31. Edge of Control

CHAPTER 31

Edge of Control

ILEANA

The first thing I notice is the silence. Not comforting, like a blanket wrapped around me, but a heavy, suffocating stillness that presses down as soon as I step through the school gates. It’s the kind of silence that feels alive—like there’s something lurking just beyond my line of sight.

I keep my head down, trying to avoid any attention, but as I look up, Monty steps away from the wall, his stride slow and intentional as he closes the distance between us. Nico is standing a few feet away, watching, his presence a shape at the edge of my vision.

"Ileana," he says, voice smooth, almost friendly.

My stomach flips, nervous butterflies taking off. I look around, expecting to find Wren nearby, but there’s no sign of him.

Monty’s smile widens, amused. He falls into step beside me.

"Where are you headed?" he asks, tone almost casual.

"Class," I manage, my voice tight.

He hums, as if considering what the word means. "Right. Class." He smirks.

I force my steps to stay steady. "What do you want from me?"

"What do I want? Nothing." His fingers skim my arm—light, taunting—and I swallow, fighting the urge to pull away. "What Wren wants though … well … that’s a different story."

My heart picks up speed, each beat drumming louder than the last. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

“I guess you can ask him when you see him.”

My steps falter as Nico moves into my path. His smirk matches Monty’s, his gaze mocking while he watches me try to edge around him.

They don’t follow me into the classroom, but it’s a short lived reprieve because when the door swings open a few minutes later, they’re there, sliding into seats too close for comfort.

The scrape of Nico’s chair against the floor makes me jump, the sound grating. Every glance feels loaded, every whisper between them a taunt meant to keep me on edge.

The teacher’s voice fades into static. My pen hovers uselessly above my notebook.

Whenever I glance up, they’re watching me—smirking, taunting. Nico leans over to whisper something to Monty, and they both laugh quietly. I try to focus, to breathe, to be anything but the prey they see me as.

Where is Wren?

The question loops over and over.

There’s a moment where I think I see him in the hallway, and my heart seizes. But when I look again, he’s gone. Either I’m imagining things—or worse, I’m not.

Lunch is no different. I go to my usual seat in the cafeteria, every muscle tense as Monty and Nico find me. My stomach sinks as Monty drops into the chair across from me, his grin lazy and knowing, while Nico takes the seat beside me, too close for comfort.

Monty stretches his legs out beneath the table, his knee bumping against mine—not enough to draw attention, just enough to remind me he’s there. His grin sharpens, daring me to react.

“Not eating today?” Mock concern drips from his voice.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You sure? You look like you could use a little … something.” His knee presses harder against mine, and I resist the urge to jerk away. He’s watching me too closely, waiting for any reaction.

Nico’s laughter is low. “Maybe she’s saving room for Wren.” His tone is light but loaded, the malice barely disguised .

Monty chuckles, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. Each tap feels like a countdown, a reminder of their control.

“That right? Waiting for Wren to feed you? Or maybe you’re still full from the other night.”

Heat rushes to my face, and I pull my hoodie tighter around me, as if that can shield me from their words.

“Still hiding that little mark he left? Don’t worry. It’s not like we haven’t already seen it. Or other parts of you.” His tongue licks over his lips.

My stomach twists violently, gaze moving to Nico, who’s watching me, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “That was a sight, wasn’t it? The woods, the moonlight … Wren really knows how to put on a show.”

“Shut up!”

Monty grins more.

“Why so shy?” He leans forward again, gaze locked on mine. “It’s not like you didn’t put on a performance of your own. All that running, all that gasping …” He lets the words hang, his meaning unmistakable. “You know, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

I shove my chair back, the screech of metal on tile loud enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables. My legs feel unsteady as I stand, but I grab my bag and turn to leave, desperate to escape their stares.

“Aw, don’t go,” Monty calls after me, his voice laced with mock sweetness. “We were just getting started.”

Nico’s chuckle follows me as I push through the cafeteria doors. “Better run, Ghost Girl. Don’t want to keep Wren waiting.”

Their laughter echoes in my ears, a cruel soundtrack that stays with me as I escape into the cold afternoon air.

By the end of the day, I’m running on fumes. My muscles ache, my head is throbbing from hours of constant vigilance. I can’t do this anymore. I need a break, a way to feel like myself again. So, when the final bell rings, I walk out of class and head straight for the dance studio.

The courtyard is empty as I cross it. When I push the door open, the familiar scent of wood and faint dust fills the air, greeting me.

Dropping my bag by the wall, I find the ballet flats I keep hidden here, and change into them, then step to the center of the room, and close my eyes. The quiet settles around me, and for the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe.

I press play on the stereo, the familiar rhythm of a warm-up routine filling the room. My body moves into stretches automatically, each move smoothing the edges of my frayed nerves, grounding me in the discipline I've always found here.

When the music changes, I move from warm ups to one of the dance routines I have memorized. I begin with a series of pliés, my knees bending smoothly as I find my balance. The tension in my shoulders begins to ease. I move into a pirouette, my body spinning effortlessly, the world blurring around me. A grand jeté follows, my legs extending in a graceful leap, feeling the rush of air against my skin. The fluidity of each arabesque, the arch of my foot, the stretch of my arms—all of it brings a sense of control and freedom. And slowly, I lose myself in the dance.

My feet glide across the floor, my arms extending as if I could push away everything that’s weighing me down. Sweat drips down my back, and my breathing is fast and shallow, but I don’t stop.

I dance until my lungs burn, until my muscles ache, until the only thing I can feel is exhaustion. Each pirouette is a release, every grand jeté a burst of fleeting freedom.

This is mine. This is me. In this moment, I am powerful, untouchable.

When I collapse onto the floor, heart pounding in time with the fading music, I feel lighter. Not free, never free, but strong enough to face whatever comes next.