to alert me I had no more room and to stop.
Sweat trickled down my back, and I swung around, veering right again as I stepped, glided, and then arched my back before coming up on one toe and stretching high for a moment’s pose and coming down again to continue the dance.
The music filled the room, my unconventional number of Nostalghia’s “Plastic Heart” choreographed by me and soon-to-be performed at nowhere for no one.
No one would hire me. I tried to stay positive, especially since I needed out of here more than ever, but it was getting harder and harder to not feel stupid for leaving college.
Tara was one of my instructors growing up, and I continued to rehearse at home, but I also came to the studio from time to time, since my father had paid for five hours a week for room rental until the end of the year. I didn’t want to use anything he left for me, but I sucked it up as an excuse to get out of the house. Damon hadn’t been back since the wedding days ago, but it was only a matter of time.
And I loved it here. I only thought about dancing here and nothing else.
This was where my earliest memories of dancing were, and I guessed I was luckier than some. There was a time I could see, and I’d had four years of ballet training before I lost my sight. I knew how pliés and arabesques felt and looked. I knew movements and steps, and I knew a little technique. I’d continued with a private trainer when I went to Montreal, even though I knew my prospects weren’t good for a career later on. I’d always known the reality.
I’d have a hard time in a chorus with other dancers and especially with a partner. It wasn’t impossible, but everything took longer to learn and not many would accept that challenge.
And I certainly wasn’t the first ballet dancer with a visual impairment, but I was the first in a five-hundred-mile radius. I held out hope. Someone had to start the phenomenon in other parts of the world. Why couldn’t we have it here, too? The only major problem was finding a company and a coach to take on the work.
I slowed with the music as the song ended and finished, bringing my arms down, wrists crossed in front of me, and fingers displayed gracefully. At least I hoped they looked graceful.
“Here,” Tara said. “Stay like that.”
Walking over, she ran her chilly fingers over the bend in my wrist.
“Straighten them,” she instructed. “Like this.”
And she took my hands and placed them on hers, which were in my ending pose. I ran my hands lightly over hers, feeling the bends in the joints of her fingers, the tendons on the backs of her hands, and the smooth line down her wrist to her arm, so I could emulate it.
“Thanks,” I told her, breathing hard.
I put my hands on my waist, my light, billowy top falling off one shoulder and baring some skin to the welcome cool air of the old, drafty building.
“Again?” she asked.
“What time is it?”
She paused a moment. “Almost five.”
I nodded. I had a half hour, so may as well soak it up before the money ran out.
I heard her steps as she walked over to restart the music, and I counted my own steps from the sandpaper glued to the floor to the center, finding my starting mark.
“You don’t have to stay,” I told her. “I have the driver. I’ll be fine.”
The Torrances insisted on our own personal drivers, and while we sporadically hired them for certain occasions growing up, we never kept any on the payroll. My sister loved the new perk. The new perk that came with her new name.
But I knew the ulterior motives behind the gesture. A driver reported our comings and goings to the one who paid them, so Gabriel and Damon were aware of our every move.
The driver was my leash.
“You know,” she started as the music began, “they offered to pay…for you to continue classes.”
I stopped. “What do you mean? Who?”
“Gabriel Torrance’s assistant called and said to have your classes billed to him,” she told me. “In case you’d like to get on the schedule again.”
She had guided me and offered feedback sporadically since my father left and I could no longer afford her. Bits here and there when she was on her way in or after a class had ended. Or like tonight when she was on her way out.
But this news of Gabriel’s offer was like a slap in the face. Another reminder that I was destitute and couldn’t have the things I’d been accustomed to.
Because of them.
Because of him. This was Damon’s idea.
No one else cared if I continued my dancing except him. He liked it. I was probably the only person who knew that he loved it, in fact. He’d watched me. I’d danced for him a lot before.
Fuck him.
I got back into position, lifting my chin, and craning my neck. “Can you restart the music?” I asked her, ending our conversation.
After a moment, the music cut off and restarted, and I began again, letting the volume of the song drown out everything else. The world swayed around me, and even though I couldn’t see it, I sensed everything.
The space. The scent of pine needles from last year’s Christmas tree. The cold bricks around me that I knew were there. The barre with chalk crusting the wood and the way the ceiling felt torn away and there were miles of sky above my head. I could reach and feel endless.
I was flying.
The singer’s voice burrowed into my stomach, and I broke away from my classical moves and let my hand fall down my body as I slowed, feeling every inch of my skin come alive. My feet ached in the pointe shoes, but my body was alive.
I closed my eyes, the strands of my hair spilling around me and tickling my face. My stomach flipped as I spun, and a smile twitched at the corners of my lips. God, I loved this. I was free here.
I wanted to see if you’d dance for me.
I slowed in my steps, hearing his voice in my head.
