Chapter 1
Chapter One
Isabella
Leaving practice, it’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the other as I step out into the warm night air. I’m exhausted, not just from the hours I’ve put in with the company today, but from the hours spent working my other jobs. The ones that cover the deficit my salary as a dancer leaves behind.
In any other city, the money I make with the ballet would be more than enough to live a comfortable life. But here in New York, where I’ve made my home, it’s just barely enough to scrape by. And I’m smart enough to know that I won’t be able to dance forever, and that I’ll need a cushion when the day finally comes that I’m forced to hang up my pointe shoes.
Maybe if I was good enough to get out of the corps, to become a soloist or even a principal, I wouldn’t have to struggle so much. But it’s been made abundantly clear to me I don’t have what it takes.
Perhaps more to the point, I don’t want it badly enough. Years of busting my ass, of starving myself to fit the perfect ballerina image, of being passed over time and time again, have worn the shine off the dream I’d come to New York to chase.
All I ever wanted was to dance. Now… Now I’m not sure what I want, if I’m being honest with myself.
Brushing at the tears welling in my eyes, I stop at the corner and look around, checking to make sure I’m not being followed. Lately I’ve had this feeling that someone’s watching me, tracking my every movement, but I’ve never been able to catch anyone in the act.
You’re just being paranoid, Izzy. Get a fucking grip.
Fortified by that internal pep talk, I turn and disappear into the darkness of the alleyway.
“You’re late.” The rough voice comes out of the shadows, a moment before he does. Typhon, the man who keeps my friends in the ballet supplied with what I'm told are top-tier drugs. Large, several inches and at least two hundred pounds larger than my own under-nourished frame. As always, I’m on high alert, well aware he could snap me like a twig if he had the urge.
I make it a point never to give him the urge.
“Sorry. Practice ran late.” I try to keep my voice strong, without a hint of fear. In this business, I learned a long time ago that fear is the ultimate enemy. The second someone senses even a hint of it in you, you’re done for.
“Fucking princess ballerina over here.” Though I can’t really see his face in the shadows, I can hear the sneer in his voice. “You got my money, princess ?”
“It’s prima ballerina.” I correct him with a smirk of my own, though I’m far from being a “prima” anything. “And yes, I’ve got your money.”
Unzipping my bag, I reach inside for the wad of cash carefully hidden at the bottom. For just a second, panic claws at my chest when I don’t immediately feel it, but then my fingers brush over the familiar edges and I nearly sigh with relief.
If there’s one thing that would guarantee me a slow, painful death, it would be showing up empty-handed.
I hold out the stack and he steps forward to take it. The pale glow of the streetlights illuminate his face for once, and I catch a glimpse of pale skin and a snaking winged beast crawling up his neck and cheek.
As if realizing he’s exposed himself, he shifts backward again, depriving me of any further hints as to Typhon’s identity.
Not that I’d actually do anything with that information, even if I had it. Going to the cops is out of the question, not just because I’m well aware I’d be in jail myself if I told them everything I know. But because I know I wouldn’t survive long enough to make it to the trial.
People who cross Typhon never live very long. And everyone in our circles knows it.
Holding out a Ziploc bag, he drops it in my outstretched hands. “You know the deal. Same time, same place.” He snorts, and there’s a hint of amusement in the sound I’ve never heard from him before. “Who knew a bunch of snotty ballerinas would be my best customers?”
“Gotta keep our figures somehow,” I say with a forced laugh.
It’s not actually a joke. Staying thin while still having the energy to do what we do every day is a balancing act, and a lot of ballerinas turn to… other methods to keep their stamina up and their weight down. I just happened to be smart enough—or reckless enough—to put myself on the other side of the equation. I get a nice little cut of the sales, which goes straight into a high-yield savings account I never touch unless it’s an absolute emergency. Once I’d proven myself a responsible and reliable seller, Typhon even started including a bit extra for me to keep for myself as reward for a job well done. I never quite got the courage to tell him I don't use the drugs I sell, so I just pocket the extra cash and hope he never finds out. Even though he gives me the drugs for my own personal use, I can never be sure exactly how his mind works and for all I know he'll still see it as stealing from him.
And pissing off Typhon is high on my list of things to never do.
He watches me tuck the drugs back into my duffel bag, then gives a short, sharp nod of approval. “See you, PB.” And with that, he disappears deeper into the shadows.
Turning my back on those same shadows, I stroll out of the alleyway. One of the first lessons Typhon taught me was to never look like you’re in a rush. Especially when you’re leaving a suspicious location after dark. Makes you look guilty, and looking guilty is how you get caught.
