Page 14 of Vengeful King

It’s scary, unmooring my current self from the stability of what I know. The bills, the blackmail, the reality of my life. But there’s relief in letting go. There’s relief in letting myself be in high school again, just a girl dancing on a stage, young and brimming with some untapped energy.

Maybe there’s still some left in me.

The music comes on. It’s a song I’m familiar with, something on the radio these days. The bass is low and thrumming; the drums roll in the background. There’s a discernible beat to it.

It was made for this. For dancing. For me.

I try to pretend I’m back in high school, more innocent than I am now, more hopeful. I would have believed this was for me back then. I’d probably fantasize that the songwriter wrote the song about me, that I was a muse. A dancer in the dark.

I try not to let my nerves show.

For a second, I indulge. I shut my eyes and think,I’m her again. I’m living in the past, a dream I could have dreamed.

I raise my hands over my head and start to sway. I go slowly at first, careful, like I’m finding my footing. I put one hand on the pole and walk in a slow circle like I’m tracing a path someone left for me. I let my breathing come slower, fill my chest, raise it high.

I take my first long step around the pole, swinging my leg out. I let myself slip down a little, like I’m falling.

God, I missed this.

As my muscles start to return to familiar movements, I throw myself into it more. I swing a leg around the pole, start easing into more complex moves.

I take hold of the bar with both hands, pulling myself up against it. I arch in a perfect curve, leaning back, dipping in a low arc. I let myself slide down, hiding my hand as I slide the straps of my heels off.

I know it’s unusual to take the shoes off, but it feels right. It feels good. I’m taking away everything—all the little shiny pieces I wore to the club, all the unnecessary things. I’m stripping myself down to only me, only what I want him to see.

I step out of my shoes and up to the pole. I’m doing moves that take all my strength and concentration, and my muscles burn as I push myself, my heartbeat pounding in my ears along with the downbeat of the song.

After what feels like just a few seconds or an eternity, I flip over and sink to the ground again as the song fades out.

The moment ends like it’s a broken spell, snapping with a flurry of sparks. I blink, the light suddenly too bright, my chest heaving. I’d forgotten how much strength it takes to pole dance.

And then I remember what I’m doing.

I press my lips together, heart thundering. I can’t see anything. But then the lights come up a little, dim, and I see him. Lachlan.

He’s unreadable. He stands by the lights for a moment, watching me. I don’t know if he wants me to say something, do something. I don’t understand his silence.

He strides up to the stairs suddenly, but his footsteps are measured. Careful. He walks up the steps to the stage like he knows how many there are without looking. I can’t move. I can only watch him approach—and I realize that he has green eyes, like a forest just after rain.

He walks around me when he finally steps up to the stage. I try to stand still, try not to show any discomfort. I don’t know what he wants or what he’s looking for; I only know I can’t waver.

It feels like an inspection. I’m self-conscious, my thoughts racing. Does it look like I’m holding in my stomach? Do I seem too tired? Am I not tired enough?

Do I seem suspicious? Does he know?

But more than that, there’s a thought nagging at me, on repeat in the back of my mind. I don’t want to listen to it, but I can’t help thinking it.

Does he think I’m beautiful?

It’s such a stupid question. But I can’t help it. He must have some kind of standard for his dancers, and it would help me get close to him if he thinks I’m attractive. Even if it feels vain for me to wonder.

I’m wondering about it when he touches me, one hand running lightly over my hip and toward my waist. He traces the curve with just his fingertips, but it’s not intimate or longing. It’s almost clinical, like he’s inspecting me this way, too.

Does he do this with all the dancers?He must. I’m not special.But my throat feels dry. My heart hasn’t stopped racing. I feel just as vulnerable and exposed as when I was dancing.

His touch may be detached, but my body isn’t. As much as I don’t want to react, everything about his touch is making me respond. My body doesn’t care about the situation; all it knows is there’s a man touching me, his hand careful and slow.

Like a promise.

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