Chapter 9
Thorn
Of Bones and Ballet
She’s late
Time, its essence a harrowing weight, an anchor that pulls at the soul. It carries with it a violence so quiet, yet so absolute, that even the strongest knees tremble at its inevitability. A force both omnipotent and omniscient, it speaks the language of both reverence and ruin. It bears the mark of ages past, where every tick of its invisible hands calls forth destruction in the guise of renewal.
It reminds me, again and again, of Chronos, the harbinger of time. The father of all things, whose grasp over existence is so firm it quivers with its own crushing beauty. Once a man, now but a myth, now a shadow. He is the embodiment of the paradox that time gives life, yet it is only death that gives time its shape. A tale told in murmurs, where men become gods and gods become echoes, but the truth lingers in the spaces between.
In death, there is time, a fleeting second etched upon the gravestones of the living, where moments of agony stretch on for eternity. And in time, there is life, but not without its price. The reckoning that looms at the edges of existence is inevitable, etched upon the foreheads of those who dared forget its decree.
Those who crossed time’s sanctity were marked by a pyretic alloy, scorching their flesh as it carved its reprimand into their souls. It burned with the heat of retribution, a molten reminder of their transgression. The flames did not merely cauterize, they consumed, taking life and soul, fusing them into one in a fire that left only ashes behind.
Some say it is myth, a tale spun from the idle tongues of those who cannot comprehend its force. But to me, it is a warning. A quiet breath before the storm, a truth laced in smoke and shadow. It is not a story of gods and men—it is a lesson in consequence, carved into the marrow of existence, a consequence that will always be paid in full.
She’s late
The glass wall stands as a silent sentinel, dividing the room in two, its cold surface a barrier between me and her. But, as always, it is never enough to truly obscure what is inevitable, her presence. It wanders, heavy in the air, palpable even before she crosses into view. A ghostly prelude waiting for the moment she steps into the light, when the chaos of her will finally capture my carefully crafted world, once more.
Her beauty, like an unholy muse, claws at my thoughts. Her eyes, mismatched and burning with a fire that has no name, pull me into an abyss I have no desire to escape. And her scent, that intoxicating, forbidden perfume, wraps around me, burying me beneath something far darker than mere desire.
But for now, she remains a shadow, a phantom in the edges of my mind, not yet manifest, yet so close it makes my skin crawl with anticipation.
Within these walls, I remain unseen—shadowed in silence while Oscar tends to the affairs of our family’s business. His meticulous nature, honed by years in the military, kept the gears of my legacy grinding without a hitch. He was the steady hand, the unwavering pillar upon which I could lean, free to lose myself in the matters that truly consumed me. He was my fidus Achates—my trusted ally—handling the mundane while I drifted, lost in darker, more dangerous pursuits. Diamonds.
Yet, I have made a fatal slip. A conscious, deliberate severing of my tether to what once mattered. Priorities have blurred, melting into murky pools of uncertainty, and I am left chasing her. No longer diamonds or power, but her —my very ruin.
The thought sickens me, a nauseating twist of disgust curling in the pit of my stomach. But when something so violently consuming burns through your veins, it is not a matter of willpower or restraint. No, you embrace the ashes it leaves behind. You savor them as they settle, cold and heavy, for in them lies a dark pleasure—a pleasure I can no longer deny.
She’s late
The other students begin assembling to the instructions of their madam as the time ticks further, with her tardiness spinning out. Every year, prospects come to Haven Ballet to find their next jewel. Women and men they can hook and decrypt to their accord. Ballerinas that will dance to the bone for them. Ballet is crystals to the venal, while it’s bane to the dancers. People love to watch it, to pay for it, to applaud it and to fracture it apart.
Buried behind money and gemstones are the rapacious willing to pay millions to keep a gilded ballerina. Not many know of these dealings and not many live to spoil the daunting revelation. These prospects are not just for magnum opuses but for avaricious men and women.
Nothing but a corralled flair makes for a trophy to hold dear, however what l find maliciously clowning is how these girls approve of these conundrums. How their families sell them to the highest bidder, just for the multitude of power and wealth it brings.
From an outsider’s gaze, you might mistake it for trafficking dressed in sequins and shimmer — but it’s not. Some of these girls are paraded, their talents displayed like rare jewels for the world to marvel at. Others, though, offer their gifts behind closed doors, to audiences cloaked in secrecy and gloom. None are dragged into this life against their will– not in the way you’d expect. Some plead for a chance to shine, some are pushed by the cruel hands of their own blood, and some… some simply vanish into the darkness, leaving the glitter behind.
It’s all choices. I simply capitalize from their avaricious decisions.
I’ve seen it all, some might say. At least I thought I had until I laid eyes on her.
On my property, she marauded me, yet I felt welcomed. Her insolence me made me feel venerated. She challenged me, yet I felt intrigued. She’s a menace, a daring one at that, yet I felt cajoled.
It’s an infatuation, I concluded, an amalgam of desires and thirst. It’s a brew that’s plaguing my mind and ability to act accordingly.
It’s an itch, maybe even an ache that tails sleep away and thoughts of anything but her.
She’s aggravating my days and hounding my nights without so much as knowing. Ever since the first night her existence became glaring, my attention hasn’t stopped seeking her. I’m always there, around her, following her and capturing moments that aren’t mine to hold hostage. She acknowledges me when her eyes go wandering in search of what’s making the goosebumps bubble on her flesh.
She knows I’m there, yet she keeps me. It’s the small smile that always threatens to spill when she feels my eyes on her. It’s the way a bright crimson blush lights her face or the way she hums a melody for my ears to hear.
