Chapter 6
Angela
My body was a traitor.
Usually, dance was a cerebral exercise. It was geometry and physics.
It was the mental command to engage the glute, drop the shoulder, elongate the neck.
But today, my brain had lost control of the vehicle.
My body was operating on a completely different frequency—a low, humming frequency of pure, unadulterated sensation.
Every time my thighs brushed together, I remembered.
Every time I arched my back, I felt the phantom weight of Elijah’s hand on my spine.
Every time I inhaled, I expected to smell cedar, scotch, and that dangerous, metallic scent of male arousal.
Focus, I commanded myself, staring at my reflection in the mirror. You are a ballerina. You are a professional. You are not a hormonally compromised puddle.
But the girl in the mirror didn't look like a professional. She looked flushed. Her lips were a shade darker than usual, swollen and bitten. Her eyes were wide, glittering with a secret that felt too big for her chest.
Yesterday, on a leather sofa that probably cost more than my mother’s life insurance policy, Elijah Vance had touched me. He hadn't just touched me; he had unraveled me. He had taken me apart with the clinical precision of a surgeon and put me back together as something... else.
Something that belonged to him.
"Moretti!"
Madame LeClair’s cane slammed against the floor, cracking through the silence like a gunshot.
I jolted, nearly falling out of my extension. I grabbed the barre to steady myself, my heart hammering.
"I’m sorry, Madame," I gasped. "I lost my balance."
LeClair marched across the room, her small, bird-like frame radiating terrifying energy. She stopped in front of me, peering up at my face through her thick glasses. She studied me like I was a bug under a microscope.
"You are not balanced," she observed, her voice sharp. "But you are also not... dead."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Usually, you dance like a robot," she said, tapping my sternum with a bony finger. "Perfect technique. Zero soul. You dance like you are afraid to take up space. Like you are apologizing for existing."
I flinched. She wasn't wrong.
"But today," she continued, tilting her head. "Today, you are messy. You are distracted. But you are... alive. There is heat in your movement. Where did this come from?"
Heat.
My face burned. I knew exactly where it came from. It came from the memory of Elijah’s rough voice whispering praise in my ear. It came from the terrifying realization that I liked it. That I wanted more.
"I... I’m just trying to push myself," I lied, looking down at my worn pointe shoes.
"Hmph," LeClair sniffed. "Whatever it is, keep it. But control it. Passion without discipline is just chaos. And we do not do chaos in this studio."
Chaos.
That was Elijah’s word. He hated chaos. He built his entire life around avoiding it. And yet, last night, he had created absolute chaos inside of me.
"Yes, Madame," I whispered.
"Take five," she ordered the class. "Then we run the variations."
I grabbed my water bottle and retreated to the corner, my hands shaking. I needed to get a grip. I had a plan. I had a contract. The contract was simple: I obey him in the penthouse, I pretend to be his girlfriend in public, and my mother gets to live.
Nowhere in the contract did it say I was allowed to fall for him. Nowhere did it say I was allowed to crave the way his eyes darkened when he looked at me.
I checked my phone. No texts.
Just a notification from Instagram.
SterlingBarstool posted a photo.
I clicked it, dread pooling in my stomach.
It was a grainy photo taken last night at the Ice House. It showed me and Elijah. He was looming over me, blocking a guy with a backward hat—Kyle. Elijah looked terrifying, a wall of black leather and aggression. I looked small, staring up at him.
The caption read: Captain Vance putting a rookie in the hospital over a girl? Rumor has it Kyle Jenkins has a broken wrist and Vance has a new obsession. Who is she?
The comments were already in the hundreds.
Isn't that the equipment manager's daughter?
The thief?
No way Vance is dating her. She’s trash.
She’s kind of hot though.
He’s going to ruin her.
I locked the screen, my stomach churning.
"He’s going to ruin her," I whispered, reading the last comment again in my mind.
They were wrong. He wasn't going to ruin me. He had already started.
The campus dining hall at lunchtime was a gladiator arena.
It was a cavernous space filled with the roar of three thousand students, the clatter of trays, and the distinct social stratification of a high school movie on steroids.
The athletes sat near the windows. The Greeks sat in the center.
The arts students—my people—usually huddled near the exit, ready to flee.
Today, I didn't get to huddle.
I had barely swiped my ID card when a hand landed on the small of my back. It was heavy, warm, and possessive.
I didn't need to look. My body knew him instantly. The tiny hairs on my arms stood up.
"Keep walking," Elijah’s voice rumbled in my ear.
