Page 7 of Souls and Sorrows

“I’ve never seen anyone look at someone like this,” Vincenza mutters.

Sighing, I lean against our table and adjust the white sash I didn’t want to wear. “Likewhat?”

“Like… they want to devour you whole.”

Something light and airy feathers over me, like a butterfly’s wings fluttering against my skin. I ignore it as Mamma’s voice rings in my ears, telling me not to trust the attention.

“No offense, Vin,” I counter, swirling the ice in my drink, “but how would you know what that looks like?”

She makes a face. “You know, Ari, you don’t have to be such a bitchallthe time. Take a freaking holiday every once in a while.”

“I could, but someone has to keep you humble.”

“Hilarious. When you quit ballet, I didn’t realize it was because you took up comedy.”

A sharp pain pierces my chest, but I pretend I don’t feel it, not interested in entertaining her jabs. Although I’m starting to remember why we stopped being friends in the first place.

Taking my glass in one hand, I give her a saccharine smile and swivel around in my seat to scan the club.

As I turn around and look out at the tables peppering the main area outside the bar, I expect to be met with some severe leering. Instead, my chest deflates ever so slightly when I realize no one—notonesingle person—is paying me any mind.

Every patron seems to be off in their own little world, chattering with mouths full of food or drinking and enjoying their company. A few linger near the stage as the girls change sets, waiting for the first look at who might come out next.

What’s the point in going out if no one even notices you?

I make another sweep of the floor, pausing to watch the dancer flip herself upside down and hook her calf around the pole, before moving to look at the back walls.

Tucked away in a corner, the imposing form of a tall, broad man sits statue still—so still that I almost mistake him for decor. A chill sweeps over me as I take him in. He leans back, arms outstretched over the booth, as he watches the crowd with what appears to be practiced disinterest. Almost as if it’s something he has to actively work at.

Or perhaps he’s observing. A hunter, gathering intelligence for when he goes in for a kill.

Seated directly beneath a wall sconce, I can make out the dark blond, almost-brown hair combed neatly on top of his head. His harsh jaw tapers down into a thick, corded neck that disappears beneath the collar of a charcoal sweater, the sleeves of which are pushed up to reveal strong forearms and long fingers.

Dark eyes lift to mine, capturing my attention like inescapable magnets, and suddenly, my limbs feel unbearably heavy. Like I could easily collapse beneath the weight of his gaze.

But I don’t allow myself even though his rapture feels like warm honey drizzling over my skin. My blood heats, and I shift my thighs, aware that my body is most likely just reacting to the fact that I haven’t had sex in weeks.

It most certainly isn’t because I’m interested.

Jerking my head to the side, I force a disconnect between us before someone else can see and claim I was making googly eyes at a handsome stranger. My fingers find the edge of the table, then crawl inward, and I consider picking my phone up again.

Even though I just turned it off, I’m tempted to check for more missed calls. It’s almost a compulsion at this point.

Sighing, I resist the urge to sate the part of my soul that’s irreparably soiled, knowing I won’t be satisfied with what’s on the phone either way.

Vincenza babbles on about how she wants to spend Christmas in the Maldives, but she’s not even really talking to me anymore as she leans down the table. Slowly, I push my chair back, take my phone and purse, and slip away from the party.

I make my way through the throng of clubgoers, noting how no one but the woman onstage seems to be dancing. Everyone else just watches, entranced, and a pang of envy splits my stomach in half.

It’s been six years since I danced in front of anyone. Six years since I last felt the euphoria that accompanies a heavy stage presence and the weighted breath of an audience with no other interest but to see your body come alive for the music.

Pausing at one of the exits toward the back of the club, I steal a last glance at the stage. The woman, clad in a sheer blue bodysuit and transparent platform heels, sweeps the floor with bright pink hair as she spins and spins andspins.

Like she never wants to stop.

I stare, mesmerized, until I start to feel a little dizzy.

A warm presence suddenly appears at my side, buzzing around me like tiny sparks of light. I suck in a silent breath when electric heat sears my bare elbow, and an earthy, alluring scent assaults my senses, making my toes curl inside of my heels.

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