Page 2

CHAPTER 1

ISLA

I don’t dream often. And when I do, I usually wake up wishing that I hadn’t.

That’s because my dreams seem to pull from the same corner of subconscious memories that I’d rather forget. This dream is no different. Fear and helplessness fill my foster sister’s eyes while she’s dragged down the hall by her ponytail in the house we shared. Our foster parents wanted the house to look perfect from the outside, and it did. On the inside, it was the place of unspeakable acts, things that were done to her and not to me.

To this day, I still wonder why they forced her into trafficking, while they expected me to smile, nod, and pretend everything was okay. I thought that once we left that house and returned to the group home, her horrific experiences would end. But I was wrong. And it was then that I learned how to survive alone.

The last thing that I remember after running out of the theatre and onto the street last night is the sound of footsteps behind me. Ignoring whoever was behind me, I continued running. It was my best chance at escape, since surely I was faster and lighter on my feet than the figure behind me.

I half-expect to open my eyes now and wake up back in my bed, in my apartment. Remembering the sensation of a damp cloth on my face and the force of an arm encircling my chest, dragging me back on the street, I conclude I didn’t make it.

So much for my escape.

The luxurious softness of silk sheets is the first thing I notice, even before my eyes fully open. I can’t afford sheets like this, not yet anyway. I open my eyes slowly, giving space for the foggy, aching feeling in my head to subside a bit before attempting to sit up in bed.

The room all around me is foreign and stunning . In front of me, floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Vegas Strip. I must be at least a dozen floors or more above the city. And from the looks of the room that I’m in, this is a very expensive place.

On the bed beside me, there’s a tray with a full glass of water and a bowl of freshly cut fruit. If I didn’t know better, I’d be tempted to think that this is all still a dream. But then the nightmare of what actually happened last night overrides my senses, and I panic.

I jump up from the bed, still reeling with fear and adrenaline, and examine my body for harm or worse. As far as I can tell, I’m completely fine. Scratch that—my body is completely fine, but my head is spinning, and my emotions are spiraling. My bun from the performance holds, though a few chestnut curls have escaped. I’m still in my theatre outfit. After a quick glance around to see that there’s no one in here with me, I go to the door and try to open it. I’m surprised when the handle turns easily and prematurely relieved— until I meet with the same eyes that locked with mine last night backstage.

“Good morning, Isla,” the man says as he steps inside the room, urging my body to back up as his fills the doorway with a lean but powerful build.

At any other time, such a man—tall, handsome, and with piercing steel-blue eyes that look straight through me—might take my breath away. But this is the same man that I just saw murder someone.

His voice is calm and cool, and his presence is commanding. A blend of fear and curiosity stemming from my uncertainty. “Who are you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady and exude a confidence that I don’t feel. “Why am I here?”

He smiles, and I stare at his angular jawline as power drips from his momentary silence. I wonder if I’m going to be his next kill and resist the urge to tremble, because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid. I read something once about predators in the wild being able to smell fear.

“You saw something that you shouldn’t have seen,” he says coldly as he takes a step closer toward me. “And now you’re mine until I decide what to do with you.”

His assertion of control instantly triggers a response within me, not unlike the one I was just having in my dream before waking up here. I’m terrified, possibly facing death, yet I refuse to surrender. “People will be looking for me,” I assert. “Madame Durant will see my dance bag and she’ll wonder where I?—”

“That dance bag?” He asks as he points toward a chair in the corner of the room.

I turn to look and see not only my dance bag but also my tutu draped over the arm of the chair.

“No need to fret. My men have made sure that your absence is a quiet one. A dancer resting, post-performance, possible overexertion, avoids suspicion.”

“And then?” I stick my chin out at him. “That won’t last forever. I have rehearsals. My instructor will know that I’ve gone missing. So, you’re going to either have to release me or?—”

I don’t finish that sentence because I don’t want to say the words aloud.

“ Kill you ?”

He reaches out his hand, and I worry for a second that he’s going to wrap his fingers around my neck. Instead, he reaches up and pulls the hairpins from my bun.

My hair falls against my shoulders, and I stand motionless, afraid to move in any one direction as I study him.

There’s a scar under his collarbone, one that looks like it was once deep and brutal, and the hint of a tattoo that peeks out from the cuff of his black suit. His eyes are intense and calculating—he’s dangerous, murderous , as evidenced by the act he committed last night. But there’s something else too. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but it hints at being a man who has more scars than just the kind you can see with your eyes.

“I’m not going to kill you, Isla,” he says as he pulls his hand back and turns to stand in front of the vast windows overlooking the city. “It would be a damn shame to snuff out talent like yours.”

“You watched me dance?” I ask in a whisper. A killer enjoying ballet feels incongruous, hence my surprise. Then I remember the figure on the balcony that held my gaze during my pirouettes.

“I appreciate ballet as an art form,” he says with his back turned toward me as he continues to stare out the window. “There’s beauty and a pain in it, as I’m sure you’re keenly aware. Talent like yours takes a strength that very few people can appreciate.”

“If you value me and won’t harm me, could you release me, please? I promise I won’t tell anyone what I saw. I swear it,” I plead. “Just let me go and I’ll forget about all of this, okay?”

When he turns toward me, his expression darkens. “I never said that I wouldn’t hurt you. I simply said that I wasn’t going to kill you. And you’ll have to forgive me for not trusting your word. But I’ve known a few dancers in my time, and I can say with great honesty that they’re not all trustworthy.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?” I ask, this time failing to hide the tremble in my voice.

“No,” he says as his eyes run over me. “It’s supposed to make you obedient .”

I swallow hard and glance at the door.

“You can’t escape. My men are guarding every exit.”

“Your men?” I ask, still wanting an answer to my first question. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Vincent,” he says as he extends his hand out toward me. The arrogance of him to think that I would want to shake his hand after having just kidnapped me is astounding.

“Vincent? Is that what everyone calls you?” My survival instincts kick in, and I realize that this man isn’t just any violent criminal. The polished appearance, the lavish place that we’re standing in, even the mention of having men serving as guards for him. He’s powerful, not just in stature, but in an operational sense, too. City whispers tell of such men, leaders of hidden criminal empires. I might not have just seen a random murder; I might have stumbled onto something much more consequential.

“No,” he chuckles in amusement. “Some people call me something else, but I think you will probably prefer Vincent to the alternative.”

His gaze drops to his awaiting hand, implying a demand, not a suggestion, for me to take it. And when I do, simply to hedge my bets and avoid making him angry right off the bat, he wraps his fingers around my palm in a way that sends a shot of tension all the way to the soles of my feet.

“Try me,” I say as I push away the heat rising within me.

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me what other people call you.”

Vincent grins, and he shakes his head gently, as if he’s entertained by my curiosity. “They call me The Devil ,” he says without letting go of my hand. “Does that frighten you?”

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being scared out of my wits, but weakness isn’t within me.

“I’ve danced with devils before,” I say, testing the boundaries of how rebellious I can be without getting hurt. It’s not a lie; I’ve had to survive unpleasant things in the past and I’ll just have to survive this, too.

“Have you now?” Vincent asks with a raised brow.

He releases my hand and walks toward the door, pausing before he opens it and turning back to look at me one more time. His voice is low when he speaks, and his eyes are unreadable.

“Well then, welcome to your new home, ballerina,” he says before closing the door behind him and throwing the lock.