79. Loose Threads

CHAPTER 79

Loose Threads

ILEANA

TWO WEEKS LATER

The first few days back in Silverlake Rapids pass in a haze of sensation and adjustment. Wren keeps me in his room initially, wrapped in silk sheets and his possessive embrace, while his father's influence clears away the last traces of federal interference and smoothes the way for us to return to school.

Each morning, I wake to his eyes on me, his hands tracing lazy patterns on my skin, his mouth claiming mine before I’m fully conscious. The isolation should feel like another cage, but instead, it feels like freedom. The freedom to exist fully and completely, without hiding any part of myself.

He takes care of me in ways I never expected. It's not just the possessiveness, it's the way he ensures I eat, and the way he keeps me grounded when I start to lose myself in the chaos of everything that's happened. His insistence isn't soft or gentle, but it's exactly what I need. He knows my limits better than I do, and his demands make me feel safe, cherished, and completely his.

When we return to school, whispers follow us through the halls, but I don’t try to fade into the dark anymore. Wren's hand on my lower back, his possessive touches between classes, the marks he's left on my throat. Everything declares exactly who I belong to now. Even the teachers seem uncertain how to handle the new dynamic.

Now, two weeks later, I'm standing in the east wing that will become our space. Sunlight streams through tall windows, catching dust motes stirred by the constant movement of movers and boxes. Monty and Nico arrived early to help, their presence a reminder that some things haven't changed, even if everything else has.

"Christ, you've gotten even worse with the photography," Monty mutters, sorting through another pile of prints. "At least before you just used your phone. Now it's?—"

"Those aren't for your eyes." Wren’s voice carries that dangerous edge I've come to crave.

"Clearly. I need eye bleach, and possibly therapy to get over them." Monty shoves the photographs back into their folder and reaches for another box. He pauses, pulling out a memory card. "Hey, aren't these the shots from the crash? From when that car hit the school?"

Wren's expression shifts, that piercing focus turning toward a new target. He abandons the surveillance equipment he's dismantling and crosses to where Monty stands.

"I never did figure out what was behind that." His voice is thoughtful as he takes the card, turning it over in his fingers. "Got ..." His eyes lift to meet mine, and a smile tips one corner of his mouth up. "Got distracted by other mysteries."

I remember that day. Standing beside him on the steps, his fingers around my wrist, watching someone disappear into the trees while chaos erupted around us. It feels like another lifetime, though barely a month has passed.

His gaze locks on me, the intensity deepening.

"Do you want to watch it?" The invitation isn't gentle. It's a demand to stand beside him, to share his world. I nod, stepping closer.

He slides the card into his laptop. "Something about it wasn't right. The timing was weird. It made no sense."

Security footage fills the screen. Students pouring out of the building, phones raised to capture the spectacle. But Wren focuses on the edges of the frame, on the spaces between the obvious chaos.

"There." His finger taps a figure on screen. "Moving away from the crowd instead of toward it. Heading for the science wing while everyone else runs forward."

"The midterms were that week," Nico says slowly. "Advanced Chemistry. Half the football team was on academic probation."

Wren pulls up another camera angle. "And where was the exam office?"

"Other side of the building." I move closer, drawn to his intensity. After days of being his sole focus, watching him turn that keen attention to solving a mystery sends heat curling through me. "While everyone filmed the crash ..."

"Someone had time to get in and out without being noticed." Wren's smile turns sharp. "The missing plates, no key in the ignition. It was all staged. Create enough chaos, and no one looks past the obvious."

"So who ran into the trees?" Monty asks.

"Check the varsity roster against student schedules." Wren's fingers move across the keys. "Who had the most to lose from failing chemistry?"

I watch, fascinated, as Wren connects the pieces together.

The car was reported stolen from a local garage. The perfectly timed distraction. The desperate need to maintain grades for scholarships.

Is that how he discovered all the hidden threads of my life?

"All that drama just to steal test answers?" Nico shakes his head.

"Sometimes the simplest answer is the right one." I find myself smiling at the sheer normalcy of it. After federal agents and hidden identities, after days of adjusting to this new life with Wren, regular high school drama feels almost refreshing.

"Should we do something about it?" Monty asks.

Wren's eyes lock on mine, a challenge there, a spark of something more. "What do you think we should do, Ballerina? "

I meet his gaze, holding it for a moment before a smile tugs at my lips. "Why bother?" I lean against his desk. "Some secrets aren't worth worrying about. It’ll be obvious they cheated at some point without us having to prove it."

His smile turns predatory, his eyes darkening with something possessive, something primal.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, his grip on my hip tightening. "You're learning, aren't you? To pick and choose what secrets to share and which to keep."

