Page 24 of Dance Omega Dance

I stepped back and looked at the other two grinning at me. “I’ll take you,” Blake said. “But, you have to promise me one thing.”

My eyes narrowed. “What?”

“That you won’t tear those stitches!”

I laughed. “I’ll try not to.” He rolled his eyes and walked away.

Anders turned back to me. “We will leave you to enjoy your studio, but please be careful on that leg of yours.”

I smiled and nodded again. These men, these strangers. They did all of this for me. But... why?

The feeling faltered, thin as glass. One sharp edge of memory, and it shattered. The studio wavered, soft at the edges. Grief rose without warning, thick and fast, and I reached out to the barre, blinking hard, willing it down. No. Not here.

My grip on the barre tightened. I didn’t want to cry. Not in front of them. Not because of this.

They saw. I didn’t have to look to know it. The quiet shift in the air said enough. Breaths held, eyes narrowing in concern. They could feel it, the way my body had gone rigid again, like a door slamming shut.

I straightened my spine. Lifted my chin.Don’t give it away. Don’t let them in.

Trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford, and kindness always carried strings. They hadn’t asked for anything yet, but they would. They always did.

Still... I could feel it. That subtle current running between us. The way they were watching, not with pity, not even curiosity, but something steadier. Something stubborn.

They’d seen too much.

And something told me... they weren’t going to look away.

Taking a deep breath, I raised my chin and looked back at my reflection in the mirror, my green eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears.I can do this. I need this.

With a moment's clarity, I was transported back to my first ballet class, my small hand clutched tightly in my mother's as we walked through the door. I could still feel the awe that had flooded through my five-year-old self as I took in the barre, the mirror, the shining expanse of the room. It had felt like stepping into a fairy tale, a world of magic and beauty and infinite possibility.

My mother had knelt beside me, her face radiant with pride and love as she helped me slip on my pale pink ballet shoes for the first time. "You're going to be wonderful, my little swan," she'd whispered, brushing a kiss against my forehead. "Just remember, the music is already inside you. All you have to do is let it out."

I'd carried those words with me through every class, every rehearsal, every performance. She'd been there for all of it, my safe harbor in a world that felt too big, too bright and too much. With her by my side, I'd been fearless, knowing that I could leap and twirl and soar, and she would always be there to catch me.

But now, standing in this studio that was mine but not mine, I felt the full weight of her absence like a physical ache, a hollow space in my chest that threatened to swallow me whole. The joy and wonder of those early days felt like a cruel mockery now, a reminder of all I had lost, all that had been ripped away from me.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I fought to push back the relentless tide of grief.

Almost without realizing it, I moved into a familiar pose, my body responding to the unheard music of memory. My muscles protested the long-unused positions, but there was a strangecomfort in the ache, the burn of exertion drowning out the pain in my heart.

I lost myself in the rhythm of it, letting the moves drown out the ache of my leg. For the span of a few precious, fleeting moments, I could almost forget the desperate, clawing reality of my existence, could almost believe that I was free, that I was whole, that I was the girl my mother had always believed me to be.

But all too soon, the spell was broken, the music in my head fading into hollow silence. I stilled, my chest heaving with exertion and unspent emotion, my face damp with sweat and tears I hadn't realized I'd been crying. My leg throbbed, but the moment of reprieve had been worth it.

I turned to see my audience, but they were no longer there, giving me the space to dance alone, to work through my problems and treacherous memories. Although, their distance made me ache, the need for their touch took over every cell in my body. Every longing thought, every movement. Is this how it will always feel with them? The pain of the loss of their touch? I sighed, holding on to the barre and looking at myself in the mirror. The girl that stared back at me was a shell of who I once was. Wild, haunted eyes, trembling limbs. I was a pale imitation of the girl who had lived and breathed for the sheer joy of movement, of expression, of connection.

That girl was gone, hardened by the cruel realities of an unforgiving world. How could I even think they would want me, even if we were scent matches? They could tell me I’m theirs all they wanted, but actions spoke louder than words. I pursed my lips. I guessed only time would tell.

But, no matter what happened, I had to fight. Survive. Just like my mother told me to.

It was a terrifying prospect, a leap of faith with no guarantee of a safe landing. But as I took a deep breath and moved oncemore into the familiar steps of my past, I couldn't help but feel the stirrings of the faintest, most tentative flutter of hope.

Chapter Eleven

The day Blake Valensky decided to take me to the ballet shop on the outskirts of town, I realized two things: his piercing blue eyes could potentially melt steel when focused solely on me, and that there was no such thing as a simple trip when your world was literally cracked in half.

"We'll need to skirt around the south end," Blake murmured as we approached his shiny black car. His voice had a protective growl underlying each word, which made you feel like nothing bad could ever get close enough to touch you. The southern route was longer, thanks mainly due not just to traffic, but also because parts of it were still demolished from the earthquake.

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