I looked up. He was wearing a grey Sterling Hockey hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms. He looked tired—the shadows under his eyes were still there—but he also looked devastatingly handsome. And dangerous.
"Hello to you too," I muttered, trying to ignore the way my pulse spiked.
"Don't look nervous," he instructed, guiding me toward the "Athletes Only" section. "Smile. You’re happy to see me. You adore me."
"I’m contemplating kneeing you again," I hissed through a fake smile.
"That’s the spirit."
The noise in the cafeteria seemed to drop a decibel as we walked through. Heads turned. Forks paused mid-air. The photo had circulated. Everyone knew.
I felt like I was walking naked through the room. I felt the judgment, the curiosity, the malice. I wanted to shrink, to fold in on myself.
Elijah’s hand tightened on my waist. His thumb dug into my hip bone, a grounding pressure.
I’ve got you, the touch said. Or maybe it said, You’re mine. Either way, it kept me upright.
We reached the long table where the hockey team sat. It was a sea of massive shoulders, backward caps, and plates piled high with carbohydrates.
Jax Slayton looked up from his pasta. His eyes widened.
"Well, shit," Jax laughed, kicking out a chair. "The rumors are true. The Iceman actually brought a date to lunch. I owe the goalie fifty bucks."
"Pay up," Elijah said coolly, pulling out a chair for me.
I sat down. Elijah sat next to me, close. Too close. His thigh pressed against mine under the table—a deliberate, solid line of heat.
"Hi, Angela," Jax said, flashing a charming grin. "Ignore the staring. Most of these guys haven't seen a girl in daylight since the season started."
"Hi, Jax," I managed.
The rest of the table was watching me. Some looked skeptical. Some looked hostile. I recognized a few faces—guys who had made jokes about my dad when the scandal broke. Now, they were looking at me differently. Not with respect, exactly, but with caution.
Because I was with the Captain. And the Captain broke wrists.
"So," a guy named Miller asked, chewing on a breadstick. "Is it true? About Kyle?"
The table went silent.
Elijah didn't look up from his grilled chicken. He stabbed a piece with more force than necessary. "What about Kyle?"
"That you snapped his wrist because he tried to dance with her," Miller clarified, pointing a breadstick at me.
I froze.
Elijah slowly chewed his food. He swallowed. Then he looked at Miller. His eyes were dead, flat, and terrifying.
"Kyle didn't try to dance," Elijah said calmly. "He tried to put his hands on something that wasn't his. I corrected his error."
The table erupted in low whistles and laughter.
"Alpha move," Jax muttered, shaking his head. "Remind me never to high-five her."
"Please don't," Elijah said.
He reached under the table. His hand—the large, warm hand that had been inside me twelve hours ago—landed on my knee. He squeezed.
It was a claim. A brand.
I felt a flush rise up my neck that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the memory of that hand. I looked at him. He was looking at me, his expression unreadable to the table, but to me... to me, it was screaming.
Remember? his eyes asked. Remember how you shook?
I looked away, grabbing my water glass with trembling fingers.
"You okay, babe?" Elijah asked loud enough for the table to hear.
"Fine," I choked out. "Just... hot in here."
"So, Angela," Jax asked, trying to break the tension. "What’s your major? besides Ballet? Or is it just twirling?"
"Performance and Choreography," I said, my voice gaining a little strength. "It’s actually harder than skating. We don't get pads when we hit the floor."
"Ooh, shots fired," someone laughed.
"She’s got a point," Elijah murmured, leaning in so his shoulder brushed mine. "She’s tougher than half of you."
The compliment was quiet, but it hit me in the chest. He was defending me. Publicly. He was rewriting the narrative of "The Thief’s Daughter" into "The Tough Girl."
I should have felt relieved. I should have felt grateful for the cover.
But all I felt was a crushing sense of guilt. Because they were buying it. They believed we were a couple. And the terrifying part was, sitting here with his leg pressed against mine and his scent filling my lungs... I was starting to believe it too.
"Eat," Elijah whispered, nudging my tray. "You need the protein."
"Stop mothering me," I whispered back.
"Make me."
We stared at each other. The air between us crackled. It was Layer 1: The noise of the cafeteria faded. It was Layer 2: The ghost of last night hovered between our mouths. It was Layer 3: The micro-tension of his thumb tracing small circles on the denim of my jeans.
I picked up my fork. I took a bite.
Elijah smirked, a tiny, victorious quirk of his lips.
He had won this round. But the game was getting dangerous.
By the time I got back to the penthouse that evening, I was emotionally exhausted.