Mine to Keep (Mine 2)

He suffered PTSD. That had been Weston’s line.

Just what had happened to Sharpe during his days in the military?

Weston and his secrets…the man was going to drown in them.

Alex marched for the door.

“But at least the bitch got hers, didn’t she?” Now there was smug pleasure in Parker’s voice. “That doc took her and held her in that basement. I bet he did all kinds of things to her…all kinds…”

Alex slowly turned back to stare at Parker. “You’re a sick fuck.”

Parker smiled. “You didn’t say that the first time we met, Detective Griffin. Back then, you were so eager to find out dirt on Trace. You keep digging, and you’ll find plenty.”

He was already staring at dirt. “Skye should’ve pressed charges against you when you tried to rape her.”

Parker flinched.

Sonofabitch—that’s exactly what he had done.

Alex’s hands fisted so hard they ached.

But Parker…he recovered fast and his smile grew.

Alex knew he was staring right into the eyes of a monster.

***

She danced until her muscles trembled. Until her calves clenched and the balls of her feet knotted.

Then Skye danced some more.

Sweat gleamed on her body. Her hair was in a bun, but loose tendrils had escaped—they were slick and clung against the side of her face.

The music kept pounding.

She flew up onto her toes. Grabbed the barre. Stretched—

And saw Trace’s reflection behind her.

He stood there, just watching her. For an instant, Skye faltered.

He’d left over eight hours ago. Left after making her ache—and leaving her unfulfilled. Reese had been keeping guard from the other room. Her music had driven him away.

And the music had covered Trace’s entrance.

“Don’t stop.” She didn’t hear those words from him, but she saw his lips move and form them.

Her breath eased from her. Skye lifted her hands over her head, stretching. Her left leg came up, moving easily, fluidly, despite the injury that had sent her running from dance.

An injury that had changed her life.

She’d been in a car accident one rainy night after a performance. For hours, she’d been trapped in that car. Her leg had been savaged.

But she’d recovered. One painful step at a time.

She’d walked again. She’d danced.

She turned then, fully facing Trace. Her eyes locked on his face. My spotting place. He would be her constant as she danced. It was a trick most dancers used. Focusing on one object to maintain control and balance during turns.

He is my constant.

Skye straightened her shoulders, balanced, focused on him—and she turned. Once. Twice.

Her gaze locked on his.

Again.

His face.

She spun, moving fast and furiously so that her body would almost appear to be a blur, and he was what she saw. He was her only focus.

Always.

He was—

Trace caught her, stopping her spin. Bringing her close against him.

“I-I thought you wanted me to dance,” she whispered as her breath blew out in a frantic gasp.

He smiled at her. “I never understood how you could spin that fast, that much, without getting dizzy.”

“It’s easy,” her voice was soft, breathless. “I just look at you.”

His pupils expanded, the darkness covering more of that amazing blue.

“You’re my center. My focus. For every spin, a ballerina needs a focus.”

But she wasn’t just talking about dancing.

They both knew it.

She glanced down at their bodies. She was covered in sweat and his suit, well, she didn’t even want to know how much it cost. Hurriedly, Skye backed away from him. “I-I need to shower real fast and get changed. Give me just a minute.”

The music had died away. The end of her routine. The spin was the end.

Her steps were soundless as she walked across the floor.

“You don’t limp.”

Her stride faltered.

“I’ve been watching you carefully for weeks now, and I never see you limp.”

“I-I hadn’t been doing much dancing during those weeks, either. After today, my muscles will feel it.” Particularly the muscles in her left calf. Her left leg would always be weaker. Her constant reminder of the life that was gone now.

But I don’t miss the bright stages or the crowds. The stage hadn’t actually ever mattered to her. Neither had the crowds. It was the dancing that she loved.

“You left New York because you didn’t think you could dance as well again. Not after the crash.”

Skye glanced down at her leg. Her tights covered the scars there. Her leg had needed surgery—so many surgeries—to recover. She’d been in therapy for months.

The scars were still there. They always would be. And her dancing…

“I’m not dancing for the stage anymore. That’s over. I’m dancing for me.” She’d said good-bye to her life in New York. She’d come back to Chicago to start over.

And she’d found Trace.

Her head lifted and she glanced toward the now-repaired mirror. She could see Trace’s reflection. He stared at her and said, “I think you’re the most amazing dancer that I’ve ever seen. When I watch you, I forget everything else. You…make me forget.”

She wrapped her hands around her stomach. “I should…I’ll be just a moment.” Then she fled.

Skye stripped and hurried into the shower area. The water blasted onto her, and she glanced down at her body once more. Without the clothes, the tights, there was no hiding.

Her gaze hit her left leg. The scars weren’t an angry red any longer. Pale, white. Twisting on her skin.

Before the accident, her dancing had lit up the stage. Prima ballerina. She’d worked toward that goal for years.

After the crash…she’d had nothing. All of her money had been used to pay the medical bills, and the first time she’d tried to dance—

I fell. Again and again, I fell.

Her hand flew out, and she jerked off the water. She shivered, standing there, dripping wet, with the past around her.

Maybe Trace was right. Maybe looking at the past was wrong.

She grabbed a towel. Dried off. Dressed as quickly as she could. Jeans. A loose top. Sandals. She hurried back to Trace. “I’m done,” Skye called out. “We can—”

He wasn’t in the studio. The lights were on, but there was no sign of Trace.

She made her way to the front of the building. Skye found him, sitting in one of the new chairs that had been brought over. His gaze was directed out of the window, staring at the night.