45. Shadows That Breathe

CHAPTER 45

Shadows That Breathe

ILEANA

Sleep is impossible. Not because of fear, but because every time I close my eyes, I feel his hands on me again. His mouth. His touch. The way he made me come while my mother stood outside my door. The memory sends heat flooding through me, followed by a dark thrill that leaves me unsteady.

Last night's argument with my father hangs heavy in the air. His accusations. My defiance. The way his face darkened when he saw the mark on my throat.

I've given you rules to protect you.

But for the first time, I wonder if he's really protecting me, or if he's just controlling me.

Wren's whispered promises tangle with questions I've never dared to ask before.

Hospital records that don't exist.

Money that appeared from nowhere.

Why Daddy checks the locks three times every night.

Dawn creeps through my window. The same window where I stood half-naked last night, placing a black rose like an invitation. Like a surrender. The same window Wren entered through, turning my rebellion into something else entirely. Something that makes my skin flush just thinking about it.

"Ileana!" My father's voice carries through the door. He still sounds angry. "You're going to be late!"

I take longer than necessary getting ready, a small act of rebellion. When I finally emerge, he's waiting in the kitchen, coffee cup gripped too tight in his hand. The silence between us crackles with tension.

"You missed breakfast," he says flatly.

"Not hungry." I grab my bag, avoiding his eyes.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

I turn slowly, lifting my chin. His gaze immediately goes to my throat, checking for evidence of what he saw last night. The mark is barely visible now, but his jaw tightens anyway.

"We'll discuss this when you get home."

"There's nothing to discuss." The words come out harder than I intend.

"Don't take that tone with me." He sets his cup down with careful precision. "I've spent your entire life keeping you safe?—"

"Keeping me invisible, you mean."

The silence that follows is deafening. Mom appears in the doorway, anxiety clear on her face as she looks between us.

"Both of you need to calm down," she says softly.

"I'm late for school." I turn away, but his voice stops me.

"This behavior stops now. Do you understand me?"

I don't answer. Don't look back. Just walk out the door with my heart pounding and defiance burning in my veins.

The walk to school feels charged, electric. Every shadow could hide him, every parked car could conceal him. But the anticipation that courses through me isn't entirely fear anymore.

When I reach my locker, evidence of his presence waits for me. My books aren't quite how I left them. The angle is wrong. The stack is slightly askew. A photograph sits on top—me at my window last night, the rose in my hand, moonlight turning my skin silver. The next shows me looking out into the darkness, searching. For him.

More photographs fall from between my books as I gather them. Me in the dance studio last week, lost in movement. Walking home yesterday, unaware of being watched. Standing at my window the night before, my shirt riding up as I reached to close the curtains .

Heat floods my cheeks. He was there, watching, before I invited him in. Before his hands claimed me, before his mouth?—

"Morning, Ghost Girl."

I jump at Monty's voice, somehow both frustrated and relieved that it isn't Wren. He leans against the locker next to mine, eyes scanning the photographs I'm still holding.

"He's been busy." Monty's smirk suggests he knows exactly what happened after these were taken. "You should see his collection."

My face burns hotter. "What does he want?"

"You already know." His eyes move to my throat where Wren's mark is fading. "He wants to own you." He pushes off the locker. "And from what I hear, you're not exactly fighting it anymore."

I should feel ashamed. Should feel scared. Instead, something else unfurls in my stomach—dark and hungry and impossible to ignore. Because he's right. I'm not fighting it. Not anymore.

First period brings more photographs tucked into my textbook. Each one more intimate than the last. Me biting my lip as I searched the darkness outside my window. The way my hands gripped the windowsill. The exact moment I placed the rose—his invitation to enter my room, my life, my world.

But it's his note that makes my pulse race.

You're not invisible anymore, Ballerina. You never were. Not to me.

The words carry a promise that makes me shiver. Tomorrow, he'd said. Tomorrow he'd tell me everything. So, where is he?

In Chemistry, another photograph falls into my lap. This one's different, taken through my bedroom window. I'm sleeping, curled on my side, completely unaware of his lens capturing the moment. The image should disturb me, but instead it sends a spark of excitement through my body.

More images appear throughout the morning. Each new photograph is from the past week. Since that day I spilled juice on him. Since the moment I accidentally caught his attention. The earliest ones are simple shots of me walking through halls or sitting in class, but they progress to more intimate moments. Evidence of how quickly and thoroughly he's inserted himself into my life. How completely he sees me when I've spent so long being invisible.

Between classes, I catch glimpses of him in the hallway. Just for a moment—a tall figure in black, watching me with that predatory stillness that makes my blood run hot. But whenever I try to find him, he's gone.

He's playing with me. Letting me know he's always there, always watching. Always one step ahead.

But for the first time, I'm not sure I want to run anymore.

I want answers.

I want truth.

I want him .

By lunch, I'm wound so tight with anticipation that my hands shake. The cafeteria doors loom ahead, and I hesitate. Part of me wants to retreat to the library, to hide in the stacks where I'm safe from stares and whispers. Where I can pretend last night didn't happen.

But before I can turn away, a warm hand catches my wrist. My heart stutters as Wren steps close behind me, his chest pressing against my back.

"Going somewhere, Ballerina?"

His breath stirs my hair, and memories of last night flood back. His fingers inside me, the way he made me come while my mother stood outside my door. Heat rushes to my face.

"I—"

"No more hiding." His grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to make his point. Then he's guiding me forward, through the doors, and straight to the center table. His territory.

I try to pull away, panic rising as heads turn to watch us. But his arm snakes around my waist, and before I can protest, he drops into his usual seat and pulls me into his lap.

"Wren—" My voice catches as his hands settle on my hips.

"Shhh." His lips brush my ear. "Everyone is watching."

I sit stiffly in his lap, caught between wanting to run and being unable to move. His presence surrounds me, overwhelming my senses, making it impossible to think clearly. Every stare from the other students feels like a physical touch, stripping away the invisibility I've relied on for so long.

"You're thinking too much." His tongue licks along my ear, sending shivers down my spine. One hand pushes under the edge of my shirt, fingers stroking bare skin where no one can see.

Heat floods my face. Across the table, Monty smirks while Nico pretends to be fascinated by his phone. They know. They must know what happened, what I let him do to me.

His other hand slides up my thigh, and I have to bite my lip to stay quiet. "Stop it!"

"Why?" His teeth graze my earlobe. "Because people are watching? Because they can see how badly you want my hands on you?" His fingers inch higher, hidden by the table but still too bold, too public. “Because you like it?”

I squirm, trying to escape his touch without drawing more attention, but he just pulls me closer, his grip tightening. "Be still, or we’ll give everyone a performance they’ll never forget."

The hard length of him pressed against me makes his meaning clear. My pulse races as his hands continue their exploration, each touch just proper enough that no one could prove anything inappropriate, but intimate enough to leave me breathless.

"Meet me in the dance studio after school." His voice is low, meant only for me.

"Why?"

"Because I own your secrets now, Ballerina." His hand on my thigh moves inwards, fingers brushing too close to a part of me that aches. "And it's time you learned exactly what they are."