10. Predator’s Dance

CHAPTER 10

Predator’s Dance

WREN

“Did you sleep at all last night? You look like hell.” Monty drops into the seat beside me. “Still obsessing over your ghost girl?”

I don’t look up from my phone. Another dead-end search. No posts, no tags. Hours of database digging burn behind my eyes, but sleep isn’t what I need. “Is that a problem for you?”

“Yeah, actually it is.” He leans in, voice dropping. “I’ve never seen you like this. Usually, you’re bored by now. The interest fades, and you’re already onto the next game.”

Nico claims the chair opposite. “Exactly. Like Jessica. Remember her? Now that was classic. Getting her to think she could pay for college with an OnlyFans account, and watching her fall for the whole you’re so smart, Jess, so independent …”

“Until pastor daddy got that anonymous email.” Monty’s grin turns wicked. “Complete with screenshots. That was fucking art. The way she ran out of school crying. Think she’s still at the private Christian school they shipped her off to?”

“Or Amanda,” Nico continues. “Remember how she thought she was so special because you asked her to meet you at your house? The look on her face when we all showed up …”

“The way she ran through the woods was pretty special, though.” Monty steals my untouched fries. I let him without comment. Food isn’t what I’m hungry for right now. “Crying about how she thought you actually liked her, and that she was okay with you chasing her, but not all of us because she’s a …” He smirks around the fry. “... a good girl .”

“Then there was Marcus.” Nico again. Apparently the two of them are reminiscing over our greatest hits. “Mr. Student Council trying to hide his gambling debts. Those screenshots of his daddy’s credit card receipts hitting the principal's inbox …”

“Oh, what about the football team captain last spring?” Monty is openly laughing now. “What was his name? The one sending dick pics to his girlfriend’s best friend?”

“Ryan Matthews,” I supply, finally looking up. “That one was way too easy. Barely worth the effort.”

“ Exactly! ” Monty leans back, studying me. “ Everything is too easy for you. You get bored after a couple of days, then move on to the next challenge. But this girl?” He gestures toward the library. “You spent all night digging through every database you could hack into, and for what?”

“ That’s what makes her so interesting.” My voice carries an edge that makes both of them tense slightly.

“Interesting?” Nico laughs. “Since when do you find anything interesting for more than five minutes? You’re acting like some lovesick?—”

My hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around his throat, and I drag him halfway across the table while I stand. The cafeteria noise fades as I lean forward.

“Choose your next words carefully.”

“Jesus, Wren.” Monty’s voice carries genuine concern. “What the fuck? He didn’t mean?—”

I release Nico, who rubs his throat, eyes wary and pinned to me. The fear in his expression sends a familiar thrill through me, but it’s nothing compared to what I feel when I’m watching Ileana.

“Yes, he did. But he’s wrong. This isn’t about love.”

“Then what is it? Because this isn’t our fucking normal. That sophomore last month? The one who thought she was pregnant? You posted her fake test results to the school social media account, and moved on to something else before lunch.”

“Or that teacher’s aid.” Nico’s voice isn’t as amused as before. “The one sleeping with the basketball coach. Took you what? Two days to get the evidence, and send it to the school board?”

“Tommy Peterson.” Monty tips his chin toward the table where the jocks all sit. “Star quarterback with the secret boyfriend. Only took three hours to break him.”

“That cheerleader.” Nico tosses another name into the mix. I sigh. They don’t take the hint. “What was her name? The one who transferred schools after?”

“Chantelle,” Monty supplies with a lick of his lips. “She cried so pretty when you let all her secrets spill into the world.”

I remember Chantelle. She was too easy. Too many photographs on her phone, too many secrets she thought were well hidden. It took less than a week to reduce her to tears. But that was different. That was just a game.

This … this is something else entirely.

“You won’t even let us near her. Won’t share. This isn’t how we play.”

“Who says I’m playing?”

“ Me! That’s what we do. We find their weak spots, push them until they break, and then move on.”

“Tell me something. When was the last time you noticed her?”

“What?”

“Ileana. When did you last see her before this week?”

Monty frowns, clearly trying to remember. “I don’t know. Never?”

“ Exactly! ” I slam my hand down on the table.

“So?”

“So? What the fuck do you mean, so ? She’s nobody . No social media. No phone. No bank accounts. No driver’s license. She doesn’t fucking exist on paper. Doesn’t have any traceable footprint. She doesn’t make ripples. She moves through this school like a ghost, and … No one. Fucking. Notices.” My lips curve up. “No one but me, anyway. No one tries that hard to be invisible without a reason. And I want to know what that reason is.”

“You sound like you actually care. That's not how this usually works. Remember that guy last semester? The one who was paying prostitutes for sex.” Nico has refound his backbone .

“Jeremy,” Monty supplies. “That was fun. Watching him squirm when we threatened to tell his parents where his money was really going.”

“Those are different. This is different.”

“Different how?” Monty presses, either brave or fucking stupid. “Because she spilled juice on you? Because she pretends not to exist? You’re fucking obsessing over her. Even for you, this is weird.”

“Is it?” The words come out distant, detached, as my attention shifts to the library doors opposite the cafeteria. I know she’s in there, hiding from me. The thought makes me smile. Let her think she’s safe.

"I saw Lottie Mitchell talking to her in the library earlier," Nico mentions, noting the direction of my gaze. "Probably warning her about us. About what happened to Jessica and Chantelle."

My fingers curl, nails biting into my palms beneath the table, but I keep my voice casual. “Did she now?”

I push back my chair and stand. Nico makes a move to say something, but the look I send him shuts him down before he opens his mouth.

