6. The First Move

CHAPTER 6

The First Move

WREN

I get to math class early, choosing my seat with care. Yesterday’s orange juice mishap hooked my attention, but this morning’s hallway encounter? That made her irresistible.

The empty classroom gives me the perfect opportunity to plan. I settle at the desk directly behind her usual spot, anticipation buzzing under my skin. The chaos of students filtering in is just white noise to me, meaningless compared to what’s about to happen.

When she appears in the doorway, my pulse quickens, surprising me. She freezes for a heartbeat, eyes darting around the room until they land on me. The color drains from her face, then she forces her shoulders back, lifts her chin, and pretends she hasn’t seen me.

But it’s an act. A clumsy one.

She approaches her desk with the quiet deliberation of prey trying not to draw a predator’s attention. My friends spill into the room next, claiming the surrounding seats, clearing out anyone too close. No one protests. They know better.

Ileana lowers herself into her chair slowly, as if it might collapse beneath her. The tension radiates off her, her awareness of me palpable. I lean back, stretch my legs, and let my foot nudge her chair leg—a slight tap. She stiffens.

The teacher starts talking, and she lets out a breath, relaxing a little. I can almost hear her thoughts.

She thinks she’s safe now. Protected by the teacher being here. She thinks the teacher’s presence is enough to shield her.

She’s wrong.

I study the elegant line of her neck. Her skin is bare, vulnerable, the ponytail only emphasizing how exposed she is. Deliberate or not, it’s an invitation I can’t resist. I drag my pen lightly across the back of her neck, just below her hairline.

“Tell me, Ballerina,” I whisper, voice low enough that only she can hear me. “Do you always try this hard to be invisible, or is it just a school thing?”

A shiver runs through her, but she keeps her face forward, pen moving across her notebook in shaky lines.

“I saw you dance yesterday. Nothing invisible about that .” I keep my voice calm, almost casual. “The way you move … it’s like you become someone else entirely.”

Her pen stills, knuckles turning white around it.

I press my foot against her chair, pushing just hard enough that it shifts forward. She catches herself against the desk, her hands trembling as she tries to steady herself.

“You’re good at pretending. At playing the quiet, forgettable girl. But that’s not really you, is it?”

She says nothing, but her breathing picks up, shallow and fast. I tap my pen against her chair leg, a slow steady rhythm designed to unnerve her, while she struggles to keep her focus on the teacher.

“I wonder what it would take.” Another tap. “What would make you stop pretending?”

She angles herself away from my voice. As if that can block me out. It only makes me lean closer.

“What are you hiding from, I wonder?” My voice drops to a silky murmur. “Or should I ask who? ”

Her pen slips, creating a jagged line across her notes, and her entire body tenses, but she doesn’t look back at me.

Perfect .

“Your father seems very … protective .” I time the words carefully, watching how they land. “Always waiting by the window when you come home. Always watching.”

A tiny gasp escapes her, quickly stifled.

Interesting .

I press my advantage, lowering my voice more. “Does he know about your dancing? About how alive you become when you think no one is watching?”

The pen snaps in her grip, ink spreading across her fingers. She stares at the mess. The teacher drones on, oblivious, his words drowned out by the sound of her shallow breaths.

“Careful there.” I’m close enough now that my breath stirs the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. “You’re making a mess.”

She fumbles for a tissue, trying to clean the ink from her skin, her movements jerky. I give her a moment, count the seconds until her shoulders start to relax, then trace my pen up her spine, one vertebra at a time.

“You know what intrigues me?” I drag the pen back down. “How someone who dances with such confidence can spend so much time trying to disappear.”

Her fingers tighten around the tissue.

“Tell me,” I continue, tapping the pen against her shoulder blade. “Do you practice that in the mirror? The way you fold yourself smaller, and keep your eyes down? Or did daddy dearest teach you that?”

Her breath hitches. It’s slight, barely noticeable, but I catch it, and store it away, a detail for examination later.

The teacher turns to write something on the board, and I take the opportunity to kick her chair harder this time. She braces herself, her notebook sliding across the desk. She scrambles to catch it, her movements frantic.

