17. Running Blind

CHAPTER 17

Running Blind

ILEANA

Why did he tell me to leave? Why did he let me go? Why go to all that effort to bring me here, only to send me away after less than thirty minutes?

My body aches as I hurry through the dark halls. Every muscle protests, trembling with exhaustion, with the memory of his hands on me—shaping, controlling, commanding. His touch burns like a brand, searing into my skin. A reminder that I was his in that moment. His … completely.

But he let me go.

It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense, and the wrongness of it crawls under my skin, burrowing deeper with every step.

The hallways seem different now—longer, and twisted. I try to retrace our steps, but everything blurs in the dim light. Mirrors flash by, splintering my reflection into pieces. A flushed girl with wild eyes stares back, each fragment a stranger.

Where is the front door?

A sound behind me, a faint creak, spins me around, my heart trying to escape through my throat. The hallway is empty. It’s my imagination. The aftermath of dancing in that ballroom while Wren's camera documented every moment. The phantom click of his phone camera seems to echo in my ears, a counterpoint to my racing heart. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. That the house itself is alive, its walls closing in, suffocating me.

There! The photograph-lined hallway. The black and white dancers are still there, frozen mid-performance. But their stillness feels malevolent now, their shadowed faces following my every move. The sharp lines of their poses seem twisted, mocking the way Wren made me move for him, perform for his lens.

Don't be ridiculous. He said you could go.

But why? Why make me dance, why take so much from me, only to let me leave?

I pick up my pace, the wooden floors creaking beneath my steps like they’re broadcasting my location. I pass the library, its shelves looming like silent sentinels. The dining room with its glittering chandelier. Every room feels like a trap waiting to spring.

A floorboard groans above me.

I freeze. The sound seems to reverberate through the house, stretching the silence taut. My breath catches, my body shaking, while I strain to hear anything else.

Nothing .

But the air feels wrong now. Weighted. Like the house itself is holding its breath, waiting to see if I'll make it out.

Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t a horror movie.

The front door finally appears ahead, moonlight filtering through its glass panels. Relief floods through me, propelling me forward. I grab the handle and twist.

It turns too easily.

Cool night air hits my face, and I step outside. The door closes behind me with a soft click that echoes like a death knell.

Stars glitter in the sky, but the moon is a thin crescent, its weak light swallowed by the encroaching trees. The driveway stretches ahead, curving away into darkness. Trees loom on either side, their branches twisting and arching upwards.

Which way is town?

I don’t remember. Everything looked different in the car. I was too focused on Wren's presence beside me. His leg brushing mine, his breath warm against my ear, the way his words curled around me like a noose.

Movement shifts in the corner of my eye—a shape detaching itself from the darkness near the house. It moves with deliberate slowness, like it knows exactly how this will end .

Run.

I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. My body moves before my mind catches up, my legs burning as I sprint down the drive. The thin satin of the ballet shoes offers no protection. Each step sends pain shooting through my feet.

"Look at those legs move." A voice calls from close by. Not Wren’s. The words are low and mocking, dripping with cruel amusement. "Bet I can catch them. Bet I can break them."

My pulse spikes. I veer off the drive, plunging into the trees. Branches claw at my skin, tearing at my clothes, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

"Her blood looks so pretty against her skin." Another voice comes from somewhere to my left. "Let's see how much more we can make her bleed."

I change direction, lungs burning, but the first voice is ahead now.

"Getting tired yet?” It’s a taunt, a knife aimed straight at my resolve. “Dance has taken its toll, hasn't it? Makes you weak. Makes you slow."

There’s a blinding flash of light. Someone’s phone. The afterimage burns into my vision, leaving me disoriented. More lights flicker on, weaving a strobe effect through the woods, turning every shadow into a threat.

"Your fear makes you more beautiful." Wren's voice cuts through the chaos, smooth and calm. "Every gasp, every stumble adds to your performance, Ballerina."

I push harder, my legs shaking, but his words cling to me, burrowing their way into my mind. He’s watching, savoring my panic, documenting my terror like it’s another masterpiece for his collection.

"Nowhere to run, Ghost Girl," the second voice mocks. It has to be Nico. "These woods go on forever. No one will hear you scream."

Another flash of light, closer this time. I catch glimpses of their faces. Monty’s grin. Nico’s hungry eyes. Wren’s predatory focus as he raises his phone to capture me.

“Think she’ll scream when we catch her?” Monty’s voice drips with sadistic glee.

“Oh, she will,” Wren replies, his tone almost gentle. “I’ll make sure of it.”

A branch snaps behind me, and I push harder, ignoring the burn in my legs, the pain in my feet.

“The things we’re going to do to you,” Nico whispers, his voice a promise of violence. “You’ll beg us to stop.”

A laugh echoes through the darkness. Low, mocking, and close. “No, she won’t. She’ll beg me to continue.” Wren again. "Your heart must be pounding. Fear makes such beautiful music. Do you think I can hear it from here, Ballerina?"

"Want to see what we do to girls who run?" Monty from my left.

A shadow looms ahead. I swerve, but I have no idea where I am anymore. Every rustle, every sound could be them, closing in.

"Look how she trembles." Wren’s voice is silk, dark and smooth. "Every movement a dance of terror. You’re so perfect when you’re scared. So helpless." He pauses, and I can hear the smile in his words. "Scream for me, Ileana. I want to hear you."

I crash through a thicket, thorns tearing into my skin, drawing fresh blood. It streaks down my arms, warm and sticky, the scent mingling with the cold night air. My breath comes in ragged bursts, my vision blurring as tiredness pulls at me.

"Run, pretty Ballerina." Wren's voice curls around me, dark and seductive. "Run until your legs give out. Run until you collapse. And then I’ll be there to catch you. To claim you."

I run harder, but my body is failing me. Every step is agony, every breath a struggle. The dance has drained me, left me vulnerable, easy prey.

“Such a beautiful performance. But it’s time for the curtain to fall.”

This is what they wanted all along. The ballroom was just the opening act.