Dark Queen

Wrong.

“I’m the only dancer you know.” I snort.

The truth is, I should have applied two years ago, but Dad was useless, so Mom needed me here, and now I’m two years older.

To anyone else, a couple years is nothing, but to a dancer, it can mean everything.

Swan Academy of Dance is for the elite and costs a fortune. They’re selective—especially with girls my age.

You have to be in the best health, have the right physique and structure suited to the demands.

This open audition was like winning the lottery.

They’re offering five students the chance to train with them for a year in a special scholarship program, and I need one of those spots.

A year of studying at their academy, and you have a golden ticket to any ballet production company you want, anywhere you want.

Freedom.

The breeze ripples through the trees, lifting the scent of fresh-cut grass, filling the air with it.

Tonight feels like the end of an era, like this will be the last time I have to fake it while I lay here with my “best friend,” safe, secure, with only the dreams of venturing out into the real world.

It’s juvenile. Normal. I can’t wait for it to be over.

“It’s getting late,” I muse, getting myself into a sitting position, brushing out the creases in my plain black dress.

I don’t get why people wear black for funerals.

It’s so formal.

Boring.

Mom was a colorful person. We should have worn shades of the rainbow. Purple was her favorite color, and no one wore it. There weren’t even purple flowers on her coffin.

A chill races up my spine. Her purple face. Bloodshot eyes staring up at the yellow ceiling above her bed in her musky room.

Dad rushing in after hearing my screams.

There was no look of horror on his face, no sorrow or shock.

He didn’t cry, check her pulse—nothing.

He didn’t even ask why her mouth was agape, bed rumpled, why my arms were bleeding from being scratched so badly.

He wasn’t there while her body jolted like a fish being plucked from water, but the evidence was.

Flop. Flop. Flop…

While I held the pillow over her face, clutched so tight in my hands, my nails punctured the skin on my palms through the fabric. Tears coursed down my cheeks as she clawed at my arms, wanting air.

Flop…flop…flop…

Nothing.

She just stopped. Stopped moving—breathing—living.

Silence.

I gave her mercy.

It’s an easy lie I tell myself. It was me I gave mercy to.

“I’m cold. I’m going inside.” I push the words out, rubbing up my arms to ward off the non-existent wind.

“Wait,” Clint begs. His brow furrows as he seems to struggle to form words. His mouth opens and closes three times before he finally says, “I’m not ready to say goodbye.”

He covers his face with his palms, scrubbing downward.

Poking his rib, I roll my eyes. “I’m not going off to war.”

He’s always been dramatic, a little immature. The trouble with growing up in a small town: there’s no rush to grow up and nothing exciting to experience. It’s a slow way to die. “You can come visit.” I shrug.

Please don’t visit.

His body jolts with a burst of laughter. “I know that.”

Getting to his knees, he chews on his lip and swipes a hand through his blond locks.

“There’s something I want you to know before you go and get swept off your feet by some city guy.” He shakes his head, and I squirm at his awkwardness.

“What is it?” I scoot forward, annoyed this is taking so long.

His eyes soften as he takes my hand from my lap. I have to school my features to hide the internal cringe.

Tightening his grip, he rests it on his thigh, stroking his thumb over the healing wounds.

A cold sweat breaks out over my brow. I want to run back to the house, pack my suitcase, and never look back.

“I know today has been crappy and it’s not really the time, but if I don’t say anything now, I may never get the chance.”

My heart picks up, sending the blood rushing around my body. My stomach dips. “What is it?”

Please don’t say you love me.

Please don’t say you love me.

Please don’t say you love me.

“I love you.”

Chapter Three

Luca Leto

Jumping from the car, I stride toward the back door of my club, hands fisted, my mind racing, how the hell did this happen, and why her.

Silence greets me when I pull open the door and enter, a sense of dread lingers in the air, a group of employees huddled together advert their eyes as I pass, the faint hum of weeping follows me down the corridor.

Ricardo, the head of security for this club, walks toward me, hands raised in defensive posture, his clothes rumpled, a cut across the bridge of his nose.

“Mr Leto, I don’t know how.” He wobbles his head, alarm glowing in his eyes, a visible tremor rattling his body.