9. Morning Games

CHAPTER 9

Morning Games

ILEANA

I hate mornings.

For two days, I've been jumping at shadows, checking over my shoulder, waiting for Wren's next move. Dark circles smudge under my eyes, too deep for concealer to cover. But it's not just exhaustion wearing me down—it's the anticipation. The knowledge that he's watching. Waiting. Playing whatever game this is.

The halls are quiet when I reach my locker, but quiet means nothing . Wren has a way of appearing when I least expect it.

"Good morning, Ballerina."

My heart slams against my ribs. His voice comes from directly behind me. I didn’t even hear him approach.

"Did you sleep well?" The question sounds innocent, but his tone has a razor edge that slices into me. "You kept your curtains closed all night. Scared of the dark?"

My fingers stop moving on my locker combination. How does he know that?

"Or maybe ..." His voice drops lower. "Maybe you were scared of what might be watching from outside?"

I force myself to turn around, to face him. He's even closer than I expected, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"What do you want?"

His eyes darken, amusement dancing in their depths. "Want?" He places one hand against the locker beside my head, caging me in. "I want to know why you hide yourself away, Ileana. Why you dance alone in an abandoned studio. Why your father insists on keeping you invisible."

He shouldn't know any of that.

"Have you been following me?"

"Following implies I had to chase." His other hand comes up, finger tracing the air just above the dark circle under my eye. "But you make it so easy to watch. So easy to learn all your little secrets."

He’s trying to get under my skin. I duck under his hand, but his arm moves in time with me, blocking my escape. I glare up at him.

“Stop it.”

"Not yet. We're not done."

“Then be done.” I lift my chin, even though my stomach is twisting into knots. “Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not interested.”

His eyes search mine, and for a moment, something almost like curiosity flashes across his face. Then it's gone, replaced by that predatory smile I’m beginning to know so well.

"But I've only just started paying attention." He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear as he speaks. "And you're far too interesting to ignore now."

A shiver runs down my spine, but I hold his gaze. “You’re only paying attention to me because you’re bored.”

His smirk falters for half a second, then returns. “Bored? Maybe. Or maybe I just see what no one else does.”

“You don’t know anything about me!”

“Don’t I? You pretend to be invisible, but you’re not. I see you. Every move. Every breath. You’re not like the rest of them.” His hand moves to my face, cupping my jaw, thumb stroking over my bottom lip. “You’re … captivating.”

I jerk away, but his fingers trail down to my chin, tilting my head up.

"What do you think your father would say if he knew?" His words are soft, but the threat is clear. "If he knew about the dance studio, about the secrets you keep?"

“He wouldn’t care.” I pray that my voice doesn’t give the lie away .

His head angles, his smirk growing wider. “No? Then why are you so scared?”

“I’m not scared.” The words rush out too fast.

“Liar.” The word comes out lazy, amused. “But that’s okay. Fear suits you. It’s just another kind of secret, isn’t it? Something you don’t want anyone else to see.”

I press my lips together, willing myself not to react.

“Secrets make everything more interesting, don’t you think? They bind people together.”

I try to turn my head, but his fingers tighten on my jaw, just enough to keep me in place. It isn’t painful, but it isn’t meant to be. It’s a reminder that he’s the one with all the power right now.

“You’re not invisible anymore.”

I force myself to meet his gaze. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“No? Then tell me, Ballerina … when was the last time anyone saw you? Really saw you?”

My lips part, but nothing comes out. His smirk shifts, something darker creeping into his expression.

“I see everything. Every crack. Every fracture. And it’s beautiful.”

The bell rings, making me jump. Wren doesn’t move for a long moment, eyes locked on mine. Whatever he sees makes his smile widen.

“See you in English, Ileana.”

He steps back, and I practically run to my first class, my heart thundering in my ears.

English comes too quickly, and I find myself trapped at my desk while Wren sits behind me. Every few minutes, I feel the light touch of his pen against my back, tracing patterns I can't decipher. Each touch makes me flinch.

"Your father called the school three times last year," he murmurs. "Asking them to make sure you weren't participating in any after-school activities. Interesting, don't you think?"

I grip my pen tighter, trying to focus on the teacher's discussion of Shakespeare's sonnets .

"He seems very protective." Another light touch of his pen. "Or controlling. I wonder which it is."

How does he know these things?

"Did you know you have exactly seven leotards? All black, all worn in the same rotation." He lets out a low laugh. "You wash them on Tuesday nights after your father goes to bed. Very organized."

How did he get into the building? When did he watch me do my laundry?

I stare hard at my notebook, where I've been writing the same line from Sonnet 18 over and over.

"Mr. Carlisle." The teacher's voice cuts through my panic. "Since you seem so engaged, perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts on Lady Macbeth's manipulation of her husband? How she uses his weaknesses against him?"

Although I can't see his face, I can hear the smile in Wren’s voice.

"Lady Macbeth understands the art of control." His voice is smooth, confident. "She recognizes that true power lies not in forcing someone to act, but in making them believe they want to. The best manipulation is the kind where your target doesn't even realize they're being led."

"Very good." The teacher nods approvingly, completely missing the way Wren's pen presses harder against my back on the word 'target'.

"Speaking of manipulation," he murmurs once the teacher turns away, "I wonder what it would take to break those routines of yours. I wonder how far you’d go to keep your secrets safe.”

My breath catches. "You wouldn't."

“Wouldn’t what? Test your limits?” His voice is soft. “But you’re too intriguing not to. After all, what’s the point in knowing all your secrets if I can’t see how much they mean to you?”