But then I picked up the pace again and slid into a closed position doing several échappés in a row as I moved my arms.
You’ll hate me.
I’ll love you.
We have to stop. Make me stop.
I can’t. I won’t.
And pressure hit down low, between my legs and making my stomach dip. I opened my mouth, filling it with the same, silent cry as that morning he was arrested as I twirled and twirled, tears stinging my eyes and hoping to spin the world so fast I’d lose sight of him in my head.
But then I lost my footing, hitting a piece of furniture as my leg slammed into wood and a sharp pain shot up my shin.
“Shit!” I exclaimed.
“Winter!” Tara called out.
I snapped my eyes open and growled, stumbling as my hand came down on the piano to steady myself.
The bench. The damn piano bench. Did I miss the markers on the floor?
“Whoa, I gotcha,” a male voice suddenly shouted. “I’m coming.”
Ethan? When did he get here?
The music cut off, and I hunched over, squeezing my
leg as the shooting pain throbbed harder and harder. I winced, blowing out a long breath as footsteps scurried across the wooden floor.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, steadying me under my arm, while Tara took my hand. “Come here.”
“It’s okay,” I blurted out, shaking my head and pissed at myself. “I haven’t done that in ages. What the hell?”’
Distracted. That’s what I’d been.
“Sit her down,” Tara told Ethan. “I’ll go find the first aid kit.”
I limped, but pulled myself up straight. “It’s in the bathroom. I’ll be fine.”
“But you’re bleeding.”
“And I know how to operate a Band-Aid.” I laughed through the pain. “Go home. Ethan will help me. See you in a couple days.”
I heard a little sigh as she debated on whether or not to make sure I was okay, but she knew this wasn’t new for me. I’d gone through my fair share of Band-Aids.
“Thanks for your help tonight,” I told her, slipping out of Ethan’s hand to grab hold of his arm instead. “Later.”
After a moment, I heard the shuffle of her feet and belongings as she picked up her jacket and bag. “Well, have a good night, then. I’ll text you later, okay?”
I nodded, guiding Ethan toward the direction of her voice to follow her out the door and toward the bathroom. He tried to put an arm around me, but I waved him off.
We pushed through the doors—Tara veering left to the exit and us heading right, toward the stairs.
“How long have you been here?” I asked him as we descended to the lower level.
“Just arrived,” he said. “I had a study group that went late, but I knew this might be the only chance to see you.”
Yeah. With the trouble on the road the other night, who knew if he’d be admitted to the house. And if he were, how would it play out once Damon came home.
Home. I held onto the railing as we took the stairs two flights down, still holding onto Ethan with my other hand. Damon—or his family—owned my home now, and while he’d been clearly sleeping elsewhere all the nights since the wedding, he could still come and go whenever he liked. Without knocking. Without permission. Without an invitation.
He controlled every key in the house. The realization curdled my stomach.
“Are you okay?” Ethan asked. “I mean…not just the leg.”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
I knew what he was worried about, and I was grateful for his concern, but he couldn’t help. And I wasn’t sure I would tell him if there was something to worry about.
“Don’t worry,” I assured.
I may not be able to handle Damon, but Ethan definitely couldn’t.
He led me to the women’s bathroom, knocking and calling out before we entered to make sure it was empty, and I walked in, releasing him and reaching for the wall to the left I knew was there. Coming around the corner, I found the sink counter and hopped up on it, immediately reaching for the paper towel holder.
Ethan reached for it, too, trying to help.
“I got it,” I told him. “Can you grab the first aid kit? It should be inside the box on the wall.”
While he walked over and lifted the lid, I wetted a couple paper towels and dabbed at the skin where it hurt. They said I was bleeding, but I had no idea how much.
I groaned as the cool water stung my cut. It was always the smallest things that hurt the most. Forming a little circle of claws, I dug my nails lightly into the skin surrounding the pain to deflect it a little. A trick my dad taught me when I was about six. The sharp ache eased a little, and I stayed like that for a moment, enjoying the slight reprieve.
“Hey, there’s nothing here,” Ethan called out. “Let me run upstairs and see if the girl at the desk has it.”
I nodded, not sure if he saw. The bathroom door creaked open and closed as he left, and I pulled the paper towels off, folded them, and re-applied them to my leg, leaning back on the mirror and closing my eyes.
What the hell was I going to do? I was twenty-one, no job prospects, and I was scared. I would never be free while he was alive, and there was still so much he could take from me. He was already heavily at work on my peace of mind.
He’d been out of prison for over a year before he made contact, and two years before he set his plan into motion. I’d gotten complacent in my sense of security, thinking he might’ve moved on. I was wrong.
My eyelids grew heavy, and my head started to float as the pain in my leg subsided. I yawned, letting the sleepiness take over. At least when I was tired, I couldn’t worry.
