Chapter 25 #2
Not the manic grin I use as armor. Not the sharp expression I deploy when I want people to back off. Just... a smile. Simple. Genuine. The expression of someone who's just poured everything they have onto a stage and been told it was enough.
Whistles pierce the applause—sharp and bright, the particular kind of appreciation that can't be contained by mere clapping. Someone in the back is standing, and the motion triggers others, until half the audience is on their feet.
Standing ovation.
For ME.
A giggle escapes.
High.
Bright.
Absolutely unhinged.
I clap my hand over my mouth, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes—overwhelmed, overjoyed, completely unable to process what's happening.
They liked it.
They actually liked it.
Maybe—just maybe—this is going to work.
The audience filters out slowly.
Protocol requires me to remain on stage while the judges deliberate, so I stand in the fading spotlight and watch the darkness empty—shapes moving toward exits, voices murmuring conversations I can't quite hear, the particular sound of an event ending and normal life resuming.
My pack stays.
Of course they do.
They move to the front row as the other seats empty, positioning themselves where I can see them clearly.
Sage is grinning—that warm, proud expression that makes my chest ache.
Blaze is practically bouncing in his seat, golden eyes bright with excitement.
Jett is still and watchful, but there's something soft in his expression that wasn't there before.
And Kai...
Kai is looking at me like I've just proven something he wasn't sure he believed.
Admiration.
Respect.
Maybe something more.
The judges huddle at their table, heads bent together, voices too low to carry. I can see Martinez at the center—that silver head nodding occasionally, her stylus moving across a tablet as she takes notes or records decisions.
What are they saying?
Is it good?
Is it enough?
My toe taps against the stage floor.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Four times.
One-two-three-four.
I can't stop the counting—the nervous energy has to go somewhere, and my body has decided that rhythmic movement is the answer.
Minutes pass.
Long ones.
The kind of minutes that stretch into eternities, that make you question every choice you've ever made, that turn confidence into doubt and doubt into panic.
What if they didn't like it?
What if the blades were too much?
What if they saw crazy instead of art?
What if—
Martinez stands.
The movement silences my spiraling thoughts, draws every eye in the room—mine, my pack's, the few stragglers still gathering their belongings near the exits.
She approaches the stage.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Her heels click against the floor with the measured precision of someone who's spent a lifetime commanding attention. When she reaches the edge of the stage, she looks up at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Miss Eastman."
Her voice carries—clear and cultured, the voice of someone who's addressed audiences far larger than this.
"Yes, ma'am."
"That was..." She pauses. Considers. "It's been a long while since we've seen such unique talent. Not just in dance, but in sword work, which would be an honor to continue and excel."
Unique talent.
An honor.
My heart is racing.
Pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
"I've been following your journey here at Ruthless for years," Martinez continues, and there's something almost warm in her voice now. "Waiting to be able to grant you a full scholarship to Juilliard."
Juilliard.
JUILLIARD.
The word echoes in my skull, bouncing off memories of childhood dreams and adult disappointments.
"But due to the rules," she adds, and my stomach drops, "I couldn't forgo you not having a pack. Juilliard Omegas thrive on having pack accompaniment in a competitive field that also comes with its set of challenges—challenges that mimic what you've experienced here at Ruthless."
The rules.
Always the rules.
Always the barriers between me and what I want.
But then she smiles.
Actually smiles.
And the expression transforms her face from intimidating to almost maternal.
"However," she says, and the word is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard, "you now have a pack. Which means there is nothing preventing me from extending the offer I've been waiting to make."
She straightens.
Formal.
Official.
"Seraphine Eastman, on behalf of the International Alliance of Contemporary Dance Excellence, I am pleased to offer you a full scholarship to the Juilliard School, effective immediately. Upon approval of your pack, you may transfer as early as tomorrow, leaving Ruthless Academy behind."
Tomorrow.
TOMORROW.
I could be free TOMORROW.
My jaw drops.
Actually drops.
The kind of open-mouthed shock that would be embarrassing if I had the capacity to feel embarrassment right now.
I look at my pack.
At these four men who still feel like strangers in so many ways, who I've known for less than a week, who somehow managed to ignite this rollercoaster of change that's brought me to this moment.
They're watching me.
All of them.
Waiting for my reaction.
Waiting to see what I'll do.
Sage nods first—that small, encouraging gesture that says yes, this is real, take it, you deserve this. Blaze follows, grinning so wide it looks like his face might split. Jett's nod is subtle, almost imperceptible, but there.
And Kai...
Kai rises from his seat.
The motion is deliberate—powerful—the movement of someone who's about to make an official declaration.
"The Lawson pack approves," he says, voice carrying through the empty theater. "Miss Eastman has our full support in accepting this scholarship and transferring immediately."
Approves.
Full support.
Immediately.
Martinez nods, satisfaction evident in her expression.
"Excellent. We'll complete the paperwork tomorrow morning. Meet me at the administrative offices at nine a.m. to sign the final documents." She gathers her tablet, her notes, the tools of her authority. "Congratulations, Miss Eastman. You've earned this."
She turns and walks away.
The other judges follow—a procession of official robes and measured steps, filing out through a side exit that leads somewhere I've never been.
Somewhere I'll never need to go now.
Because I'm leaving.
Tomorrow.
I'm actually LEAVING.
I wait until they're gone.
Until the door closes behind them.
Until I'm alone with my pack in an empty theater that suddenly feels like the most beautiful place in the world.
Then I open my mouth to celebrate—
"Heated signature detected. Fifty meters."
Ro's voice cuts through the moment.
Sharp.
Urgent.
Wrong.
I'm already moving before my brain finishes processing.
Drop.
Roll.