The teacher's voice drones on about Shakespeare's use of metaphor, but all I can focus on is Wren's voice and the threatening promise in each word.

"It's interesting," he continues, "how someone who works so hard to be invisible has such ... distinctive habits. Like how you always eat lunch at exactly twelve forty-seven. Or how you only use pens with blue ink." His pen taps against my shoulder blade. "Such specific routines for someone trying not to be noticed."

I grip my pen so hard I'm surprised it doesn't snap like the last one. "I'm not hiding anything."

"No?" His pen traces what feels like letters across my back. "Then why does your father check the locks three times every night? Why does he pull the curtains closed the moment the sun starts setting? What's he so afraid of, pretty Ballerina?"

The bell can't come soon enough. But every minute until then is filled with his whispered observations, his pen maintaining constant contact, like he's marking me as his territory. By the time class ends, my skin feels hypersensitive, like he's stripped away all my protective layers with just his words and the touch of his pen, leaving me bare to the world.

When the bell goes, everyone moves, shoving their things into bags, calling out to friends, while the teacher shouts over the top with instructions to finish our breakdown of the metaphors found in Sonnet 18. I'm not sure how many people are listening to him, though. Most of them are still talking about yesterday’s car crash and wondering if there's any more news to be found.

I move away from my desk without checking behind me, heading straight for the door. Relief washes over me when Wren doesn’t call my name, and I make it to my locker without interruption.

That relief is short-lived. When I turn away, he's there—leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, arms folded, staring at me.

I grit my teeth.

Why won't he leave me alone?

As if he knows what I'm thinking, one corner of his mouth tips up. He thinks it's funny. He's amused by how he's putting me on edge. He likes it.

I drag my gaze away from him, sling my bag over my shoulder, and turn my back on him. I'm not going to let him intimidate me. But I know I can't go to the dance studio—not after this morning. Not after he revealed how much he's been watching me there. The thought of being alone in that space, knowing he might be at the window, makes my skin crawl.

I have a free period, and for the first time since Mrs. Reynolds left, I can't seek refuge in the dance studio. He's tainted it. Turned my sanctuary into another place where I have to look over my shoulder. Instead of taking a right turn and walking across the courtyard, I take a left and go to the library. Maybe there, surrounded by other students, I can find some peace.

I used to go to the library every day, back when we still had a dance teacher and designated hours for the class, but I stopped going after someone sat at the table I'd chosen and tried to have a conversation with me. It made me uncomfortable, so I left. I haven't been back since. That has to have been over a year ago now.

When I push through the double doors, a wave of familiarity hits me. It hasn't changed at all. It still has the same hushed feel, the same smell, and it's soothing in an odd kind of way. I make my way across the room, and past the stacks until I'm right at the back. There's a small table set in a corner, and I dump my bag onto it and sit in the only chair.

I'll finish the English homework, that way I can wait until Wren leaves after school and then spend some time in the dance studio. I can tell my dad that I was doing homework. He won't argue with that. Having good grades is important to him. It’s what I used to say when I stayed after school for dance class. That was the first time I defied him, and if he knew I was dancing, practicing, he'd put a stop to it somehow.

I settle down to work, my head bowed and my pen moving over the paper, as I lose myself in Shakespeare's words and possible meanings. I'm so focused, I don't hear the soft footfall, or notice the shadow falling over my table.

“Ileana, right?” A female voice breaks my concentration, and I jump, dropping my pen.

Lottie Mitchell stands beside the table, blonde hair in a perfect high ponytail. It swings as she tips her head, looking down at me. In all the years we've been at school together, she's never spoken to me. Yet she knows my name.

This can't be good.

She glances around, and I can't take my eyes off her hair, the way it sways. Long pink fingernails tap my book, dragging my attention away.

"I'm sorry, did you need something?"

Her lips curve up. I have to stop myself from looking over my shoulder to see who she's smiling at. It can’t be me. I don’t mix with the popular girls. I don’t mix with anyone.

Why is she here?

"Listen ..." She looks around, forehead crinkling. "Why are there so few seats back here?" She frowns, vanishes for a moment, then returns with a chair.

I watch in horrified fascination as she sets it down, sits, and props her chin on her hand, staring at me.

“Is there something I can help you with?” I force the words out.

“Oh!” She blinks. “Gosh, I’m staring, aren’t I? I’m so sorry. It’s just ... You’re not new, obviously, yet I don’t remember ever seeing you before today.”

“Before today?” My heart sinks.

“Stay away from Wren Carlisle.”

I can’t help myself—I laugh, then cover my mouth. “I’m sorry.”

"I'm serious, Ileana. He's not someone you want to fool around with. He'll eat you alive."

"Oh believe me, I'm doing everything I can to stay out of his way. I don't want his attention, so you don't need to worry."

"Worry?" She frowns, then blinks at me. "Oh, no! No no no no. I'm not warning you away from him because I want him. God no!" She shudders. "He gives me the creeps. Most of the girls avoid him. I just wanted to tell you to be careful, and to say that if he ever makes you uncomfortable, come and sit with us. You don't have to be alone."

I'm not sure what to say to that. I've gone through years of school with this girl, and this is the first time she's ever made that offer.

"Thank you." I try hard not to make the words sound more like a question, and I think I succeed because she gives me a bright smile.

"Okay. Good. I'd hate to hear something happened to you, when I could have helped stop it."

"Stop it? What?" Cold fingers of dread creep down my spine. "What kind of something?"

She looks from side to side, then leans across the table and lowers her voice. "Carlisle and his friends like to play games ... sometimes they don't end well for whoever they pick as their playmates."