Page 2 of Devil of Vegas

Madame smooths the bodice of my tutu with practiced hands and hands me another pair of tights. "You deserve this moment. You've worked hard, sacrificed much. Now go out there and show them what you're made of. Make it all lookeffortless."

I nod, pushing down the tremor in my hands, the ache in my knees. The show must go on. It always does.

The stage swallows me in darkness. I find my mark by muscle memory alone, arms in preparatory position, chin lifted. Waiting.

The music begins—Tchaikovsky's violin crying out my entrance. The curtain rises. Light floods my world.

And I dance.

The audience disappears. The fear evaporates. There is only movement and music, the perfect marriage of athletic precision and artistic expression. Every leap defies gravity. Every turn defies time. This is what I was born for. This is why I endure.

My variation builds to its climax—a series of fouettés into a sequence of pirouettes. Ten rotations from a single preparation. I've done it a thousand times in rehearsal, but never when it mattered. Never with scouts from the major companies watching. Never with my entire future balanced on the knife's edge of a single turn.

I need a focal point. Something steady in my spinning world.

My eyes sweep the balcony, searching. There—a figure against the far wall. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Perfectly still in a sea of shifting bodies. Even in the shadows, he commands attention. Angular features carved from marble. A darkness that has nothing to do with the lighting.

I prepare. I spot. I turn.

One. The figure doesn't move.

Two. Three. Four. Absolute stillness.

Five. Six. Seven. My axis holds true.

Eight. Nine. He might be a statue.

Ten.

I land in the fourth position as the music swells to its conclusion. The applause erupts like thunder, washing over me in waves. Roses rain onto the stage—red as blood, red as victory. My cheeks ache from smiling. Everything I've dreamed of, everything I've bled for, it's here. It's mine.

"Stunningperformance, my dear!" Backstage, Madame Durant sweeps me into a whirlwind of congratulations. "And those pirouettes—your strongest yet!"

She guides me through the crowd with strategic precision. "Come now, there are important figures who want to meet you. People who can make your dance dreams come true."

I shake hands, accept compliments, and make the right sounds at the right times. But my mind keeps drifting to that still figure on the balcony. My anchor. My focal point.

By the time the reception ends, exhaustion weighs on me like a lead blanket. I gather my things from the dressing room—street clothes pulled over my tights, pointe shoes tucked in my bag. The adrenaline fades, leaving only the ache in my feet and the lingering taste of copper in my mouth.

The backstage area is nearly empty now. A few stagehands moving set pieces. The ghost light standing sentinel on the empty stage. I head for the stage door, eager for home and a hot bath.

A sound stops me. Rustling from the wings.

Madame's training kicks in automatically.Always congratulate your fellow performers. Manners are what separate us from the beasts.

I change direction, stepping into the dimly lit wing space. "Beautiful show tonight?—"

The words die in my throat.

A man stands in the shadows, his back to me. Broad shoulders. Tall frame. The same silhouette I'd used as my focal point. But it's what's at his feet that steals my breath.

A body. One of our male dancers—Kyle? Kevin? He'd only joined the company last month. Blond hair now dark with blood. Throat opened in a second smile. So much red spreading across the black floor.

The man turns.

Steel blue eyes meet mine. Angular face, sharp as a blade. Beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful. A knife drips in his hand, catching the ghost light like a ruby pendant.

We stare at each other. Predator and witness. Devil and dancer.

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