19. LYLA
Chapter nineteen
B y the time I got back to the apartment, my nerves were fried, my feet were frozen, and my thoughts were a mess.
I peeled off the peacoat—the one my stalker had given me and ordered me to wear.
Expensive. Heavy. Warm. What a strange thing for him to do.
One minute, he was threatening me; the next, he was giving me a coat that probably cost more than my rent.
I hung it on the hook by the door and stared at it for a second.
What kind of man kissed you like you were his, then told you it didn’t mean a damn thing? All I knew was it had made my stomach turn and my thighs clench all in the same breath.
It confused me so much.
I couldn’t think straight. I needed to do something.
Cleaning was the only thing that ever helped. When the world spun out of control, I wiped, scrubbed, and sorted. Nervous energy had to go somewhere.
That was always my thing—cleaning when there were no good options, when I didn’t know what else to do. Give me stress, and I’d give you a spotless apartment.
And today? I had no clue what to do.
So I began scrubbing the kitchen.
As I worked, the encounter with my stalker this morning—actually all the encounters we’d had over the last week—whirled through my head on a loop. Who the hell was this guy? Some mafia hit man? A psycho with a God complex?
All I knew for sure was that he was criminally good-looking.
I had blue eyes, but his…his were stunning—crystalline aquamarine—and when he turned them on me, they sent shockwaves through my nervous system.
Those eyes, paired with his black hair, dark eyebrows, and sharp cheekbones, made my ovaries scream.
Shouldn’t there be a rule that the most dangerous guys couldn’t also be the hottest?
For fuck’s sake, I’d always been drawn to tattooed guys.
Ever since I was old enough to notice them, I’d had a weakness for ink.
I hadn’t ever gotten one, because they’d been so taboo where I grew up.
But, God, the tattoos on that man. They weren’t just for show.
The ones crawling up his neck and along his fingers hinted at something darker. Something earned.
I’d been compelled to stare at them. I imagined tracing them with my fingers—my tongue.
I had to be insane.
Shaking my head, I decided to tackle the fridge next, removing its meager contents and scrubbing it down as if that would clean my thoughts away.
The worst part about that man wasn’t his tattoos, or the way he’d manhandled me in the alley, or the dirty little fantasies he’d burned into my brain.
It was his dominance.
That slow, effortless, terrifying control he exuded—like he was used to getting exactly what he wanted, no matter the cost. And the worst part?
It worked.
Every time he turned those eyes on me, I lit up like a fire alarm.
Damn it, Grandpa had been right. The devil’s fire had always enthralled me.
And now, here I was—scared, furious, turned on, and too stubborn to run. I knew I should listen to Mr. Russian and Carmine, and get the hell out of New York before it was too late. But how could I walk away now that I was this close to my dreams?
So I cleaned.
And plotted.
I’d been so preoccupied with Stalker Guy that I’d almost forgotten about Ciro Delgado. Just thinking his name sent a chill down my spine.
Ciro had watched me carefully last night, and after I’d submitted to his authority, something in his eyes had changed, because I’d proven I could be owned.
And then Mr. Stalker had gone and stirred the pot.
Now Delgado would want blood. And I had a pretty good idea who he’d start with.
Me.
Two powerful men. Both dangerous. Both watching me.
It meant only one thing: I had to disappear.
But not for good.
I couldn’t give up on the theater. I wouldn’t.
As I cleaned, a plan began to form.
I’d go to rehearsal, as expected. Smile. Play it cool. Then afterward, I’d call The Sacrifice and quit. No warning, no explanation. Just done.
They wouldn’t like me bailing on them, but at this point, I had no choice.
Then I’d vanish.
Lucky for me, I’d already found the perfect hiding spot.
During the last rehearsal, I’d gotten lost in Playwrights and ended up going through a utility door into the building behind it.
Midtown Performance and Rehearsal Studios was a complex with dozens of rooms, stages, and dark corners that actors, dancers, musicians, and artists could rent for practice and lessons.
The place never shut down. It was perfect.
No one would think of looking for me there.
I could crash under a stage, sneak showers in the dressing rooms, and keep to the shadows until everything blew over. And there was an exit right next to a twenty-four-hour bodega. If I timed it right, I could slip in and out without anyone knowing I hadn’t left town.
