Page 26 of The Vampire’s Ballerina

I scoff. “They forget about me enough as it is. Might as well make it permanent.”

I glance down at the floor to hide the flicker of pain that crosses my features, but I’m not fast enough. Peter’s entire body tenses at both my words and the pain in my eyes.

He tilts my face up towards his with his thumb under my chin. “Explain.” A fierce, primal, protective rage lights up his eyes.

My lip quivers as he wipes a tear from my cheek with the knuckle of his other hand, a tear I didn’t realize had fallen.

“Please,” he adds, his voice softening.

“My nanny raised me. My earliest memories are of her, not my mother. My parents were too busy with their socialite status and lifestyle to put much care into raising me beyond paying for everything. As soon as I showed a proclivity for ballet, they invested whatever they could into my training, since it meant I would be home even less. The cost didn’t matter as long as I was out of sight and out of mind.”

With each word out of my mouth, my tears fall faster and the rage in Peter’s eyes grows.

His hand around my neck tightens and tenses, along with the rest of his body. “Surely they’re proud of all you’ve accomplished though?” he asks, his voice too calm for the stormy rage under his skin.

I shrug. “They say they are. All their phone calls and the texts and flowers they send suggest they are. But have you ever seen them at a performance?”

I swallow back the lump in my throat, arms tightening around my middle. Peter pulls me against his chest. His fingers weave into the hair at my nape, and his lips press a kiss to the top of my head. He doesn’t say anything. He just holds me.

And while he holds me, I close my eyes and… let it go.

I let it all go. The last string of contempt, the last sliver of pain, the last ounce of shame and self-doubt—I send it all away, throwing it out like the steaks Peter burned. Because while my parents have always been absent and distant, I have never been alone. I had Nicolette. I have Haven and Maya and all the others from Crescent Lake.

And I have Peter.

My vampire. My lover. My mate.

“If you want me to change you…” Peter nudges me with his chin so I look up at him, his fingers combing through my golden strands. “If you truly wish for me to turn you, then I will. But I want you to think about it first. You will be able to dance in a company again. Eventually. I create new ones all the time. But I don’t know when that will happen for you. And the time when you’ll be stuck inside can be very lonely.”

His eyes go distant, staring into the dying fire. My heart aches at the anguish in them. I imagine him alone, struggling to come to terms with his new life, with his powers, with being stuck inside for so long before gaining enough tolerance for the sun.

“But I won’t be alone.” I slide my hands up his chest. “I’ll have you.”

He meets my gaze again. “I still want you to take some time to think about it. I don’t want you to think I’m forcing any of this on you. This life—being a vampire—it needs to be your choice.”

I nod, and he holds me tighter. He kisses my forehead, and my heart leaps at the tender gesture.

We stand in silence again, wrapped in each other, eyes closed. I think of all he said, all he told me about being a vampire, about turning into one so he can mark me as his. The choice seems clear—obvious—except when I remember what I’ll lose for at least a century.

Ballet. The one thing that gave me happiness and life. The thing I poured myself into, poured all my pain, frustrations, and sadness into when I had no other outlet. I’d still be able to dance, yes, but not in a company. Not in front of an audience. It would just be for me.

Would that be enough?

Peter shifts his hold on me, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. “Here.”

I take it, but frown. “Why?”

“I figured you might want to talk to someone. Someone who isn’t me. And your phone is still at Crescent Lake.”

I smile at him. “Thank you.”

He steps away from me. “I’m going to shower.”

He leaves the room, his footsteps fading as he makes his way through the house and up the stairs. He could just blink himself into the bedroom, but he’s showing me he’s actually leaving, giving me privacy so I can call my best friend.

I take a deep breath, and then dial Haven’s number as I sit on the couch, pulling the blanket onto my lap and crossing my fingers that there’s enough reception to reach her through the storm.

It rings several times—thankfully—and when she answers, she’s out of breath and almost panicked. “Peter? Is everything okay?!”