Chapter 6
Ivy
There is a specific kind of silence that exists in a dance studio before the music starts.
It’s a hollow, expectant vacuum, smelling of rosin, dried sweat, and the damp wood of the sprung floor.
It’s a silence that usually centers me, stripping away the noise of the world until there is only the mirror and the movement.
Today, however, the silence wasn't empty. It was screaming.
The girl in the mirror looked the same. Platinum blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun, no flyaways allowed. Black leotard, pink tights, the uniform of the disciple. My posture was perfect—shoulders down, chin lifted, ribs knit together.
But if you looked closer—and I was looking very closer—the cracks were visible.
There was a faint, purplish bruise on the inside of my thigh, high up, hidden by the line of my leotard. A souvenir. A thumbprint.
There was a flush to my skin that hadn't faded in twelve hours, a permanent subterranean heat that made the air in the studio feel suffocating.
And my eyes... my eyes looked haunted. Or maybe hunted.
I squeezed the barre, the wood biting into my palm.
“Good girl.”
The memory of Ben’s voice washed over me, visceral and immediate. It wasn't just a memory; it was a physical sensation. I could feel the ghost of his breath against my ear, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress, the terrifying, exhilarating surrender of giving him the reins.
Lesson Three had happened.
And it had changed everything.
We hadn't... gone all the way. Not technically. The V-card was still, inexplicably, in my possession. But the things we had done? The things he had made me do?
I squeezed my eyes shut, a shiver racking my spine that had nothing to do with the drafty ventilation.
He had taken me apart. Methodically. Clinically. And then he had put me back together, but the pieces didn't fit the same way anymore. I felt rewired. I felt like a stranger in my own skin, a vessel that had been filled with his darkness and now had to pretend to be full of light.
"St. James! Are you planning to plié, or are you modeling for a funeral home brochure?"
The sharp clap of hands snapped me back to reality.
Madame K, our instructor—a woman made entirely of sinew and disappointment—was stalking toward me, her cane tapping against the floor.
"Sorry, Madame," I mumbled, dropping instantly into a demi-plié. My knees tracked over my toes. My back remained straight. Muscle memory took over, thank God, because my brain was currently located somewhere in Ben Sterling’s bedroom.
"You are distracted," Madame K announced to the room. There were twelve of us, the elite tier of the program, all fighting for the same spots, the same solos. "Distraction is the death of art. Distraction is a broken ankle waiting to happen."
She stopped in front of me. Her eyes, sharp as lasers, scanned my form. She looked at my ankle, currently wrapped in the pristine, professional tape job Ben had applied this morning.
"The ankle holds?" she asked, poking it with her cane.
"Yes, Madame."
"And the focus?" She leaned in, her gaze boring into mine. "You have the showcase in two weeks. The scouts are coming. Do you want to be a dancer, Ivy? Or do you want to be a socialite with a hobby?"
The question stung. It was the same thing my father said, just phrased differently.
"I am a dancer," I said, my voice tighter than my bun.
"Then prove it. Stop thinking about whatever boy is making you blush like a schoolgirl and dance."
She turned on her heel and walked away.
A ripple of titters went through the class.
I burned. I felt the heat climb up my neck, scorching my cheeks. How did she know? was it that obvious? Was I wearing a neon sign that said I SPENT THE NIGHT BEING WORSHIPPED BY A HOCKEY GOON?
Next to me, Lila, a redhead with extensions and a ruthless competitive streak, smirked at her reflection.
"Rough night, Ivy?" she whispered, not breaking her pose. "You look... ridden hard."
"I was studying," I lied, focusing on the line of my arm.
"Studying anatomy?" Lila giggled quietly. "I heard you're living at the Ice Box. With the animals."
"They're not animals," I snapped.
"Please. Have you met Ben Sterling? The guy is a walking felony. I heard he put a guy in the hospital last season for looking at him wrong."
He put me in a state of bliss last night for looking at him right.
"He's the Captain," I said, lifting my chin. "He's disciplined."
"He's a monster," Lila corrected. "But I guess if you're into that sort of thing..."
"Focus, ladies!" Madame K barked.
I shut my mouth, but my mind was spinning.
A monster.
That’s what everyone saw. The Butcher. The scar. The tattoos. The silence.
But they didn't know.
They didn't know how his hands shook slightly when he touched me, terrified he was going to break me.
They didn't know how he checked my pupils after an orgasm to make sure I was okay.