I would even tell Carmine I’d gone back to Tennessee. I was sure Trina would be more than happy to inform anyone who asked that I was long gone. Hopefully, if no one could find me for a few days, they’d stop looking.
The hardest part would be skipping out on Jae and Nat.
I’d leave a note, telling them I had to run for my life, that I would explain everything later. It was shitty not to tell them in person, but I needed to make myself scarce before they found out. The less they knew, the safer they were. No one could get any information from someone who had none.
I took a deep breath, set the rag down, and looked around the apartment. My little sanctuary. My fresh start in the Big Apple.
I wasn’t ready to give it up.
But I sure as hell wasn’t ready to die for it either.
Time to vanish.
And pray that neither of those monsters came looking for me.
I moved fast.
There wasn’t time to second-guess this or let my nerves take over. I took the quickest shower of my life, wrapped my hair in a towel, and yanked open the drawers of my dresser. I didn’t own much, but I grabbed what mattered.
Into my backpack I shoved some leggings, dance clothes, socks, panties, bras, a couple of pairs of jeans, my favorite hoodie, a little tin of bobby pins, my makeup bag, a toothbrush, and toiletries.
That was all that would fit. Sadly, I’d have to leave behind my books, more than half my clothes, and all the things I’d bought to decorate my room.
So I layered a few other clothes over the ones I had on. I looked a little ridiculous, but I wanted to take as much as I could. It was cold out anyway, and my new coat would help hide the bulk.
I tried not to think about the man who’d given it to me—about that kiss or the way my body had leaned into his with traitorous hunger.
He’d kissed me breathless and then tossed me aside like it meant nothing.
Decent men didn’t do that. On the other hand, he had protected me when I was in danger and given me this coat.
It messed with my head.
Everything about this week messed with my head.
I zipped up the backpack and headed into the kitchen. I ate an apple and a microwave meal while I worked on writing a note to Nat and Jae.
I’m sorry, I had to leave in a hurry. Something bad happened. I’ll explain later if I can. I’m going home to Tennessee. I love you both. Stay safe.
I left the note folded on the counter and then headed out the door.
My heart pounded the entire walk to the theater. I sensed unfriendly eyes tracking me. It was late afternoon, cold and gray, and the snow that had looked so pretty this morning was now black slush, soaking into the hem of my leggings.
I ducked my head and kept moving.
This had to work.
I had to make it work.
I slipped through the glass doors of the theater and wandered through the building, finding my way down a maintenance hallway with creaking pipes overhead. I took a couple of wrong turns, but I finally found the connecting door into the Midtown Rehearsal building.
Dancers passed by in sweatpants and leotards, and musicians carrying cases came and went. No one gave me a second glance.
I found a storage nook under one of the smaller stages. It was barely a crawl space, but it was hidden. I shoved my backpack deep in the corner, then made my way to the locker room to change into my usual attire—black dance pants, black leotard, and white T-shirt.
Today’s rehearsal went better than expected. Marquez seemed pleased with my progress, and I actually felt proud of myself for how much I threw into the dances, considering all my terrifying life circumstances. When we finished, I was beat, mentally and physically.
By eleven, most of the people in the building had cleared out.
I sneaked back through the hallway, into the connected rehearsal wing, and locked myself into my hiding spot under the stage. Then I pulled out my phone.
One bar of service—not much, but good enough.
I dialed The Sacrifice, asked for Carlos, and held my breath.
“Where the fuck are you?” he barked.
“I’m quitting,” I said quickly. “I—I got another job. I won’t be coming back.”
Silence.
Then a slow, angry exhale. “You think you can just walk away? Delgado paid good money for your act. That comes with a price, munequita.”
My fingers trembled. “I never signed anything.”
“You danced on our stage. You made money off our floor. That’s a signature in our world.”
I said nothing.
“Get your ass down here now!”
The line went dead.
I dropped the phone.
My body shook hard and fast.
That wasn’t a warning. That was a threat.
I tried to breathe deeply. One down, one to go. But I couldn’t call Carmine. He’d hear the fear in my voice.
So I texted him instead.
Hey, just wanted to let you know I decided to listen. Heading back to Tennessee for a bit. Thanks for everything. For giving me a chance.
Immediately after, I disabled the GPS, cameras, and mic on my phone and then turned it off for good measure.
I ate a couple of granola bars, drank half a bottle of water, and curled up in my little hideaway, using my coat as a blanket.