Just as I was about to nod off, propped up against the mirror, I heard the whine of the unoiled hinges on the bathroom door. That was quick.
“Did you get it?” I asked, keeping my eyes closed and breaking into another yawn.
He didn’t answer me, though, and I opened my eyes, blinking. Someone had just opened the door, right?
“Ethan?” I called, sitting up straight.
The theater was about to close, and other than the front desk attendant, I didn’t think anyone else was in the building anymore.
And then…he was there.
He rested his hand on top of mine where it laid on my thighs, his chilled fingers making me suck in a breath and laugh. “Hey, you scared me,” I said. “Did you get the Band-Aids?”
Fingertips came up to my face, brushing a strand of hair out of my eye, and I recoiled at the icicles on my skin. What was he doing? I took his hand off my face and held it in mine, reassuring him.
“I’m okay.”
His body came in closer, though, forcing my knees apart and his clothes chafing the inside of my thighs. He took his hands off me, and I stilled, feeling the warmth of his breath right in front of me, on my face, as he leaned in.
What the hell was he doing?
“Ethan…” I protested but wasn’t sure what to say. He’d gotten close a few times, and while I knew he wouldn’t say no to more, it just never happened between us. He wouldn’t try again?
“Shhh…” he said.
And I stopped breathing. The heat of his mouth was centimeters from mine, and suddenly, my heart started hammering. He’d never felt like this. He was never forward, and I was instantly uncomfortable, old memories coming back.
Please don’t try to kiss me, I begged.
Water pumped through the pipes above my head, and I could hear the dull hum of the furnace somewhere in the distance, but otherwise, it was quiet down here, and we were all alone.
“I need the Band-Aid,” I told him, forcing a little smile. “Come on…”
“So pretty,” he whispered over my mouth. I could taste the smoke on his breath.
Smoke…
“Okay, I got them!” Ethan suddenly shouted from around the corner, stunning me out of the quiet as the bathroom door swung open again.
I gasped, rearing back. Shit!
I darted out my hands, looking for the man who was just here, but finding only empty space.
Tears stung the backs of my eyes, my pulse throbbed in my neck, and I couldn’t catch my breath as I sucked in lungfuls of air.
Motherfucker. Goddamn him. Where was he? I searched with my hands. Where did he go?
“Hey, hey, hey, what’s the matter?” Ethan asked, coming to my side.
But I just grabbed onto his sweatshirt, fisting it as I breathed hard.
If Ethan didn’t see him, he was already gone through the exit on the other side of the bathroom.
I shook my head, trying to calm down.
I’d relaxed. Like an idiot, for five minutes, I’d relaxed, and he never did. He would always be at the ready.
“Just get me out of here,” I told Ethan. “Right now.”
“What about the Band-Aid?”
“Now!” I cried out.
And he didn’t need to hear anymore. Pulling me off the counter, he took my hand, and we left the theater as quickly as possible.
I let Ethan take me home, followed closely by my driver, I w
as sure. Even though I had transportation at my disposal, I couldn’t stomach anything to do with Damon. I got in Ethan’s car, told my driver to “go to hell” when he protested, and we left.
Once Ethan dropped me off and left, albeit with some hesitation, I walked into the house, Mikhail trotting up to greet me and hearing my mother’s voice coming from the dining room.
I leaned down to pet him and give him a kiss. “Feed you in a minute, boy.”
Walking into the dining room, I felt their footsteps and heard pages flipping from the dining table.
I hadn’t spoken to my family much in the past few days. Angry, I stayed in my room, chewing my nails and trying to figure a way out.
“We could do wallpaper in the kitchen,” my sister said. “Like just one wall. It’s back in style now.”
Decorating? They were fucking decorating? Jesus.
“I tried to leave a few nights ago,” I finally told them, brushing my hand against the doorframe and stopping there. “Back to Montreal.”
Silence suddenly filled the room, and I could guess both of them were trying to process if they should be angry or not. My mother wanted me safe, even though she wouldn’t do anything to ensure it herself, and I was pretty certain my sister would love having me out of the way. They would both know, however, that it would displease Damon, and there might be consequences if I ran and he couldn’t find me fast enough.
“The police,” I went on, “on Gabriel Torrance’s payroll, no doubt, caught up to me and turned me around.”
“Ethan was helping you?” my mother asked in a tone that said she already knew the answer.
I nodded. “And if I want him to stay safe, then he’d better not help me again. That was the gist of the warning anyway.”
I heard a slow but deep intake of breath and a quiet exhale, and I knew my mother was trying to stay calm, but I was done pretending to be. Damon was clever, diabolical, and patient. All of the things I wasn’t. At least not right now. I was too fucking angry.
It finally dawned on me that no one was actually on my side.
Kill Switch (Devil's Night #3) Page 10
