Chapter Ten
I woke with the heaviness of deep sleep clinging to me like a weighted blanket. For a disorienting moment, I couldn't place where I was. The sheets were too soft, the mattress too yielding. The scent was all wrong, lacking the familiar sweetness of cotton candy that clung to my cramped studio apartment. Then, in a dizzying rush, the events of the previous day came flooding back. The theatre. The Earth breaking in two. Being trapped and struggling to breathe. Then the three alphas that enveloped me, needed me perhaps as much as I needed them. I was in their home. Could it ever be my home?
I sat up, taking in the guest room in the light of day. Simple furnishings that screamed nest with their undeniable luxuriousness, with high-end finishes and plush fabrics. The kind of room I could never afford on a dancer's salary. Sunlight streamed through gauzy curtains, casting the space in a warm glow that felt at odds with the turmoil in my heart.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I winced as my leg screeched in protest. Every muscle ached from yesterday's exertions, the fear, and adrenaline taking their toll. I padded to the en-suite bathroom, marveling at the gleaming tiles and fluffy towels. In my shoebox apartment, the bathroom had been little more than a closet with a leaking showerhead. This felt like another world entirely.
On the counter, I found a new toothbrush still in its packaging, a tube of toothpaste, and an array of high-end toiletries. Bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a soft-bristled hairbrush, a luxurious body wash that smelled of vanilla and amber. Each item was a small, thoughtful gesture, a quiet acknowledgment of my needs. I felt an unexpected lump in my throat, moved by the care of these strangers.
I stepped into the bathroom, washed, brushed my teeth, and used the moisturizer they had supplied me with for my face.
When I finally emerged, I found a stack of new clothes and makeup waiting for me. Soft t-shirts, tracksuit bottoms, leggings, and even a few dresses that would show off my curves. Underneath, there were a few packs of new underwear in my size. They must have gone out early this morning to get these, I realized with a pang. The fit was perfect, hugging my curves without being constricting. It felt like a small miracle, being clean and dressed in something other than the leotards and tights that made up my usual wardrobe.
Underneath the clothes, I found a handwritten note.
"Summer..." it read, "...we thought you might need a few things. Once you're ready, we'd like to take you shopping in the next town over, so you can pick out some clothes and essentials for yourself. No pressure, just let us know when you're up for it. Blake, Anders, gleaming hardwood and soaring windows spoke of refined elegance, while the haphazard arrangement of equipment hinted at a rushed, almost makeshift setup.
A mismatched collection of chairs and benches lined the walls, as if they'd been gathered from various rooms in the penthouse. In one corner, a small table held a haphazard assortment of water bottles, towels, and a portable speaker.
But despite the hurried, imperfect nature of it all, the room hummed with the unmistakable energy of possibility, of a space created with deliberate care and attention to my needs.
Slowly, I turned back to face the three alphas, my lips curving into a tremendous smile. "Thank you," I said, my voice rough with emotion. "This is... I don't know what to say. Thank you."
Anders' face broke into a delighted grin, his relief palpable. Behind him, Zach leaned against the doorframe, a softer, more pleased version of his usual smirk playing about his lips as he watched me. Even Blake's serious expression seemed to soften, the hint of a smile still playing on his lips.
For a fleeting, fragile moment, I allowed myself to bask in the glow of their shared satisfaction, the unfamiliar warmth of being seen, considered, and cared for. My smile grew a little wider, a little more genuine, as I met Anders' gaze.
Their eyes were too much. Too present. The weight of them settled on my shoulders like a spotlight, burning through the thin fabric of my composure. I turned away before they could see the cracks forming, walking toward the barre like it might anchor me.
My fingers skimmed the polished smooth wood, both cool and familiar. A muscle in my wrist twitched as my memory stirred. My mind began to drift, repeating steps in my mind. Plié. Arabesque. The sweep of music, the rhythm of breath, the clean ache of movement. For a moment, I could almost feel it again, the joy, the clarity, the way dancing used to make the world disappear. I sighed.
Anders stepped forward and placed his hand over mine on the barre. “I know your shoes were damaged. But, well, Zach found a shop, near his gym, on the outer edge of the city.” I nodded. “It is still intact. So, we phoned them, and they’re expecting you for a fitting tomorrow.”
My eyes widened, and my jaw dropped. “Really?”
He nodded, and laughed when I flung my arms around him. “Thank you! Thank you! This. This all means so much!”
