29. Fractured Composure

CHAPTER 29

Fractured Composure

ILEANA

The headache I used as my excuse to leave school early becomes a reality not long after I enter my bedroom. I pull the curtains closed, crawl into bed, and bury my face in the pillow. It doesn’t help. My thoughts are too loud, too relentless, replaying Wren’s words, his touch, the way he pinned me in the auditorium.

Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling, frustration building. The memory of my dad’s earlier scrutiny lingers, prickling at my skin. He knows something is wrong, but he doesn’t know what. He can’t. Not even he could imagine that a spilled drink could lead to this—a whirlwind of fear, fascination, and suffocating intensity.

Restlessness drives me to my feet. My gaze lands on the bookshelf, stuffed with worn paperbacks, their spines cracked from years of secondhand use. I grab one without thinking and flip it open, but the words blur into nonsense. My mind refuses to focus.

The mirror catches my eye, and I turn toward it, startled by my own reflection. I look disheveled, my hair tangled, my eyes wide. The girl staring back at me isn’t the one I’ve worked so hard to become. She’s not invisible any longer.

Because of him. Wren .

His name sends a shiver down my spine, and I hate the way my body reacts. My pulse picks up speed, heat creeping over my skin, flushing my cheeks. He looks at me like he sees everything. Every flaw. Every secret. Like he could strip everything away from me with nothing more than a glance .

And I hate that it works. I hate that I let him get to me. That I let him make me feel so powerless.

But that’s not all I feel, is it?

My pacing takes me to the window, and I pull back the curtain just enough to see the street outside. Everything looks quiet, but nothing feels right.

Is he out there? Watching?

Do I want him to be there?

The thought leaves me breathless. I shouldn’t want him anywhere near me. Not after last night, after this morning. The idea of wanting him to step out of the shadows twists my stomach into knots. I shouldn’t want that at all. I should want him to leave me alone, to stay away from me. But the idea of him being gone, of him losing interest and leaving me to fade back into the background … that scares me in a way I can’t explain.

I let the curtain fall back into place and press my hands to my face, trying to erase the confusion and longing I shouldn’t be feeling. The fear, the confusion, the excitement, the pull toward him—it’s all too much. I need to move, to escape my own mind.

I need to do something, anything , to make it stop. But I’m trapped here, inside my bedroom. A cage I fled to because I was too scared to go to the dance studio, in case he was there … waiting for me.

No. You were scared to go to the dance studio because you wanted him to be there waiting for you.

I duck down and pull my dance notebook from beneath my nightstand, flipping it open. If I can’t dance, I can plan a routine.

But I can’t focus.

I throw the notebook down. A shower. Maybe that will help.

The apartment is silent as I step out of my room. My parents went to bed hours ago, and the only sound is my bare feet against the linoleum floor. Flicking on the light, I step into the bathroom, strip out of my clothes, and step into the shower, hoping the hot water will wash away some of the tension .

My fingers trail over my neck, reliving the memory of his mouth there, the way it felt when he sucked at my skin.

Why me? Why did he pick me out of everyone else? What is it about me that draws him in? I’m nobody. Boring. Not worth the attention.

I hate that I want to know the answers.

Back in my room, I change into pajamas, and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. My thoughts circle back to the auditorium, to the way his hands explored my body, his lips on mine.

What would I do if he showed up now?

The question startles me, but I can’t shake it. My gaze moves to the window again, my heart pounding at the possibility. The idea of him watching me, stepping out of the shadows and into my room, sends a wave of heat through me.

I shouldn’t want it.

I fall back against the bed, pressing my palms to my face. But the images won’t stop. His eyes on me, his voice dark and low, the way his hands moved over me, touched me.

My thighs press together, trying to ease the ache forming between my legs. I hate the way my body reacts, the way desire tangles with fear, each feeding off the other.

It’s wrong.

It’s all wrong, but I can’t stop it.

What if he’s out there, right now, watching me the way I’m imagining him doing?

The thought sends a chill down my spine, but there’s a thrill to it too and before I can stop myself, my hand dips beneath the waistband of my pants, and I close my eyes, letting the fantasy take hold.

I imagine him stepping out of the darkness, his gaze locked onto mine with that infuriating confidence. My breath catches as I picture him leaning down, his hands rough but sure, pulling my pants down my legs.

What would it be like if he were really here?

My nipples harden, and I imagine my fingers are his, stroking small circles around it before catching it between thumb and finger and pinching. My hips arch, and I give in, the fingers of my other hand finding my clit.

I shouldn’t be doing this—I shouldn’t be letting him have this kind of power over me. But it’s too late. The longing is already there, a dark need that I can’t shake.

I imagine him watching me, his voice whispering the things he wants to do, telling me how to touch myself, to show him parts of my body no one has seen, and in the darkness of my room I’m sure I hear the soft click of a camera.

My hips rock up, my breath coming in soft panting cries.

What would it be like if he really touched me? If he claimed me the way his eyes promise he will. Would his friends be there? Or would he want to keep me for himself like he claims?

The thought is both terrifying and exhilarating, and it sends me over the edge.

I let out a soft gasp, my fingers moving faster as the tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps. When I come, it’s both a relief and a shameful reminder of how deeply he’s gotten under my skin.

Pleasure and shame mix together, a heady cocktail that leaves my heart pounding, my skin flushed. My fingers slow, my body shaking as I come down from the high, and pleasure slowly gives way to exhaustion.

I lie there for a long moment, my breathing uneven, heart beating so hard it makes me lightheaded. The room feels too quiet, too charged. I glance at the window again, half-expecting to see him there, watching me.

Would I let him in if he was?