Danvers Academy
Tansy
I can still feel his hands on me.
I always feel his hands on me.
It’s a faint echo of his touch, but it’s still so real in my head.
Stop it, I tell myself then push up onto my pointe shoes to begin my cha?nés.
I cut tight circles across the floor. Around me, other omegas move in practiced unison, the soft thud of satin shoes and quick, sharp breaths fill the studio.
But no matter how hard I concentrate on my form or the sound of other’s feet, my mind still betrays me.
It forces me to think about every twitch of his muscles as his fingers dig into my skin, biting at my breasts and hips. His lips pressing so hard against mine.
My skin prickles.
I spin faster and faster as I settle into a series of pirouettes, muscles screaming, thighs rubbing together, the world a blur of mirrors and motion. Every pivot drags fire up my calves straight up into my trembling ribcage.
My lungs burn and my head swims.
But beneath the fire in my bones, his unusual scent seems to grow stronger in my mind. Weirdly-sweet lavender and thick alpha pheromones. It coils in my throat, sour and heavy.
I push harder. Spinning, again and again, praying the ache in my muscles will drown it all out. But it doesn’t.
Memories of his hot breath ghosts across my face.
My thighs ache.
The vile, slippery drag of his tongue across my neck.
Air scrapes my throat.
The rough sound he makes when he comes.
I push harder. Spin faster, continuously moving until the music finally dies. Until the storm of memories in my head quiets. Finally.
I hold the final pose. Arms lifted, chest open, breath shuddering through me. Sweat runs down my back, soaking the thin fabric of my leotard. My toes burn, rubbed raw inside my pointe shoes, but I don’t move. Not yet.
“Good job, ladies,” Madame Korrin claps her hands twice. “Excellent work today. We’ll practice at the same time tomorrow.”
In perfect unison, every dancer lowers from pointe—heels touching down with a soft, collective sigh of relief. The tension breaks, replaced by laughter and chatter as the girls stretch, and scatter across the room for their bags and water bottles.
I move toward my gym bag near the mirror, my legs trembling with leftover adrenaline.
“Tansy, that was gorgeous.” Lila rushes up next to me, still breathless from her own run. Her cheeks are pink, her braid coming undone. “You’re going to ruin everyone at the ceremony if you dance like that.”
I laugh as I sit on the shiny floor, slowly untying the ribbons around my ankles. “I’m not sure about that. I feel like the old lady here, trying to keep up.”
A ripple of giggles follows, and someone tosses me a towel.
But it’s true.
They’re all so young—barely out of their teens, a few maybe twenty at most. Bright-eyed, and full of the kind of energy that burns fast and hot. And while I’m only twenty-seven, it’s ancient by omega standards. My kind are usually mated with a couple of babies by my age.
“Congrats again, Tans,” Mira says as she passes, slinging her dance bag over one shoulder. “I still can’t believe you’re a college graduate.”
“Not for another week!” I call after them as a few more congratulations echo across the room.
Their mixed scents of soft florals and honey, sugar-sweet adrenaline trail behind them as they spill into the hallway, cheerful voices fading with each step. One by one, the doors shut, muffling their laughter.
And then it’s just me.
Alone in the empty studio, the lingering sweetness of them dissolves into the air until only my own scent remains—warm, heavy, clinging close to my skin.
I ease my feet out of my pointe shoes. The relief is immediate. A soft, aching exhale that ripples up through my whole body. My toes throb, tender and red, the skin raw where the satin pressed too tight. I flex them once, twice, savoring the sting that follows.
Taking my time, I pull the pins from my bun, one by one, letting them clatter softly into my bag. My dark red tresses spill forward, damp and heavy, curling around my neck like they’re trying to anchor me in place.
My reflection stares back from the mirror. I look wild, almost unfamiliar.
Eyes too dark.
Cheeks flushed dark against my naturally tan skin.
My heartbeat flickers visibly in the hollow of my throat, pulsing like it’s trying to escape.
Five more days. Then freedom.
Or something like it.
I pull my worn black slides out of my bag and set them on the floor, then zip everything up.
My muscles already ache as I slowly stand.
While I love ballet, my body isn’t exactly a fan.
Maybe it’s because I’m not built like a traditional dancer.
I’m too tall and thick in all the places ballet hates.
My thighs rub when I move, and I have to wear two sports bras just to keep my boobs from popping me in the face every time I try a grand jeté. But I love it too much to stop.