I stepped back and looked at the other two grinning at me. “I’ll take you,” Blake said. “But, you have to promise me one thing.”
My eyes narrowed. “What?”
“That you won’t tear those stitches!”
I laughed. “I’ll try not to.” He rolled his eyes and walked away.
Anders turned back to me. “We will leave you to enjoy your studio, but please be careful on that leg of yours.”
I smiled and nodded again. These men, these strangers. They did all of this for me. But... why?
The feeling faltered, thin as glass. One sharp edge of memory, and it shattered. The studio wavered, soft at the edges. Grief rose without warning, thick and fast, and I reached out to the barre, blinking hard, willing it down. No. Not here.
My grip on the barre tightened. I didn’t want to cry. Not in front of them. Not because of this.
They saw. I didn’t have to look to know it. The quiet shift in the air said enough. Breaths held, eyes narrowing in concern. They could feel it, the way my body had gone rigid again, like a door slamming shut.
I straightened my spine. Lifted my chin. Don’t give it away. Don’t let them in.
Trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford, and kindness always carried strings. They hadn’t asked for anything yet, but they would. They always did.
Still... I could feel it. That subtle current running between us. The way they were watching, not with pity, not even curiosity, but something steadier. Something stubborn.
They’d seen too much.
And something told me... they weren’t going to look away.
Taking a deep breath, I raised my chin and looked back at my reflection in the mirror, my green eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. I can do this. I need this.
With a moment's clarity, I was transported back to my first ballet class, my small hand clutched tightly in my mother's as we walked through the door. I could still feel the awe that had flooded through my five-year-old self as I took in the barre, the mirror, the shining expanse of the room. It had felt like stepping into a fairy tale, a world of magic and beauty and infinite possibility.
My mother had knelt beside me, her face radiant with pride and love as she helped me slip on my pale pink ballet shoes for the first time. "You're going to be wonderful, my little swan," she'd whispered, brushing a kiss against my forehead. "Just remember, the music is already inside you. All you have to do is let it out."
I'd carried those words with me through every class, every rehearsal, every performance. She'd been there for all of it, my safe harbor in a world that felt too big, too bright and too much. With her by my side, I'd been fearless, knowing that I could leap and twirl and soar, and she would always be there to catch me.
But now, standing in this studio that was mine but not mine, I felt the full weight of her absence like a physical ache, a hollow space in my chest that threatened to swallow me whole. The joy and wonder of those early days felt like a cruel mockery now, a reminder of all I had lost, all that had been ripped away from me.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I fought to push back the relentless tide of grief.
Almost without realizing it, I moved into a familiar pose, my body responding to the unheard music of memory. My muscles protested the long-unused positions, but there was a strange comfort in the ache, the burn of exertion drowning out the pain in my heart.
I lost myself in the rhythm of it, letting the moves drown out the ache of my leg. For the span of a few precious, fleeting moments, I could almost forget the desperate, clawing reality of my existence, could almost believe that I was free, that I was whole, that I was the girl my mother had always believed me to be.
But all too soon, the spell was broken, the music in my head fading into hollow silence. I stilled, my chest heaving with exertion and unspent emotion, my face damp with sweat and tears I hadn't realized I'd been crying. My leg throbbed, but the moment of reprieve had been worth it.
I turned to see my audience, but they were no longer there, giving me the space to dance alone, to work through my problems and treacherous memories. Although, their distance made me ache, the need for their touch took over every cell in my body. Every longing thought, every movement. Is this how it will always feel with them? The pain of the loss of their touch? I sighed, holding on to the barre and looking at myself in the mirror. The girl that stared back at me was a shell of who I once was. Wild, haunted eyes, trembling limbs. I was a pale imitation of the girl who had lived and breathed for the sheer joy of movement, of expression, of connection.
That girl was gone, hardened by the cruel realities of an unforgiving world. How could I even think they would want me, even if we were scent matches? They could tell me I’m theirs all they wanted, but actions spoke louder than words. I pursed my lips. I guessed only time would tell.
But, no matter what happened, I had to fight. Survive. Just like my mother told me to.
It was a terrifying prospect, a leap of faith with no guarantee of a safe landing. But as I took a deep breath and moved once more into the familiar steps of my past, I couldn't help but feel the stirrings of the faintest, most tentative flutter of hope.