"We should probably finish getting you settled," Monty says, closing the laptop. He stretches, shooting Wren an amused look. "Before you get distracted again."

For the next few hours, we unpack, finding places for everything in our new space. Nico complains about the heavy lifting while Monty actually helps, and it feels almost normal—even if the circumstances that brought me here are anything but.

When the sun starts to set, casting long shadows through the tall windows, Monty stretches dramatically. "Well, that's all the manual labor you're getting out of me today." He bumps Nico's shoulder. "Come on, we've got that thing."

Wren walks them out, his fingers trailing possessively down my spine as he passes. The quiet settles around me like a blanket as their footsteps fade. This wing of the house holds so many mysteries, so many unopened doors. I find myself drawn to explore, trailing my fingers along the walls, wondering what secrets Wren's family home contains.

I'm lost in these thoughts when his hand closes around my wrist, stopping me mid-step. His touch is different—tighter, less careful than usual. When I look up at him, there's something in his eyes I've never seen before, something that makes my breath catch.

"Close your eyes." His voice is low and intense.

I obey without hesitation, letting him guide me through the halls. The air grows cooler, stiller, as if we're walking into a place time forgot. He positions me carefully, his hands firm on my shoulders.

"Keep them closed."

I hear the click of a key in a lock, the creak of heavy hinges. His hands drop down to my hips, pulling me back against him. "Now open them."

Moonlight spills through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a space that seems frozen in time. Mirrors line one wall, their surfaces clouded with age but still managing to capture our silhouettes like ghosts in the darkness. A ballet barre runs the length of the room, its wooden surface worn to a dark sheen by countless hours of practice.

Wren's hand finds the switch, and soft light blooms from crystal sconces. In one corner, an ancient record player sits in state, surrounded by vinyl records. But it's the glass display case that draws my eye. Inside, a pair of pointe shoes rests on midnight blue silk, the satin faded to the color of dried blood.

"This was my grandmother's studio," Wren says, his voice thick with something that sounds like pride and possession tangled together. His fingers dig into my hips as he walks me toward the glass display case. "She was a prima ballerina with the Royal Ballet. Their youngest ever." His breath is hot against my neck as we stare at the shoes.

"She understood what it meant to be consumed by perfection." Each word falls like a stone in still water. "To push past every limit until there's nothing left but grace and steel and hunger." His eyes find mine in the clouded mirror, burning with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "She would have understood what I see when I watch you dance."

I step closer to the case, drawn by the history it contains. My fingers hover just above the glass, not quite touching. "What happened to her?"

"She had a stroke when I was eleven." His grip tightens, fingers pressing into my skin. "One minute she was dancing, the next ..." He trails off, and I feel the tension in his body. "Everything is exactly as she left it that morning. This room hasn't been opened since the day she went into the hospital."

The raw edge in his voice, the way his fingers press into my skin … it's a glimpse into his past. I turn in his arms, drawn to the vulnerability beneath his usual control. But the darkness I see in his eyes now isn't grief. It's need.

"Dance for me here, where she used to dance. Let me watch you move in her space."

How can I refuse?

I take off my shoes and step into the center of the room. The urge to move, to let my body express everything I can't put into words, takes over. I begin to dance, slowly at first, letting my muscles warm up, then faster, the movements flowing into one another, my feet barely touching the ground.

I don't hear Wren move, but I can feel his presence. A dark, electric current that shifts the air, making every nerve in my body stand at attention. I spin to a stop, my breath coming in quick gasps, and find him watching, dark eyes intense.

"Don't stop." His voice is a dark growl laced with that obsession I love so much. "I need to see you. Every part of you, mine to watch."

There's no fear in me anymore, no urge to hide. Holding his gaze, I peel off my T-shirt and toss it to one side, then push down my yoga pants. In my bra and panties, I dance, my body moving to an unspoken rhythm, my eyes never leaving his. His gaze is possessive, admiring, and hungry.

When I finally stop, he's across the room in a heartbeat, his hands seizing my waist, pulling me flush against him. His eyes are dark, burning with something almost feral. His breath is hot, ragged, against my ear.

"You're mine, Ballerina. I'm going to etch that into every inch of you." His grip tightens, his voice vibrating through me. "Until there's nothing left but us. Just you and me—consumed by this madness."

The east wing is just the beginning. Another step in the dark, twisted dance that binds us, born from obsession and sealed in shadows. A life forged from intensity and a hunger that will never be sated.

It will consume us, devour everything that stands in our way, until there's nothing left but this raw, visceral connection between us.

Together.

In the darkness that binds us.

Forever.