“Beautiful work tonight, Tansy,” Madame Korrin says as she steps back into the quiet room.
I catch the beta’s reflection in the mirror before I turn. She stands near the doorway with her arms folded, wearing that assessing look she never quite drops. Even now, after years of training under her, I straighten automatically. My spine lengthening, shoulders settling, chin lifting.
She can spot every flaw from twenty paces.
Madame Korrin’s expression softens a little as she steps closer. “I heard your thesis is under review with Gramore University. That’s quite an achievement for an omega.”
“Thank you,” I say, pulling the hair tie off my wrist and gathering my hair into a messy ponytail. My scalp’s damp, dark red strands sticking to my upper back. “It was a lot of work doing it through a remote program, but worth it.”
It had to be done through a remote program.
Real universities don’t accept omegas. Not into degree tracks, not into lecture halls, not into anything that counts.
So the academies offer “special programs” of their own.
Little certificates dressed up like diplomas.
A fancy way to keep us busy until we mate.
Everyone knows it.
Everyone pretends otherwise.
But not me. I’m getting a real degree, from a real school, and I did it all on my own.
“And what was your paper about?” Madame asks, but it feels like she’s asking just to be polite.
My chest puffs out with pride. “An Examination of Omega Depictions in Prehistoric Art and Early Cultural Symbolism.”
She blinks. Her smile freezes, polite but empty. It’s the kind of smile people give you when they don’t understand what you’ve said and don’t really want to.
Madame lifts one perfectly manicured hand and smooths down the side of her sleek hair. “And what will you do with your degree, dear?”
There it is—that tone. The same careful, lifted sound everyone uses when they really want to ask why bother.
But I don’t have an answer.
The truth is, I wanted to learn something that wasn’t about heat cycles or mating compatibility. Something that felt like mine. I never thought far enough ahead to figure out what I’d do with it after graduation. I mean, omegas aren’t exactly welcomed in the workforce.
We’re liabilities. Distractions. A safety risk for more important, working alphas.
Madame Korrin moves closer when I don’t answer. “Tansy.” My name leaves her mouth with a long sigh. “You should be thinking about settling down. You’ve spent so much time studying and writing papers, you’ve wasted valuable years you could have been meeting with prospective packs.”
“Yeah.” I give her a half-hearted shrug like I do every time someone says this to me.
“But I wasn’t ready. I wanted to get a little life experience before I settled down.
” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying what I really think—that forcing eighteen-year-old omegas to find a pack is ridiculous, maybe even irresponsible.
How can anyone know what kind of mate they want for the rest of their life when they’re basically still a kid?
I meet her gaze head-on, steady. “I know,” I say, keeping my tone respectful even though a small, bitter part of me wants to tell her I’m not a child.
“But there have been incredible advances lately. Medication that regulates pheromonal cycles and hormone stabilizers. Some unmated omegas in long-term care can live well into their fifties without any decline at all.”
Madame’s brows lift, surprised—and not pleasantly. A faint frown pulls between them.
“And what will happen after fifty?” she asks, deep worry etched between her brows.
I freeze because once again I don’t have an answer. All I know is that I can’t go back home.
“It’s okay,” Madame says softly. Her dark eyes narrow, looking at me like she can see the blank space in my head where my answer should be.
She reaches out and places her hand on my arm.
Her touch is gentle, reassuring in a way that feels more like pity than comfort.
Like she’s sparing me the embarrassment of admitting I have no idea what I’m doing in life.
Before I can react, Madame steps forward and pulls me into a quick hug—light, careful, the way you’d touch something fragile.
I tense instantly, shoulders locked, breath trapped somewhere too tight in my chest.
But after a beat, I force myself to loosen a little, letting her hold me for a heartbeat longer than I want.
Then she releases me.
Gives me a small, hopeful smile.
And turns toward the door, murmuring something I can’t quite catch.
The soft whisper of her ballet slippers brushes against the floor, carrying her down the hall until the sound fades entirely.
When she’s gone, the quiet folds around me again.
Her words hang in the air, buzzing in my ears like a lingering sting.
Maybe she’s right—maybe I will regret it.
But not today.
Right now, I want to exist for two fucking seconds without someone telling me what to do or say—or worse, trying to touch me. It never stops. Not here. Not back home. No matter where I go, there’s always someone who thinks my body is an invitation.
Nowhere is safe.