25

Asher

Age 18

I’m not supposed to be watching Blair.

I’m not supposed to be keeping tabs on her, and I’m definitely not supposed to be following her—not after that night at the house party. Blair is supposed to be a habit I’ve sworn off, even if I can’t beat my other vices. But here I am, leaning against the cold wall of the studio hallway, waiting, listening.

Like a fucking addict.

Through the glass, I watch as she moves across the floor, her body in perfect harmony with the music filtering softly through the speakers. Her ankle has healed, but there’s still a slight hesitation in her steps, the tiniest flaw that only someone who’s been watching her as closely as I have would notice.

And then I see him—the dance instructor—approach her, his gaze a little too intense, his hands resting on her shoulders as he adjusts her pose. Rage floods my brain, hot and corrosive. This guy gets to touch her, to have her trust him, and I’m the one stuck out here in the shadows.

She lands on her right foot, her posture wavering slightly. He taps her knee, points, and she repeats the move. She smiles at him, thanking him with that bright, easy charm I remember all too well. Something about the way he watches her, though—his eyes lingering as she shifts, his hand resting a beat too long—is setting off alarm bells in my head.

I grew up in the kind of neighborhood where you’ve got to learn how to make snap judgements about everyone you pass by. Most people are fine. Some people are off.

The dance coach is really fucking off.

Okay, sure. It could be the jealousy talking. But either way, I’m going to find out.

Their conversation drifts over to me through the open door, every word making my jaw clench tighter.

“Thank you so much, Michael,” Blair says, her voice tinged with relief. “I was so worried my future in ballet was over.”

“You have real talent, Blair. With more physical therapy, I think you’ll be back to ideal form within the year.” He pauses. “With my guidance, of course.”

They both laugh, but my stomach twists.

“And school?” Blair asks quickly.

“Like I said, if we see the kind of progress I’m hoping for, I’ll absolutely recommend you to the academy.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “And if your audition goes well, you’ll be in with a fantastic shot at a full scholarship.”

Her face lights up, practically glowing with excitement. She looks like she wants to leap into his arms and hug him, but instead, she babbles her gratitude. “Thank you, Michael. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He chuckles softly, tilting his head. “Go ahead, Blair. Get changed. See you later this week.”

Blair disappears into the changing room, and just as she leaves, something dark flickers across his face. His whole demeanor changes, and my blood runs cold. He lingers, then shifts, eyes fixed on the door to the changing room.

I knew it. I fucking knew it.

In a single, fluid motion, he pulls out his phone, angling it toward the small window above the door, moving silently as if he’s done this before.

Same old fucking story. Authority figure uses his position to be a menace to the people who trust him. News at 11.

A flood of rage and disgust takes over, my body tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap. I don’t give a fuck if Blair never speaks to me again after this—I won’t let this happen to her.

I don’t give him a chance to notice me. I pull my hood up and move forward, fast and silent, grabbing the back of his collar and slamming him hard against the wall.

He chokes out a gasp, but I don’t let him go. I drag him outside, gripping his hair, and slam his head against the wall behind the studio. A smear of blood appears, a dark stain against the paint.

I wait, my grip on Michael unrelenting, watching out of the corner of my eye until Blair walks out the studio doors. Her figure disappears down the sidewalk, blissfully unaware.

“Delete the pictures,” I growl, my voice low and lethal. “Not just from your phone. From the cloud, from wherever the fuck you’ve got them saved.”

He obeys, hands shaking, then groans as I smash his head backward again. His phone clatters to the floor, his fingers twitching helplessly. I stomp down on it, feeling the satisfying crunch of metal and glass splintering under my boot.

I haul him up, shoving him against the wall, forcing him to look at me. His face is a mess—blood trickling from his nose, his eyes wide with terror.

I hit him. Again and again and again. I feel his cheek bones crunch under my split open knuckles.

“Stay the fuck away from Blair Bennett,” I say, each word sharp as a knife. “In fact, stay away from every girl you come across. If you come near Blair again, I’ll know. If you tell her what happened, I’ll know. If you go to the cops, I’ll know.” I let the words sink in, my grip tightening until he wheezes, struggling to breathe. “Try anything, and I’ll make sure your life is over. Got it?”

He wheezes, a mix of blood and saliva bubbling up in his mouth. “U-understood.”

I drop him, letting him crumple to the ground. He’s pathetic, broken, and it’s almost too easy to leave him like this. He scrambles to his feet, stumbling as he half-runs, half-crawls away into the night, still clutching his bleeding face. He throws one last terrified look over his shoulder before disappearing.

Adrenaline is pulsing through my veins. I know Blair can never know about this, never find out what I did tonight. But standing here, my hands coated with that fucker’s blood… something tells me this is why I couldn’t stop following her, why I couldn’t let her go.

I take one glance back at the ballet studio as I head back over to my bike. She’ll come back here next week, and Michael won’t be here. She’ll never know how close she came to a nightmare.

Maybe this is why I felt like I couldn’t stop following her. Maybe I’ve done my job here.

Maybe now it’s time to let Blair go.