52. The Game Changes

CHAPTER 52

The Game Changes

WREN

Patience is an art.

One I've mastered over years of watching people, learning their weaknesses, finding the perfect moment to strike. But tonight that patience feels like a living thing under my skin, making my fingers tap against the surveillance photographs spread across my desk.

Images of Ileana fill my screens—evidence of my obsession. Walking home, sitting in class, dancing alone. My fingers trace over her face in the latest print. We’re standing in front of the mirror, her body leaning back into mine, the fingers of one hand between her legs. It makes me hard, makes me regret not bending her over the barre and fucking her. But I have a plan, and that final scene is reserved for when I give her the final truth about who she is.

The way her body felt against mine in the dance studio, the push and pull, the way she surrendered to my touch. It ignited something in me, a hunger that grows with every boundary I step over. I need to see her again. To touch her. To mold her. To claim her as mine.

The security feed pings, drawing my attention. There’s movement at the front gate again. Probably another false alarm. Another deer wandering too close to the sensors. But I check anyway, clicking through camera feeds out of habit.

And everything inside me goes still.

There, bathed in the ghostly glow of the night vision camera, is Ileana.

In the blue dress.

Alone.

For several heartbeats, I just stare at the screen. This isn't possible. This isn't part of my plan. She's supposed to be at home, wrestling with the hints I gave her about her past, letting them torment her until tomorrow. She wasn’t supposed to come to me.

Not yet. Not like this.

But there she is, her chin lifted with that same defiance I saw when she challenged me in the studio. The cameras catch every detail. How she pauses at the gate, not in fear but in consideration. The way she straightens her spine before pushing it open.

Why is she here?

The tap of my fingers stops, tension moving through me as I watch her step onto my property like she has every right to be here. She looks different in the dress than she did in the dance studio. Not a symbol of my control anymore, but of her choice to wear it. To come here.

She moves forward with purpose now, the dress shimmering in the moonlight. She’s stepped right out of my darkest fantasies, refusing to follow the script I wrote for her. She looks ethereal, dangerous in a way I didn’t expect. A pulse of something visceral shoots through me—like missing a step in a dance I’ve perfected.

She’s here, in my domain, and with every step she takes, she’s defying me. But fuck, she's beautiful in that dress.

I track her through the feeds, watching as she passes the edge of the woods. Every step strips away another layer of my defenses. She hesitates at the fork in the path, one leading to the house, the other leading deeper into the trees. For a moment, uncertainty crosses her face. Then she lifts her chin and takes the wrong one.

Perfect .

I track her through the feeds, switching cameras as she moves deeper into the woods. The dress marks her like a target, weaving between dark trunks. My knowledge of these woods runs deep.

She doesn’t know these woods like I do. Every hidden path, every twist and turn. They’re all mine. A smile pulls my lips up.

She’s walked right into my favorite game.

My eyes move from the feed to the camera on my desk. The lens I ordered specifically for low-light conditions sits beside it. Almost like everything has been prepared for a moment I didn’t expect to claim yet. I’m checking camera settings as I move through the house. She’s walked right into my territory, wearing my dress, ready to be captured in ways she can’t imagine.

The night air hits my skin as I step outside. Pine needles crunch beneath my feet, decay and loam filling my lungs. She's left traces—broken twigs, crushed leaves, the occasional flash of blue silk caught on branches. Amateur mistakes. She has no fucking idea how to move through the trees without leaving a path to follow.

But I do.

I circle wide through the trees, the camera bouncing against my chest with each silent step. Years of playing in these woods has taught me every shadow, every hidden path. A branch snaps somewhere ahead. I stop, head tilting as I track the sound. She’s close. Moving east, trying to find the house through the maze of trunks. I raise my camera, frame the shot through leaves.

Click . Her face turned away, shoulders tense but spine straight.

I make my presence known—rustle of leaves, the faint crunch of a footstep—before going silent.

She twists, catching me off guard. Breaks free, and runs.

Fucking. Perfect .

Now the real hunt can begin.

I track her easily, my knowledge of the woods allowing me to cut her off whenever I need to. Each time I get close, I let her get away—prolonging the game, savoring how she fights to keep her composure. My camera captures it all. Her determination, her desperation, the way the dress falls apart tear by tear.

She bursts through the trees into a clearing, and I follow slowly. Let her see me approach. Let her see that it doesn’t matter where she runs, I’ll always find her.

The dress hangs in tatters, her skin marked by scratches. I want to run my tongue over them. I want to taste her more than I’ve wanted anything in my life.

“Nowhere left to run, Ballerina.”

She backs away, eyes never leaving mine. There’s a fire in her gaze now, rebellion burning brighter than fear, and it calls to something inside me. My camera lifts one more time, capturing her in this moment. Wild, disheveled, refusing to break.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

Her eyes narrow. “You don’t get to decide that anymore.” But then she turns, the skirts of her dress flaring outward as she bolts back into the darkness.

A laugh breaks free.

Oh, I like this .

She’s learning to fight back, and fuck if it doesn’t make me want her more.

“Run, Ballerina,” I call. “Run. Make me chase you.”

I give her a head start, counting the seconds out loud, my heartbeat matching the rhythm of the hunt. And then I move.

She’s fast. But not fast enough. These woods are mine , and every step she takes only makes me hungrier. She stumbles, her foot catching on a root, a soft cry escaping her lips, and my smile widens.

“Keep going.”

Her head snaps up, eyes locking on mine, that same determination still burning in them.

“Run, pretty Ballerina.”

She hesitates, then she takes off running. When she next stumbles, her knees hit the dirt. I circle her, stop in front of her, and reach out to press two fingers beneath her chin and tip her head up.

I take a photograph of her like that. The straps of her dress hanging off her shoulders, tears in the material giving me glimpses of perfect skin beneath. My hand moves down, my fingers curling around her throat, and I squeeze.

“Tell me who I am.” She grits the words out, still fighting even now .

I laugh, and she shivers. “Oh, pretty Ballerina. By the time I’m done with you, who you were won’t matter anymore.” I use my grip on her throat to pull her to her feet and into my body, letting her feel how hard my dick is against her stomach. “All that matters is what I turn you into.”

My mouth claims hers, swallowing her gasp. She tastes like fear, defiance, and desire all at once.

She tastes perfect.

She tastes like mine.

This hunt might not have been in tonight’s plan, but the outcome was inevitable. She came to me willingly. Now she’ll learn exactly what the choice means.

“You want answers? What are you willing to trade for the truth?”

Her eyes meet mine when I lift my head, something fierce and desperate in her gaze. "What do you want?"

"Everything." The word comes out before I can stop it.

I want her fear. I want her trust. I want her body. I want her soul.

I want her to be mine in every sense of the word.

I want to break her, and build her back up.

I want to be the only one she turns to, the only one she needs.