I don’t bother with explanations. Let them speculate. Let them think I’ve lost my edge. They’ll see soon enough.

The library is quiet, the air thick with the usual hush of whispered voices and the soft rustle of pages turning. It doesn’t take me long to find them. Lottie Mitchell, sitting stiff-backed at a corner table, her hands folded neatly on the desk as she leans in to talk to Ileana.

Ileana is the opposite. Her shoulders are hunched slightly, one finger absently tracing the spine of a closed book in front of her. She doesn’t look uncomfortable exactly, but there’s a tightness to her eyes. I watch for a moment, noting the subtle tension in the way she avoids meeting Lottie’s eyes directly.

Perfect .

I stride across the room. Lottie looks up first, her words trailing off mid-sentence when she sees me. The shift in her expression is immediate. Her shoulders tense, her fingers twitch against the table, and her gaze darts quickly toward Ileana before snapping back to me.

“Lottie.” I stop just short of their table. “Always so busy spreading your little warnings, aren’t you?”

Her cheeks flush, and she forces a weak smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do.” My voice is soft, casual, but she’s already leaning back in her chair, looking for an escape route. “I’m sure it’s quite the story you’re spinning. What is it this time? Threats? Violence? Or something more creative?”

Her eyes widen, mask cracking just enough to confirm my suspicions. My smile is all teeth.

“Don’t worry. I’m not here to interfere with your … opinions. I just thought I’d say hello.”

She glances at Ileana, who’s been silent this whole time. I follow Lottie’s gaze, turning my attention to her.

“Am I interrupting something, Ballerina?”

She stiffens at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, but it suits you. Doesn’t it, Lottie?”

Lottie looks between us, clearly torn between staying and fleeing. I don’t give her the chance to decide.

“Run along, Lottie.” My tone is dismissive, deepening the red in her cheeks. “I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do.”

She hesitates for a moment, looking at Ileana again, but she doesn’t meet Lottie’s eyes. With a mumbled excuse, Lottie gathers her things and leaves, footsteps hurried as she disappears down the nearest aisle.

I take the seat she vacated, leaning back in the chair as I study the girl opposite me. She doesn’t look at me, fingers still stroking the edge of the book. I get the distinct impression she’s not as unaffected as she’s pretending to be.

“Making friends, are we?” I break the silence .

“Why do you care?” She doesn’t look at me.

I laugh quietly. “Care? That’s a strong word. Let’s say I’m curious.”

“Well, don’t be.” She sits up straighter. “Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t think so. I know I’m right. Like … how Lottie isn’t half as brave as she pretends to be. Or how you aren’t sure you believe a single word she said to you.”

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she picks up the book, turning it over in her hands like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.

“You’re not going to tell me to leave?”

“Would it work?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that makes me smile.

“No. But I might have respected the effort.”

She finally looks at me. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Pushing people until they break.”

I tilt my head, considering her words. “Usually, yes. But this isn’t about breaking you. It’s about finding out why you hide so much.”

For a moment her mask slips, then her face goes back to that carefully blank expression. But it’s enough to make my smile widen.

“You’re not invisible anymore, Ileana.” I stand up. “Better get used to it.”

Without waiting for a response, I turn and leave.

The rest of the day crawls by. I don’t have any more classes with Ileana, so I hang around until I see her leave, then make sure she sees me drive out of the parking lot in the opposite direction.

Three blocks away, I park and walk back. The thrill of the hunt thrums in my veins, but my friends are right—I am treating her differently from our usual games.

But this isn’t about breaking someone for fun. It’s about possession. About claiming what’s been hiding in plain sight for too long. About making a claim.

The dance studio windows are dark when I approach, but faint strains of music reach me. Strings, something classical.

I find my spot by the window. There she is, moving like she’s trying to escape her own skin. Her body twists and curves, every step pulling me deeper into her orbit. It’s a language she doesn’t even know she’s speaking, every turn drawing something darker out of me. The way her back bends, the stretch of her arms—it’s a challenge, and I can’t look away. She’s lost in her own world, unaware of how closely I’m watching. How much I’m learning.

My phone’s in my hand before I think. The camera focuses through the glass, capturing her mid-spin. Blurred, but perfect—the tension in her frame, her hair loose from its tie.

I take another. And another. Each photograph is a piece of evidence, proof that the invisible girl exists.

That she’s real.

That she’s mine.

She moves into a series of jumps, each one perfect, but I can see the strain beneath the grace. She’s pushing herself harder than usual, probably trying to dance away our English encounter.

Click . Her body suspended in the air.

Click . The moment her feet touch down.

Click. The way her hands shake slightly as she moves to the barre.

Each photograph is a confession. Each image a secret she doesn’t know she’s sharing. But just watching, just documenting isn’t enough.

The door opens silently when I test it, and the music swells as I creep inside.

She’s lost in her world, oblivious. There’s something hypnotic about it, the unpolished edge beneath her grace. Every spin, every leap, I half-expect her to see me. To catch my reflection. But she’s too far gone.

The urge to break that peace burns through me. She’s unaware of the game I’m playing, how each step aligns her world with mine.

I follow her, letting her lead without realizing she’s being stalked. My steps match hers, a silent rhythm that draws me closer … closer . The music swells, her body shifts with it, and I move in, erasing the space between us.

My arms lock around her waist mid-spin, pulling her back against me. Her soft skin under my hands, her scent filling my lungs. My palm over her stomach catches the exact moment her breath hitches.

I lower my head, lips brushing her ear.

“Hello again, Ballerina.”