15. Dancing For The Devil

CHAPTER 15

Dancing For The Devil

ILEANA

The entrance hall is dark. The wooden floors make our footsteps echo. Everything about this house screams wealth and power—towering ceilings, oppressive artwork that seems to peer down with judgment, and surfaces polished to a blinding shine.

Wren moves behind me while his friends flank my sides. I’m not just being led—I’m being herded, like prey caught in a trap, nudged toward the inevitable.

"This way." Wren’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp with anticipation. The sound wraps around me like a leash, pulling me forward despite every instinct screaming at me to stop.

We pass through darkened hallways where the lights cast more shadows than illumination. Each step takes us deeper into the house, and my sense of being completely out of my depth grows stronger. Everything feels wrong—the air too cold, the silence too heavy.

Brass wall sconces flicker to life as we pass, their glow creating distorted shapes on the walls. The occasional open door offers glimpses of spaces so grand they feel alien—a dining room dominated by a chandelier dripping with crystals, a library whose shelves climb endlessly toward vaulted ceilings.

But Wren doesn’t slow. He leads us deeper, past doors that remain closed, past hallways that seem to stretch into oblivion. My pulse hammers in my ears, loud and relentless, drowning out everything else.

We turn down another hallway, this one lined with photographs in heavy, ornate frames. Unlike the vibrant artwork near the entrance, these are black and white. A woman, a dancer frozen in impossible poses, her body twisted into shapes that defy logic. Her face is obscured, the absence of her expression more haunting than if it was visible.

A chill runs through me, it feels like the photographs themselves are watching.

The hallway ends at a set of double doors, ornately carved with patterns that seem to move in the dim light. Wren steps forward, and something in his posture changes. Becomes more focused. More intense.

The doors swing open silently, and cold air rushes out to meet us. Wren turns his head, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that pins me in place .

"After you." He gestures inside, his voice soft but laced with steel. Every nerve in my body screams at me to run, but the shadows behind me—his friends, silent and waiting—leave no room for escape.

I step through the doorway, and my breath catches. The room is vast, its size impossible to comprehend at first glance. Dim lights flicker on one by one, revealing polished wood floors that stretch endlessly, gleaming like a mirror. And the mirrors—an entire wall of them reflects the space back at me in infinite fragments, creating a labyrinth of distorted versions of myself.

This isn’t a room. It’s a stage. A trap. A throne room for a devil.

The doors close behind us with a soft click that feels like a prison gate locking. My reflection stares back at me from a dozen angles—small, scared, and out of place in this grand space.

"Look around," Wren says softly. "Take it all in."

His friends remain by the doors, their presence a silent threat, while Wren strides further into the room. His movements are fluid, predatory, his shoes making no sound on the pristine floor. He’s a predator gliding through shadows, and I’m the only thing he sees.

"Why did you bring me here?" My voice sounds thin in the vast space .

Instead of answering, he pulls out his phone. The soft click of the camera feels like a slap, jarring and intrusive.

"This floor," he says, ignoring my question, "was custom-made. Sprung wood, perfect for dancing. It cost more than most people’s houses." He gestures around us, his voice casual, almost conversational. "And the acoustics? Perfect. Every sound carries exactly the way it should."

He taps something on his phone, and music fills the air. It’s not the classical melodies I’m used to—it’s something darker, heavier, a rhythm that vibrates through the floor and straight into my chest.

"No." I take a step back, my heels skimming the edge of the mirrored wall.

"No?" He moves closer, his expression unreadable but his intent unmistakable. "Are you sure about that? Because your body disagrees."

He’s right. My weight shifts forward of its own accord, my stance unconsciously adjusting to the music’s pull. It’s as if the rhythm bypasses my mind entirely, speaking directly to the part of me that lives for movement.

"I won’t perform for you."

He smiles, and reaches for a sleek black bag sitting near the wall. From it, he pulls a pair of ballet shoes, their satin gleaming under the dim lights. He lets them dangle from his fingers, the ribbons swaying like a hypnotist’s pendulum. Not just any shoes—perfect ones. My size. My dream.

"Then don’t perform for me." He circles me, the shoes swinging in time with the music. "Perform for yourself. When was the last time you had a space like this? Room to really let go? To push yourself beyond the limits of that cramped little studio?"

My eyes lock onto the shoes, a deep ache blooming in my chest. They’re beautiful, everything I’ve ever wanted. And he knows it.

"Stop fighting," he murmurs, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "I’ve watched you hold back. Seen the way you clip your wings, caging yourself in that tiny room." He steps closer, the heat of him brushing against my skin. "But here? Here, you could fly."

My fists clench, nails biting into my palms. The music pulses harder, its rhythm seeping into my bones. The room vibrates with possibility, with freedom. And his voice whispers that I deserve to take it.

He’s the devil tempting Jesus in the desert, his words filled with the kind of darkness that brings my nerve endings to life. His eyes hold mine, daring me, coaxing me to surrender. The temptation wraps around me.

"Your body’s already answering," he says, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "I can see it. Feel it. The way you’re standing, the way your muscles twitch. You’re already dancing, Ballerina. You just haven’t taken the first step."

The music builds, and despite myself, I feel it seeping into my muscles. He's right. The floor beneath my feet is perfect. The space calls to something deep inside me, something that's always felt caged by the small studio at school. The war inside me rages, my reflection showing the cracks in my resolve.

"You’ll never have this chance again," he says, holding the shoes out. "The only question is whether you’ll take it."

He stops in front of me, letting them swing gently. "These deserve a proper dance floor. They deserve to be seen. Stop fighting it."

His words burrow under my skin, igniting something hungry and dark. The music shifts, darkens, becomes a force that demands movement.

My hand moves without permission, my fingers curling around the satin. The fabric feels like sin against my skin—soft, smooth, impossible to resist. I sink to the floor, slipping the shoes on with trembling hands, each knot of the ribbons binding me closer to him. To this moment. To the darkness.

"That's it." He raises his phone again, and the soft click feels like a chain tightening around my will. "Show me what you can do when you're not confined. When you don't have to hold back."

When have I ever been able to really let go? How often have I wished that I could give myself completely to the dance without worry? What would it feel like to embrace it … just once?

When I rise, the first step feels like a surrender. But the second? The second feels like freedom.

The music crescendos, wrapping around me, pulling me into its depths. I leap, spin, twist—my movements raw and uninhibited. The mirrors reflect every angle, every emotion, amplifying the exhilaration coursing through me.

And through it all, I feel his eyes on me.

Watching. Consuming.

While the camera clicks again and again, capturing my descent into his world.