The scratch of pen on paper tugs my gaze toward the men and women to my left, each lost in their own world, either fixated on the girls or the cold clipboards where they scrawl their assessments. Their focus is a tether to those above, the ones who decide their pay, while their faces remain as still as stone—so empty, you could hear a pin drop in the stillness.
Beside them stand two figures from this institution, silent and observant, like ghosts who belong here. Oscar lingers behind me, his presence a shadow, barely felt.
“If you’d prefer to leave sooner, sir,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “I’ll ensure everything is arranged, and a report will be on your desk by nightfall.”
“That won’t be necessary” he nods, his reflection transparent on the glass as he steps back. Oscar is a man of many sealed secrets, each one buried behind the walls he’s built over a lifetime. A former general-turned-special forces operative, then a political hatchet, his hands are stained with blood, and his soul carved by brutality. The years he’s spent in the depths of power’s corruption have left him a callous savage, cold and unreadable. Yet in his work, there is no pause, no question—just a relentless, industrial precision. He completes every task I set before him with a savage dedication, no matter how dark the demand.
I glance at the Parmigiani Fleurier on my wrist. Ten minutes late. The weight of her absence presses into the room, and I watch as worry creeps across Anoushka’s face, her usual calm unraveling like fraying silk. Her composure falters, the stillness of her posture replaced by an almost imperceptible tension.
The doors creak open, and there she stands, gracefully late yet striking in her defiance of time. Her white-spun hair is gathered in a loose ponytail, with long, flowing strands that move in rhythm with her gaze, her mismatched eyes. Eyes that tell stories of the Waardenburg syndrome she carries, each glance a mark of something deeper. One call to Oscar, and a file was born, every detail of her existence laid bare, from the cross-shaped birthmark on her neck to the size of her shoes. Nothing was spared, not even the most intimate secrets.
In a white leotard, she is a vision of desire, a meal begging to be savored, and it stirs something dark in me, wondering what she might look like beneath the fabric that clings to her curves. Her long, glimmering legs draw my eye, but it is her face that holds me captive. Full, plush pink lips that I crave to bruise, a smattering of freckles across her porcelain skin, and eyes—those eyes—hypnotizing and relentless. One is a sterling gray, the other a hazel hue flecked with brown, but it is not the color that captivates. It is the glimmer of hail and storm within them, a tempest ready to break at any moment.
Odessa is an ambience of broken glasses and wounded sores and while she covers her scars to all, l can see through the facade and untold words. Something so bloodied and carnage tears at me to put her misery to flames.
Anoushka grabs her by the wrist, discreetly, yet harsh, and it sends a surge of anger through my veins. The older woman leans in, whispering something to her before she moves to the corner of the room, drops her bag, and joins the others. A girl with pinkish hair, one I’ve come to know as her friend, smiles as she takes her position beside her, while the rest hold their noses high, as if above the fray.
“We have Bird Dogs behind the glass watching you today, ladies, so do not disappoint me. Show them how great you are,” the woman laughs shyly, glancing at the glass, but I know that not a single word reaches Elara. Her teeth bite into her lip, eyes unwavering, staring off into the distance, indifferent to the world around her.
It’s a class of fifteen, the most opulent dancers, handpicked by Oscar himself. One by one, the girls begin their routine, twirling and leaping across the room while the Bird Dogs scribble on their clipboards, analyzing, judging. With each passing second, my hunger deepens. I care nothing for the others around me, only for the one who stands apart, a quiet force, just a few feet away.
She’s dissociating, I deduce. Not in a destructive way, but in a manner I recognize all too well. A silent retreat into herself, where the chaos of the world can no longer reach her.
“Odessa” Anoushka calls out, and she remains lost in a sea of her mind.
“Odessa Fontaine!”
She blinks, a slow flutter of her lashes, as her gaze drifts across the room before she moves to the front. Her eyes meet the mirror, then flick back to Anoushka, who begins the music. But Odessa seems entirely adrift, untethered to the world unfolding around her. A serenade, rich with bodice tones and the melancholy pulse of piano, spills through the air, and she begins, her fall from grace woven into each note.
She is out of tune, a discordant symphony of wrongs. Her arabesque and fouetté are grotesque, as though the very language of ballet were being twisted beneath her touch. It is a brutality of movement, raw and unrefined. The Bird Dogs, detached, watch on, one slipping his pen into his pocket, his disinterest more cutting than the silence between each of her missteps. She dances as though ballet were a stranger to her, a fleeting shadow that would recoil at her very touch.
It is painful to watch, like a slow dissection of something beautiful. Each misstep is a ragged wound, each falter a reminder of what she could be. And it gnaws at me, the blunt awareness of her talent, the knowledge that she could outshine every soul in this room. This, this is not her.
Anoushka slams the music to a halt, her face flushed crimson with frustration. “You’re done,” she commands, her voice cold as steel. “Class, you are dismissed.”
Odessa retreats to her original spot, her face morphing as she grapples with the weight of her failure, the silence between them louder than any sound could be. And in that quiet, something stirs in me, something darker than before. I realize what I want, what I’ve wanted all along. I want her. I want her for reasons that are raw and unspeakable. I want to shatter her, just to gather the fragments and rebuild her, piece by piece, in my own image.
I’m no better than the Bird Dogs. I’m far worse, far darker. They seek only an eyeful in a cage, while I crave an enchantress in my hands, desperate for their fear. I don’t want her locked away or draped in gold. I want her as a ruffled swan—free, yet poisoned, so entwined with me that she won’t ever desire escape, even with a chain binding her neck.
I want Odessa.
“Oscar, fetch Miss Fontaine.”
“Yes, sir.”