It’s a lesson I’ve taken to heart, and now I take my time as I head home. I even pull my phone out to make a pretend phone call, laughing at some joke my nonexistent friend has told. Nothing about me should scream criminal and yet, I still can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching me.
Probably just nerves, I tell myself as I pull open the door to my apartment building. No matter how many times I make these deals, I always spend the walk home worrying that this time will be the time I get caught.
As usual though, nothing happens. There’s no swarm of armored police officers surrounding my building, demanding my surrender. It should be a relief, and I try to force my shoulders to relax as I make the trek up the stairs to my apartment.
But unlike most nights, I just can’t shake that “being watched” feeling. Even with all the blinds closed, I can still feel the skin on the back of my neck crawling, as if there are fingers physically running up and down my spine.
I wish Ariel, my roommate, was home. But she had work after practice, so it’s just me in this small, empty apartment.
Stashing my bag—heavy with my dance equipment and enough cocaine to get me locked up for life—in my closet, I reach for the bottle of whiskey beneath my bed and take several large swallows. Nothing helps me relax like a couple shots of Jim Beam before bed.
I must be more exhausted than I realize, because I’m barely able to strip out of my leggings and t-shirt before the alcohol hits. Stumbling to the bed in nothing but my panties, I collapse face-first into the mattress.
* * *
Gideon
Using the key I had duplicated after a brief meeting with Isabella’s rather reckless roommate in a bar a few weeks back, I slip into the apartment. All of the lights are still on but there hasn't been any movement inside for a solid twenty minutes. Which means she must have gotten into the secret stash of liquor beneath her bed.
Naughty girl.
Still, caution is the name of the game. In the event I’m wrong, or she didn’t drink her usual three shots, she could wake if I’m not careful. Lucky for me, I’ve had plenty of practice moving through spaces without notice. As long as her roommate doesn’t come home early, I should have plenty of time to retrieve my little doll.
Slipping into her bedroom, I take a moment to admire my sleeping Little girl. Even in the dark, my mind provides the details I can’t quite see. I’ve spent nearly two years watching her, studying her, learning every curve, every line, every single inch of her sweet face.
And now she’s finally mine.
My heart races with an excitement I haven’t felt in years, if ever, as I bend to slide my arms beneath her sleeping form. Thanks to the tranquilizer I spiked her alcohol stash with, she doesn’t even flinch when I haul her up into my arms.
She’s so much lighter than I expected, and I can feel her bones poking through her skin. My poor little doll, depriving her body of what it needs just to fit some arbitrary standard the ballet has placed on her.
Once we’re on the island, she won’t have to worry about such things. She’ll be fed properly, and often, whether she wants to be or not. Nobody will ever hurt my sweet Isabella again, not even her.
Well. Nobody except me, that is.
Clinging to that knowledge, I grab the blanket from her bed and drape it over her sleeping form before heading toward the front door. I pause and poke my head out into the hallway, making sure we don’t have any company before making my way down the hall to the narrow stairwell. In a building like this, residents are more likely to turn a blind eye to anything suspicious, but I would still prefer not to be caught with an unconscious woman in my arms. While I wouldn't hesitate to eliminate any threat standing between me and my little doll, Evander gets fussy when he's called upon to clean up a mess that's not of his own making.
Thankfully, we make it down to the lobby without incident, where I pause yet again to scan my surroundings. It’s not all that late, especially by New York standards, but fortune shines down on me in the form of a completely empty lobby.
Blaine, my driver, pulls up in front of the building just as I step outside. Putting the car in park, he leaps from the front seat, racing around to open the back door for me.
“She’s beautiful, Gideon,” he murmurs, running a hand over Isabella’s hair.
“Isn’t she?” Even with the risk of discovery, I can't help but take a moment to simply stare down at the sleeping form in my arms. “I can’t wait to get her home.”
With a flash of white teeth, Blaine gestures to the back seat. “Get yourselves settled and we’ll be at the airport in no time.”
“I appreciate you, friend.” It’s more than simple appreciation. There's nobody else I would trust with such precious cargo.
“Nonsense. Just doing my job.”
I slide into the backseat, Isabella still cradled in my arms, and Blaine shuts the door behind us. The blaring of a horn cuts through Isabella’s drugged haze and her brows draw together with a whimper as Blaine deftly guides the car forward.
“Shh, little doll. You’re safe,” I whisper, brushing my lips across her forehead. “Daddy’s right here. Daddy’s got you.”
And with those simple words, she settles again, curling into me with a soft sigh. Looking down at her, I know without a doubt that she already holds my heart in her tiny, delicate hands.
My little doll is finally where she belongs. And now that I have her, I'm never letting her go.