Evade.
The bullet passes through the space where my head was a millisecond ago—I feel the displacement of air, hear the crack of the shot echoing through the empty theater.
Assassination attempt.
During my audition.
Of COURSE.
My blade is in my hand before I'm fully upright—muscle memory taking over, survival instincts screaming into action. A figure emerges from the darkness of the wing, dressed in black, moving fast.
Too fast.
Professional.
I spin, blade arcing, feeling the resistance as steel meets flesh. Blood sprays—hot, metallic, real—and the figure drops.
One.
More movement in my peripheral vision.
Multiple targets.
Coordinated attack.
I skid forward, dropping off the stage in a controlled fall, using the momentum to put distance between myself and whoever else is coming. The theater floor is hard beneath my ballet shoes—not designed for combat, too thin, too delicate—but I've fought in worse conditions.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
Count the enemies.
Count the threats.
Count everything that wants you dead.
Blaze and Jett are already in motion.
I see them in fragments—Blaze's fire blooming in the darkness, illuminating targets I couldn't see, Jett's silent efficiency as he neutralizes threats with the precision I've come to expect from him.
More bullets.
Lots more.
The crack of gunfire echoes through the theater, coming from multiple directions—snipers, probably, positioned in the upper levels, trying to get a clear shot.
At me?
At all of us?
Does it matter?
Sage has guns.
Where did Sage get guns?
The question surfaces and disappears in the same instant as I watch him fire with perfect aim, hitting targets disguised as shadows, as audience members, as innocent bystanders who were anything but.
A body falls from the balcony.
Two.
Another drops near the exit.
Three.
Kai's hand closes around my arm.
"This way."
His voice is sharp—commanding—the voice of a pack leader taking control of a crisis. He's pulling me toward a side corridor, away from the main theater, away from the violence that's still erupting behind us.
"The others—"
"Can handle themselves. We need to move."
I don't argue.
Can't argue.
The adrenaline is surging through my system now, drowning out everything except the immediate need to survive. My legs move without conscious thought, following Kai through darkened hallways, past doors I don't recognize, deeper into the bowels of the theater complex.
Where are we going?
What's the plan?
Why is he taking me away from the pack?
The questions surface and submerge, lost in the chaos of flight.
Gunfire echoes behind us—distant now, muffled by walls and distance. The sounds of combat continue, but we're pulling away from it, moving toward something else.
Escape route.
He has an escape route.
Of course he does.
Kai always has a plan.
A door appears.
Emergency exit, the kind that leads to back alleys and loading docks and all the unglamorous parts of buildings that audiences never see.
Kai kicks it open.
Sunlight floods the corridor—bright after the darkness of the theater, disorienting after the controlled lighting of the stage. I squint against it, trying to make out details of where we are.
Alley.
Behind the theater.
Delivery entrance.
A black car is already there.
Idling at the curb, engine running, waiting for us like it was always part of the plan.
How?
How did he know we'd need this?
How did he arrange this so quickly?
Kai turns to face me.
His expression is... strange.
Conflicted.
Pained.
Nothing like the controlled mask I've come to expect from him.
"Seraphine."
He says my name like it's a prayer.
Or an apology.
"For once in your life," he says, and his voice is rough, strained, "can you trust a Lawson?"
Trust a Lawson.
The family that killed my parents.
The family that's been trying to kill me.
The family that somehow became my pack.
I look at him.
Really look.
At the tension in his jaw.
At the way his hands are shaking slightly.
At the darkness in his dark gold eyes that suggests he's fighting something—maybe himself, maybe the situation, maybe decisions that have already been made.
Can I trust him?
After everything?
After the secrets and the silence and the history between our families?
My mind flashes through the past week.
Kai bringing me to the boutique.
Kai approving my scholarship.
Kai kissing my shoulder and telling me to perform like my life depended on it.
Kai looking at me like I was something more than an enemy.
Something worth protecting.
I nod.
"Yes."
The word comes out steady.
Certain.
A leap of faith I didn't know I was capable of.
Something flickers in his expression—relief? Regret? I can't tell.
He nods back.
"Get in the car."
I move toward the vehicle.
Kai opens the door—the back seat, leather interior, tinted windows that block out the world.
I slide inside.
The seat is cool beneath me, still damp with the sweat that soaks through my costume. My blades dig into my back as I settle, uncomfortable but familiar.
Kai follows.
Closes the door.
The car begins to move—smooth, controlled, pulling away from the theater and the violence and everything I thought I understood about this moment.
We made it.
We escaped.
Everything is going to be—
Something presses against my face.
Fabric.
Chemical smell.
Handkerchief.
My eyes go wide.
Chloroform.
He's drugging me.
Why is he drugging me?
I try to pull away, try to fight, but his grip is too strong and the chemicals are already working—flooding my system, dragging me toward unconsciousness.
Kai's other hand lifts something to his ear.
Phone.
He's making a call.
His voice comes from far away now, muffled by the cotton candy fog descending over my thoughts.
"Target secured."
Target.
I'm the target.
He was never saving me.
He was CAPTURING me.
Betrayal crashes through me like a physical blow—sharp and hot and devastating.
I trusted him.
I TRUSTED him.
I let him in, let him close, let myself believe that maybe—
His face swims in my vision.
Blurring.
Fading.
Dissolving into darkness.
But I see his lips move.
See him form words that I can barely hear through the roaring in my ears.
"Don't hate me."
Don't hate me.
As if that's possible.
As if I could ever feel anything else after this.
After he looked me in the eyes and asked me to trust him and then—
Darkness takes me.
Complete and absolute.
Swallowing everything I am, everything I was, everything I thought I was becoming.
I pass out before I can answer.