They didn't know that he kept a bag of my favorite gummy bears in his nightstand because he noticed my sugar dropped after "lessons. "
I hugged the secret to my chest. It was a dangerous, heavy thing.
I knew him. I knew the man beneath the jersey.
And the terrifying part wasn't the sex. It wasn't the submission.
It was the fact that when I looked at myself in the mirror now, I didn't just see a dancer. I saw his dancer.
And I liked it.
By noon, the adrenaline from class had faded into a jagged, caffeine-fueled anxiety.
I needed food. My body was screaming for calories to replace what I’d burned at the barre (and in Ben’s bed).
I walked into the Student Union, wrapping my oversized coat tighter around me. The blizzard had finally stopped, but the world was still buried in white. The sun was blinding, reflecting off the snowdrifts that lined the paths.
The cafeteria was a chaos of noise. Clattering trays, shouting students, the hiss of the espresso machine. It was usually my least favorite place on campus—too many people, too many eyes—but today, I needed the anonymity of the crowd.
I grabbed a salad and a yogurt, moving mechanically through the line.
Then I saw them.
The hockey table.
It was impossible to miss. They took up the prime real estate in the center of the room, a sprawling mass of broad shoulders, backward hats, and tray after tray of carbohydrates. They were loud, they were obnoxious, and they were the kings of Blackstone.
Jax was there, standing on a chair to demonstrate something that looked like a fishing maneuver. Rook was building a tower out of milk cartons.
And Ben.
He was sitting at the end of the table, leaning back in his chair. He was wearing a black Henley shirt that clung to his chest, the sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms. He wasn't participating in the chaos. He was watching it, a faint look of boredom on his face.
He was peeling an orange.
The sight of his hands—those large, scarred, capable hands—deftly removing the peel made my breath hitch.
Those hands were inside me twelve hours ago.
The thought hit me with the force of a physical blow. I stumbled, my hip bumping into a trash can.
Ben’s head snapped up.
It was like he had a radar. He looked straight across the room, through the crowd of hundreds, and locked onto me instantly.
The noise of the cafeteria seemed to drop away. The air thinned.
He stopped peeling the orange. He went perfectly still.
His eyes—gray, intense, unreadable—tracked me. He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just looked.
And in that look, there was everything.
I know you.
I own you.
Come here.
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I couldn't go over there. We had an agreement. Publicly, we were roommates. Fake acquaintances. He was the grumpy landlord, and I was the annoying tenant.
But my feet didn't get the memo.
I found myself walking toward him. I told myself I was just getting a napkin. Or walking to the exit.
As I passed the table, Jax spotted me.
"Ivy!" he shouted, waving a fork. "Come settle a bet! Do penguins have knees?"
"Yes," I said without stopping, "but they're internal. Look it up."
"Science!" Jax yelled triumphantly.
I kept walking, eyes fixed on the exit. But I had to pass Ben.
As I drew level with him, he didn't move. He didn't turn his head. But as I passed, his hand shot out and caught the strap of my bag.
It was a subtle move. To anyone watching, it might have looked accidental. But the tug was firm.
I stopped, turning to him.
"You're limping," he said. His voice was low, meant only for me. It rumbled through the noise of the room, vibrating in my bones.
"I'm not," I whispered, clutching my tray.
"You are. Left side. Favored it when you walked past the salad bar." He looked at my ankle, hidden under my boots. "Did you ice it after class?"
"I didn't have time."
His jaw tightened. "Make time. Or I'll make it for you."
The threat was layered. I'll make it for you. It meant he would strap me down. It meant he would take care of me.
My knees went weak.
"I have to study," I said, my voice breathless.
"Eat first," he commanded. He looked at my tray. "Salad and yogurt? That's not enough fuel. You burned six hundred calories in class. Another three hundred last night."
My face flamed. "Ben!"
"Eat a carb, Ivy. Or I'm coming to find you."
He let go of my bag.
He picked up a slice of the orange he had been peeling and held it out to me.
It was a dare. A public offering.
People were watching. I could feel Lila’s eyes from across the room. I could feel Jax watching us with a confused frown.
If I took it, it was an acceptance. It was an admission of intimacy.
I hesitated.
Ben’s eyes darkened. Take it.
My hand shook as I reached out. I took the orange slice from his fingers. Our skin brushed—electric, hot, shocking.
"Good girl," he mouthed. No sound. Just the shape of the words.
I shoved the orange slice into my mouth, turned on my heel, and walked away as fast as my injured ankle would allow.
I didn't look back. I could feel his gaze burning a hole between my shoulder blades until I was safely out the door.
8:00 PM