23. Nowhere to Hide

CHAPTER 23

Nowhere to Hide

ILEANA

I spend twenty minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, trying concealer, foundation, scarves … anything to hide the bruise on my throat. Nothing works. So, I end up digging out an old oversized hoodie from my closet. Nothing else hides last night’s evidence well enough. The bruise mocks me each time I glimpse my reflection—purple-blue against pale skin, impossible to ignore.

Last night feels like a fever dream, but the scratches on my arms prove otherwise. When I come out of the bedroom for breakfast, Dad’s coffee mug pauses midair.

“What were you doing last night? I heard banging.”

“I tripped in the dark,” I mumble, fighting not to turn red.

He frowns.

“I have to go to school.” I rush out before he can ask any more questions.

The morning air is crisp and cool, stinging my cheeks as I walk quickly along the sidewalk. I wonder if I’m coming down with something, because beneath the hoodie, my skin feels flushed and feverish. Each step closer to the school makes my stomach twist tighter. Hopefully, getting there early will mean I can avoid him, and delay whatever he has planned next.

The empty parking lot stretches before me when I arrive at school. At the start of the week, this place felt safe in its mundane familiarity. Now every corner holds potential threats. Even the dance studio doesn't offer sanctuary anymore. I can’t guarantee he won’t be there … watching me.

Lottie's warning rings in my ears, urgent and insistent .

Carlisle and his friends like to play games ... sometimes they don't end well.

If only I’d listened. If only I’d been more careful. If only I hadn’t let him see me.

But how could I have avoided it? How could I have known that he wouldn’t just forget about me, the way he forgets about everyone he toys with?

My footsteps echo against the linoleum as I navigate the empty halls. The sound bounces back, amplifying my sense of exposure.

Has he already arrived? Are his friends lying in wait somewhere?

The corner leading to my locker looms ahead. I pause, straining to hear any movement—voices, footsteps, anything that might warn me of his presence. But all I can hear is the distant hum of the heating system.

When I round the corner, my gaze zeroes in on the sheet of expensive paper protruding from my locker vent. It’s impossible to miss. Stark white against the metal. My throat closes up.

It’s nothing. Just a trapped piece of paper from when I closed my locker yesterday.

But it doesn’t matter how many times I repeat that, it doesn’t reduce the way my stomach twists, or the way the lock resists my fingers twice before finally clicking open. The paper floats to the floor like a fallen leaf. I ignore it because inside is the black rose from yesterday. My finger throbs with remembered pain. A small bloodstain marks my notebook where I'd shoved it, desperate to hide the evidence of his gift .

My gaze drops to the fallen note. What is it? Do I even want to know? My mind screams at me to leave them both there, to turn and run. But I can’t.

Running didn't save me last night. It won't save me now.

I crouch and snatch up the sheet, unfolding it as I straighten. One word sprawls across the heavy paper in elegant script:

Mine .

A shudder runs through me, memories flooding back—dancing in that massive ballroom while his phone documented every move. Running through dark woods while he hunted me. The pressure of his body when he caught me, his fingers stroking my body, the heat of his mouth ...

No. I won't think about that.

I crumple it in my fist, scanning the empty hallway.

He’s been here already. How early did he come in to leave this? Or did his friends do it for him? Are they watching even now, reporting back on my reaction?

My fingers brush against one of the rose’s thorns as I shove both items into my bag. Fresh pain blooms. Another wound to match the scratches already decorating my skin. How many more marks will he leave on me before he’s done?

The classroom offers temporary refuge. I go inside, choosing my usual seat, although sitting with my back to the door feels dangerous now. I hide behind my textbook, but the words blur together, meaningless shapes unable to compete with the memories of last night.

Other students arrive in groups. Their normal chatter feels surreal against my growing terror. Each new arrival makes me tense, but none of them are him. None of them are his friends. They move around me like I’m invisible, just like always, but now that invisibility feels unnatural, wrong, and on the verge of breaking.

Like me.

A hand brushes across my neck, and my whole body goes rigid.

"Good morning, Ballerina."

His voice snakes through me, a whisper of danger that first chills my skin, then makes me flush hot. His shadow moves across my desk, and he claims the seat behind me.

“Did Daddy see those pretty little scratches when you got home last night?” His words carry just far enough for me to hear. “The bruise I left you with? Or did you manage to sneak past him? ”

I clench my jaw, swallowing down words that would only feed his need to control me. But I can’t stop the way unease ripples through me at the memory of my father’s searching gaze, of the lies that tasted like ash in my mouth.

"No answer?" He laughs softly. "That's okay. The evidence on your throat says enough."

My fingers fly up before I can stop myself. Anger flares as I drop my hand quickly, but not before his quiet chuckle confirms he noticed.

“How long do you think you can hide it?” The possessive edge in his voice makes my stomach drop. “Should we find out?”

I don’t know which emotion is stronger, terror or anger. "Don't."

“ There’s your voice.” His voice is low, each word a reminder of his focus. “I was starting to miss it.”

“Why are you doing this?” I don’t know why I ask him again. I don’t know why I give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting under my skin.

“Because I can, Ballerina. And because watching you try to fight when you already know the outcome?” He pauses. I hold my breath. “It’s captivating.”

Students continue filing in, taking their seats, but none of them notice what’s happening. None of them see how thoroughly he owns this space between us. How completely he’s shattered the defenses I put into place. I want to scream, to make them look, to make them understand, but the words stick in my throat.

The teacher’s arrival should provide relief, but I barely register his voice over the thunder of my pulse. All I can focus on is Wren behind me. The weight of his presence. The memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he made me feel things I never thought about before.

My hoodie feels suffocating now, too hot, too confining. But I don’t dare adjust it. Don’t dare risk removing it. People will see the bruise on my throat, the evidence of how thoroughly he’s claimed me .

You're going to want more.

His words from last night echo in my head, and the worst part? There’s a tiny voice deep inside that whispers he might be right.

Because even now, with fear churning in my stomach and his threats hanging over me, some treacherous part of me remembers how alive I felt when he caught me. How electric his touch felt. How his kiss made me forget, just for a moment, about being invisible.