“Clumsy.” I smile, even though she can’t see me. “Not like you are in the studio. There, you’re …” I pause, letting the tension build while she waits for what I might say. “You’re graceful. Passionate. Free. ”

Her pen barely moves now, her notes forgotten. I wait, let her think she has a moment’s peace, then hook my foot around her chair leg, dragging it back just an inch.

A small gasp escapes her.

Victory .

“I especially liked that turn sequence you were working on yesterday.” My tone is conversational, light, like I haven’t just pulled her closer. “The one you kept repeating. Over and over. Never quite perfect enough, was it?”

Her pen stills completely.

“You spent twenty minutes just on that one move. Trying to get it right.”

This time when she inhales, it’s unsteady. Scared . She’s realizing exactly how much I’ve seen.

I press my foot against the back of her chair, not enough to move it, just enough to remind her I’m still here. That I can touch her whenever I want.

“Want to know what else I’ve noticed?”

She shakes her head, the tiniest movement. The first direct response she’s given me.

I lean closer, until my lips nearly touch the back of her neck. “Too bad. I’m going to tell you anyway.”

The teacher calls on someone in the front row to solve an equation, and the brief distraction gives her a moment to compose herself. Unfortunately for her, I’m not done with her yet.

“Like how you always take the long way home,” I whisper. “Past the coffee shop on Trent. Sometimes, usually Friday’s, you stop and watch the people inside. Wonder what that’s about?”

I kick her chair again. Her elbow knocks her pencil case off the desk, scattering pens across the floor. Heads turn at the noise. She freezes, her face flushing as unwanted attention falls on her.

I wait. Let the noise settle, let everyone look away, before I lean back in.

“Or how about the way you press your hand against the studio mirror after you finish dancing? Like you’re trying to hold onto something that keeps slipping away.”

Her breathing is faster now, every inhale and exhale betraying the panic she’s trying too hard to contain. Her fingers curl into fists on her desk. She’s fighting the urge to turn around, to confront me. But she won’t. Not yet.

I spend the next fifteen minutes keeping her off balance—silence, then whispers, never giving her time to breathe. Every time she starts to steady herself, I find a new way to shake her foundation.

“Do you like it, Ballerina?” I whisper at one point. “The way it feels when someone is watching you? Really watching?”

She flinches, fingers tightening around her pen until I wonder if it’ll snap again.

“You think you can hide. But I see you. Every little detail. Every time you falter. Every time you let that mask drop.”

The teacher’s voice fades into the background, the classroom nothing but a blur of meaningless noise. All that matters is her. Her reactions. Her fear. The way she’s trying so hard to keep it together.

“Tell me something. Does he know? Your father, I mean. Does he know how badly you want to be seen?”

Her entire body goes rigid, and her silence is louder than any response she could have given me.

I let the moment stretch, let her drown in it, then slowly lean back, giving her space just as the teacher turns back to the class. Her shoulders slump, the tension releasing all at once, but I know better. She’s wound up tight, the panic coiled inside her like a spring.

By the time the bell rings, she’s shaking so badly she can barely pack her books away. She shoves them into her bag, papers crumpling in her haste to escape. But the door is blocked by other students, forcing her to wait.

I take my time timing my approach. When she reaches the door, I’m already there, my frame blocking her exit. She pulls up short, those wide eyes finally meeting mine. Beneath the fear, beneath the anxiety, I catch a glimpse of something new … something that just deepens my interest.

Defiance .

“Going somewhere?” The words hang between us .

She doesn’t answer, but her chin lifts, just a fraction. It’s the smallest act of rebellion, but it’s there, and it’s enough to spark something dark and eager inside me.

Her lips part, and for a second I think she might speak, might actually challenge me. But she swallows it down, gaze jumping away from mine.

Not yet ready to play my game. That’s fine.

I step aside, leaving her just enough room to ease past, and turn to watch as she hurries away with quick, uneven steps.

Let her think she’s escaping. Let her believe she can hide.

I’ve spent years watching everyone in this school, cataloging their secrets, their weaknesses, their breaking points. But she’s different. Finally, someone worth my attention.

And Ileana Moreno has no idea what that means.

Yet.