3. Under His Gaze
CHAPTER 3
Under His Gaze
ILEANA
My skin won't stop crawling.
It starts just as I’m finishing at the barre. A whisper of wrongness that makes the hair on my arms stand up. Every time I face the mirror, it feels like someone is breathing against my neck. The air turns colder, and a faint rustling sound breaks the silence. I check the studio twice, three times, but the mirrors only reflect the empty space around me and my own pale face staring back.
You’re being ridiculous. There’s no one in here. No one is watching.
But the unease follows me as I gather my things, a constant itch between my shoulder blades that makes my hands shake as I stuff my dance clothes into my bag. Every shadow in the corners of the studio seems deeper, darker , like they might be hiding eyes I can’t see.
The rational part of my brain knows it’s just nerves from what happened with Wren. The way he looked at me. How he seemed to know about my dancing. It’s natural to feel unsettled. But my body won’t listen to reason. My heart keeps stumbling over itself, and my breath feels too shallow in my lungs.
I cross the courtyard to the main building for my final class. The hallway seems longer than usual as I walk to history class. Usually, dancing calms me, the steady rhythm and fluid movements letting me forget the world. But today, that peace hasn’t come. I keep looking around, checking for anyone watching.
The classroom is already half full when I finally reach it. I walk inside, and take my seat near the back corner, away from the windows. A headache is threatening, a tightness in my skull warning me of its imminent arrival—probably from the tension of the morning. Ever since the few minutes I spent under Wren’s attention, everything has felt wrong. Like the world has tilted slightly, and I can’t regain my balance.
The textbook offers a temporary escape, and I focus on the words, trying to lose myself in details about World War II and the battle strategies used. My pulse is still elevated from dancing and anxiety, which makes it a little hard to concentrate. But this is normal. This is safe. This is?—
A shadow falls across my desk. I wait for it to move on, and my stomach drops when it doesn’t. Hands come into view, bracing themselves on the desk’s edge, and I slowly look up. Wren is standing there. The scent of his cologne mingles with the lingering smell of orange juice, and something inside me twists.
“Hey, Ballerina.” His voice is low, meant only for me. “You seem a little off balance today. Everything okay?”
I blink. What is he doing? He’s never spoken to me before.
I consider replying, the words building in my throat, but they die there unsaid, trapped behind years of practiced silence. He flicks the edge of my textbook, and I can’t withhold a flinch at the sound.
“Working hard?”
I press my lips together, and grip my pen tighter. Maybe if I stay quiet, he’ll lose interest. He likes a reaction, and if I give him nothing, maybe he’ll get bored and leave me alone. Instead, he leans closer, until I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
“You know,” his voice is a low, slow drawl. “It’s dangerous to walk around here with your head in the clouds. You never know what you might run into.”
I swallow, hating how his eyes immediately lock onto the movement of my throat. When I don’t speak, he straightens slightly, his gaze moving over me in a way that makes me want to disappear.
“Nothing to say? You bumped into me. You drew my attention. And you have nothing to say about that?”
My eyes drop to the orange stain on his shirt. He still hasn’t tried to clean it. It’s right in front of my face, mocking me. My tongue darts out to wet my lips.
“You’ll need white vinegar to get that stain out.” The words surprise me, pushing past my defenses before I can stop them. What are you doing? You’re just making things worse. “But if you leave it for too long, it might be too late to save.”
Something flashes across his face—surprise maybe, or amusement. “Maybe you should clean it for me.”
The suggestion made in that low tone sends heat crawling up my neck and face, and I will myself to disappear. For him to become bored. For me to pretend he’s not there. But his presence is too solid, too real, too there to ignore.
“No? Fine, then.” His tone turns playful, and that somehow feels more dangerous than anything else. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around, Ballerina.”
He turns and walks away, and the classroom noise rushes back in.
When did it get so quiet?
Every minute stretches endlessly while I try to focus on the teacher’s voice, but I’m hyper-aware of Wren’s presence across the room. When the bell finally rings, I’m out of my seat before the sound fades. The hallway is too crowded, too open, leaving nowhere to hide. As soon as I’m outside, I suck in a breath, fighting to steady my nerves, before hurrying through the gates, and away from the school.
Other students cluster in groups, talking and laughing as they make their way home. I weave between them, keeping my head down, trying to put as much distance between myself and the school as possible. Every few seconds, I glance over my shoulder, searching for one particular face in the crowd.
Stop it. You're letting your imagination run wild. Why on earth would he follow you? He’s had his fun, but the day is over now. He’s probably with his friends, or on his way home.
But I move faster anyway, until I leave all the other students behind. The shadows stretching across the sidewalk look like grasping hands, and each rustle of leaves makes me flinch, as if someone might be hiding just out of sight and waiting to jump out at me. I’ve walked this route a thousand times, but today it feels different.
Threatening .
When I turn onto Mason Street, the sight of my apartment building should bring relief. Instead, the dark windows stare back at me like empty eyes, and the sensation of being watched turns into full-blown panic. My skin feels electric, oversensitive, every nerve ending screaming at me to run.
The lock sticks like it always does, and my hands are shaking so badly I have to try three times before the key slides home. The sound of it turning seems impossibly loud in the quiet street, and I dart inside, letting out a breath as the heavy door clicks shut behind me.
The hallway to our apartment is empty, and each step I take echoes against the worn carpet. By the time I reach our door, my heart is pounding loudly in my ears, and I’m surprised it can’t be heard by the entire building.
As I step inside, the familiar scents of home wash over me. Mom’s vanilla candles, coffee from Dad’s cup, tonight’s dinner already warming the air. Everything is exactly as it should be. Everything is normal.
“Illy?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
“Yeah.” I try to keep my voice steady, taking off my shoes and placing them on the rack.
"Come and help."
“Just a minute.” I need to put my things away first, and take a minute to compose myself.
My bedroom offers a quick respite, and I stay there long enough to take a deep breath, pull my dance clothes out of my bag ready to wash later, and smooth my features into something that won’t make Dad ask questions.
He’s in his usual spot when I pass through the living room, newspaper folded on his lap as he watches the television. His eyes flick to me, assessing as always.
“Have you been running? Your face is red.”
“No, just hurried home.”
“Hmmm.” His attention returns to the television.
Mom’s chopping vegetables when I enter the kitchen. She doesn’t look up, just points to the pile of potatoes and hands me the peeler. I take it from her, and start working, falling into our usual rhythm. This is how after school always goes—quiet, orderly, predictable.
But something has shifted without my permission, and the usual routine isn’t as calming as it was. I keep catching myself checking the kitchen windows, even though they only look out onto the shared courtyard. The gap between the blinds seems too wide, and I have to resist the urge to close them.
Dinner passes in familiar silence, broken only by the clink of silverware, and the usual questions about school. The routine should be comforting, but today it feels hollow, like I’m just going through the motions. I answer on autopilot, but the unease of earlier is still there, a constant reminder that something isn’t right. I keep my voice even and my responses bland. Nothing worth noting. Nothing worth remembering. Nothing unusual.
Yet my skin won’t stop crawling.
I make my excuses as soon as I can, and go to my room. My curtains are already drawn, but that doesn’t stop me from getting up to check the lock. Just to be sure. Just to be safe. I don’t even know why. I’m turning what happened today into a bigger deal than it is.
I’ve almost convinced myself that I’m overreacting … And that’s when I see it.
A shape. A movement. Something ducking out of sight so quickly I can’t be sure it was real.
But the scream building in my throat feels real enough.
Was I right? Was someone following me? Watching me? And if they were … are they still out there now?