Kyledidn’t chase her through the dark the other night.
Kyle didn’t get to feel her pulse jolt in excitement under his fingertips, or the softness of her skin beneath his knife, or the sweetness of her pussy as she shattered all over my fingers.
A few close people have seen me with my mask askew: Lochlan and Ronan, Drago, a bit.
My father.
But the other night was the first time I ever had the mask fully off in front of someone…and that someone wasYelena.
Yelena, who has completely caught my attention.
If only she knew howfuckedthat makes her.
7
YELENA
It’s almostdark by the time I make it back to Morvaine Manor, change into a tank top and running shorts, and get back outside. I scowl at the fading light as I sit on the steps of Morvaine's sweeping Gothic porch and lace up my sneakers.
I don’t usually run at night. But I stayed late after my Microeconomics class, trying to reason with Professor Halbertson over his grading of my last paper. I typicallyloatheconfrontation. But Wren agreed that the C- I got on my argument for the benefits of micro-loans to developing nations was especially egregious, and all but forced me at gunpoint to go talk to Halbertson about it.
What made it even harder was that Irefuseto bring up the personal vendetta Halbertson clearly has against me as part of my argument for a better grade.
My dad had Professor Halbertson when he was here, and when I mentioned to Dad thatIhad himthisyear, Dad cracked up and told me about the time he and Lucia’s dad, Nico, filled Halbertson’s gas tank with sugar as a prank.
Halbertson remembers. He knowsexactlywho I am, and I saw the way he glared at me when he called my name on the first day of class this semester.
I exhale as I finish lacing up my shoes, trying to shake off my frustrations with Halbertson—who, by the way, didnotchange my grade. Jerk.
Running has been a mind-clearer for me for as long as I can remember. It started when I was a kid, drowning in a mix of frustration and shame that I wasn’t taking to the ballet classes mom would bring me to.
My mother wastheface of ballet in New York when I was growing up: part of a “golden era” at the Zakharova that included her, Damiano’s mom, Lucia’s mom, Galina’s dad, Wren’s mom, and Jude’s parents.
She was on billboards. Acted in movies and commercials. Presented at awards shows. Was photographed for the cover ofSports Illustratedalongside my friends’ parents and some of the most influential athletes of their time.
And then there wasme. I took to ballet like a rock takes to flying.
It just never grabbed me. And no matter how many times Mom told me that she loved me unconditionally and it didn’t matter where my passions lay, I still felt this overwhelming sense of…guilt.
Like I was letting her down.
Then one day, she happened to ask me if I wanted to go with her on one of her runs around the city.
Andthatstuck.
Running clicked for me the way dance clicked for mom. Ever since, it’s been my escape. It's my way to shake off whatever is bothering me and take a brief sabbatical from my thoughts, anxieties, and problems—like professors who can’t let go of a grudge with your father from twenty-odd years ago, for instance.
Or like not being able to stop thinking about a certain golden prince who showed you the darkness hiding behind his mask, only for you to realize you might LIKE that darkness a bit too much…
I swallow uneasily as I trot down the steps of the porch.
There’s got to be a psychological connection between running being my escape and the fact that my fantasies gravitate toward being chased. I don’t really watch porn, but when Ido, that’s what I’ve always found makes me squirm the most. It’s why I got sucked into Galina’s world of MaskTok with “morally gray book boyfriends” who chase and pin down their leading ladies, who grab fists of their hair andmakethem “take it like a good girl”.
Maybe there’s some sort of crossed wiring in my head, where the high I get from running triggers the desire or fantasy center in my brain.
A flush ripples over my cheeks.
Or maybe you're deranged, and this is you looking for a scapegoat.
