Kill Switch (Devil's Night 3)

What would happen after I danced, though?

What was wrong with me that I liked that he was here?

He liked my dancing. He came to see if I would dance.

It made the world prettier.

I quickly hid the smile that tried to peek out.

I held out my hand. “Shoes?”

He set them in my hand, using both of his hands to make sure I had them.

I dropped to the floor and slipped the shoes on, lacing up the ribbons as I heard him walk away, probably to give me room.

Once the slippers were fastened tightly, I stood up and walked to the center of the dance floor, finding my X, and turned out into second position. Bending my knees in a quick demi-plié to find my balance, I rose up to en pointe onto my toes and back down again.

I should have had more of a warm up, but I was suddenly n

ervous. Maybe because the last time he saw me dance I didn’t know he was watching or because I still wasn’t sure if he was going to slit my throat or not.

“Track seven,” I called out, my voice shaking a little. “Could you find it, please?”

I heard him move across the room as he did what I asked, and I wished I was dressed. The situation being what it was, I couldn’t believe I was worried about that, but I only had on my sleep shorts, a tank top, and no damn bra.

Ellie Goulding’s sonorous humming and chanting finally started, low and faint at first, but grew stronger, and I walked slowly around the dance floor, making a casual circle and getting a feel. I had only played around with choreography on this track once, and I couldn’t remember it, so I guessed I was winging it.

The music built, haunting and crawling inside my skin, and then her voice gave in to lyrics, echoing and layered with chants as the drums started.

My pulse started to beat harder, and I closed my eyes, marking the tape on the floor in my head as I grazed over it and started moving. I hit the beat, rolling my head, shooting up on my toes, and twirling in a circle, feeling the music.

I forgot about him, and all of my teachers who complained about my technique, and just slipped into my own world where I craved the feel of my body slicing through the air and my hands in my hair and on my neck.

My back arched as I swung into an attitude, and I felt my heart leap in my chest when I twirled and posed in an arabesque. I smiled, biting down on my bottom lip to stifle the laugh I wanted to let loose. I spun and bent and dipped and slithered through whatever I wanted to do, just letting the music tell me.

When it ended, the air felt cold all of a sudden, and I breathed hard, remembering I wasn’t alone.

“Are you…are you still there?” I asked, my mouth parched.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but when he did, his voice was calm. “The way you move, it’s…different.”

“Different than what?” I stilled, breathing hard.

But he didn’t answer. I’d gathered my teachers were sometimes frustrated with me over years because I improvised. A lot. I appreciated the classical education I’d received, but I didn’t want to do the same things that had already been done to death. I kind of just went on impulse, because it made me happy. Did he not like it?

I found my way to the chair again and sat down, removing my pointe shoes. “Are you still thinking you might hurt me?” I broached.

“I’m not in a hurry.”

I almost laughed. It was a pointless question to ask, because I didn’t expect him to tell me the truth, but somehow, I liked his answer. There was humor in it.

“Why don’t you call the police?” he whispered, and I could tell his voice had gotten closer. He was approaching me.

I bent over, slipping the first shoe off and stretching out the ache in my foot. “Did you like the dance?” I asked instead.

“I won’t stop you if you call for help,” he explained. “Not tonight. Go ahead.”

“It wasn’t choregraphed. I just improvised.”