Marco approaches as the room empties.
“That new transition in the middle? Pure fire,” he says, offering me a bottle of water.
I take a long drink before answering. “It needed more edge. The club owner’s been pushing for something more commercial, but I won’t water it down.”
Marco chuckles. “That’s why they hired you. Anyone can choreograph sexy. You choreograph authentic sensuality.”
His words catch me off guard. Marco’s been at the studio before I joined three years ago, one of the few constants in my career. He’s seen the evolution of my work, from raw talent to refined vision.
Marco caps his water bottle, his eyes lingering on mine a beat too long. “Some of us are heading to The Velvet Room aftersetup tonight. Before the show.” He shifts his weight, a casual movement that doesn’t quite hide the tension in his shoulders. “Thought maybe you’d want to grab a drink? Just us?”
The invitation hangs between us. It’s not the first time, though usually he’s more subtle—offering to walk me to my car, suggesting we grab coffee to discuss choreography, his hand occasionally brushing mine.
“I can’t tonight.” The words come automatically, the same gentle but firm response I’ve given dozens of times before. “Still need to finalize the lighting cues with Javier.”
His smile doesn’t falter, but something dims in his eyes. “Right. Maybe next time.”
We both know there won’t be a next time. There never is.
I roll up my yoga mat, using the movement to create distance. “I should shower before tonight.”
“Keira.” My name in his mouth sounds like a question I don’t want to answer. “We’ve known each other for three years. Have I ever seen you do anything besides work and dance?”
The question catches me off guard. “I don’t need anything else.”
“Everyone needs connection.”
I meet his gaze directly. “Not me.”
And it’s true. Dance gives me everything I require—purpose, expression, control. People are unpredictable. Dangerous. I learned that lesson across seven foster homes, where affection always came with conditions. Where trust was a weapon used against me.
The third home taught me about false kindness—how quickly gentle touches turned possessive when doors closed. The fifth home showed me that even when people said they cared, they’d still send you away when you became inconvenient. By the seventh, I’d stopped unpacking my bag.
Marco deserves someone who can offer what he’s looking for. Someone who wasn’t assembled from broken pieces that never quite fit together. Someone whose heart doesn’t freeze when another person stands too close.
“I appreciate the offer,” I say finally. “But I’m not built for... that.”
I leave the studio behind, my muscles satisfyingly sore. The night air hits my skin, still warm from exertion, and I welcome the cooling sensation as I walk the single block to my apartment building. Dance always leaves me centered, grounded in my body when my mind wants to float away.
My building is nothing special—just another brick structure with a security door that sticks when it rains. I fish my keys from my bag and check the mailbox in the lobby out of habit. Bills, probably. Maybe that check from last month’s workshop.
Instead, my fingers close around something different. A black envelope, heavy paper with a slight texture that feels expensive to the touch. No return address. Just my name written in silver script that catches the dim lobby light.
Curious, I head up to the third floor. My apartment welcomes me with familiar simplicity—open concept, minimalist furniture, and a wall of mirrors for practicing. Nothing here I can’t pack in two suitcases if I need to leave quickly. Old habits.
I toss my dance bag on the couch and sink down beside it, turning the mysterious envelope in my hands before slicing it open with my thumbnail.
The card inside is equally sleek—thick black cardstock with silver lettering.
“The Blackwood Brothers cordially invite you to the Hollow’s Hunt...”
I read the paragraphs once, then again, my heart stuttering in my chest. This has to be a joke. An invitation to be hunted by masked men through some elaborate maze, with the promise—no, the expectation—of being claimed and... used... for seventy-two hours.
My face flushes hot. I should be disgusted. Outraged. Instead, I feel a treacherous heat blooming between my thighs, an insistent pulse of want I haven’t acknowledged in months.
I set the invitation down, hands shaking slightly. Sex has always been complicated for me—physical release I occasionally need, but emotional connection I never allow. One-night stands. Brief encounters where I control everything, then disappear before morning comes.
But this... being pursued, captured, taken... The surge of desire I feel at the thought makes me press my thighs together.
