Page 10 of Run, Starlight (The Royal Ballet Presents #3)

MARCELLA

My legs tremble with exhaustion by the time Antonella finishes with us.

The first performance is fast approaching, and she won't take anything but excellence. I wait for the rest of the dancers to filter out, using the excuse of extra practice, but all I want is to go back to the dressing room when it’s empty.

I practice the pique turn until my form is perfect, and I finish in an arabesque so high it looks like I was photoshopped.

Antonella would be proud.

By the time I make my way to the dressing room, they’re all gone.

I use my towel to dry off the sweat, excited that I have a shower and a huge room waiting for me.

Anna and her friends were surprised to see me today.

I wonder if they thought I was going to be fired over her complaint.

I’m pettily enjoying their disappointment, but they deserve it.

Fabrizio was only seventeen when he died, but even as a teenage boy, he was kind.

He always told me to be nice to people because you never know what they are going through.

Anna shared a room with me for weeks, and she never bothered to even ask what haunted me so badly.

I felt bad for being an inconvenience, but not anymore.

There are worse things to be but hurt and loud.

The black flimsy ballet skirt pools at my feet, and I bend over to grab it.

As I’m folded, I hear something shifting behind me.

Alerted, I turn around, my eyes scanning the dressing room.

Silence follows, but a tingling on the back of my neck tells me I’m not alone.

Mixed with my recent experiences, I have no doubt who’s here.

Chills run down my arms, yet I know I’m not only scared. I’m shamefully excited.

My lips part, and I breathe slowly as one hand moves behind my back. I reach for my new knife inside my backpack. It’s easy to find in the outside pocket, and quickly, I feel the carved wood of the handle between my fingers. Carefully, I draw it out, my eyes narrowing.

“Leave me alone, creep.” I arch an eyebrow.

I want to sound tough and commanding. He could be a psycho killer for all I know, but inside, I'm melting. Fuck, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but this stalker thing messes with my head.

I’m hot, wishing I were back in my shower rather than here so I could play with myself in peace.

I keep my head on straight. Even when I hear him again, I don’t scream or beg him to make me come this time.

His careful steps come from somewhere around the lockers.

There’s no response, and certainly no sense that he’s left. “What do you want with me?” I ask as I move too, my knife pointed in the direction of his steps. “Why do you like to watch me?”

He chuckles.

Damn. It’s a growly chuckle, masculine and raw. It weakens me, and I gasp, gripping the knife harder as every hair on my body stands at attention .

“What do you want from me?” I’m brave enough to ask, but I’m not sure I want the answer. Maybe I prefer my delusions.

There’s a weighted pause, and I hold my breath. I can’t believe I’m here talking to him instead of running for my life.

“I can’t stop,” he says. His voice is so deep, he hardly sounds real.

“Why not?” I ask, trying to sound strong and determined but instead sounding breathy like I’m remembering the last time we stood together too clearly.

“The piercing in your cunt, Little Star. Show me.” He’s out of a perverted dream of mine. Maybe this is the last of my sanity seeping out of my brain and leaking out my ear.

“That’s all you want? If I show you, you’re going to leave?” I ask. Why am I already wet?

He doesn’t answer, but I hear his steps again.

They’re faint, and I’m not as good at pinpointing where they come from.

The dressing room is big enough with rows and rows of lockers and a lot of shit the girls leave around.

He has plenty of space to hide out. Do I want to play this game?

I shouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to.

“I can’t leave unless you show me.”

I think about it for a second. He’s already watched me come, so what difference does it make?

“Okay. I can do that,” I say, pretending I’m braver than I am. I know it won’t lead to anything good, but I'm so horny I’m irrational, and that’s when people always make the worst choices.

He only asked me to show him the metal resting against my clit, but maybe I can up the excitement for both of us, squeeze some more delicious chemicals out of my brain since I’m diving in and playing with my stalker.

Instead of flashing him from the side of my leotard, I slip my shoulder straps down.

My breasts come next, then my stomach, and it falls to my ankles before I remove it completely.

I brush my long hair behind my back and stand completely naked with just my knife.

“That’s it?” I ask as if it’s nothing as if showing my pussy to my stalker is an everyday occurrence.

“I can’t see your piercing.” He nudges. “I can’t get the picture of it out of my head.”

My face burns. I didn't think he was literally asking me to peel my pussy open for him and show him.

My heart beats so loudly. I hear it as I bring my fingers to my pussy and spread myself for him.

The cold air touches the metal, instantly chilling it and sending waves of overstimulation through me.

Everyone has a different experience with hood piercings, but mine has been nonstop entertainment.

I breathe deep, not sure if this is fear or exhilaration, but either way, I don’t want it to stop. I show off the piercing for him as well as all my other bits. I’m drenched, the slickness coats my thumb and forefinger even as I try to school my expression.

“You’re so needy, so wet for me.”

I shake my head as my chin drops to my chest, shame swamping me. “I’m not wet for a fucking stalker. I’m not that broken.”

“I’m not—I didn’t…” He fumbles for the right words, and it only makes me want him more.

“This isn’t stalking?” I ask, but we both know it is, and all I get back is silence.

“I can’t stop,” he admits.

I don’t think I can either, but this can’t last. His whole interest in me makes no sense. He’s not like my followers or the people watching when I dance ballet. He wants to see inside me. He wants me to show him my insides.

“I’m a fucked-up mess because I don’t think I want you to,” my weak voice replies, still holding my pussy open for my stalker. Shit, I’m turning this whole thing into a therapy session and I’m dripping.

He tsks. “Something good, something perfect. Too pure for all this…”

It’s a whisper, and I don’t know how to handle it.

There are millions of things wrong with me.

Perfection is very far from what I am. I’m so wet and ready, and he’s right, I’m dying to see his face between my legs.

I want the darkness to take me, and I don’t want to be afraid anymore—not of the ugly parts of me, and all the phobias I carry over my shoulders.

“Do you want me to touch myself?” I ask.

I silently beg for him to say yes. Ask me to touch myself for you, tell me how you want to see my fingers play, ask me to be unafraid. He doesn’t say anything to me.

I continue to hold myself open as I wait, but the silence stretches for minutes until I accept that he’s gone.

Holding my pussy open for so long leaves it freezing cold, and I feel all the more like an idiot for presenting myself to him.

I put my clothes back on, no longer humiliated that I wanted that from my stalker, but rather, because even he rejected me.

Even as I climb the stairs to my new dorm, I can’t shake my embarrassment off. What is wrong with me? Yesterday, a perfectly good man was flirting with me, and I decided I was too shy to act, but when a stranger lurks in the shadows? I offer to touch my pussy for him.

God, this is not okay. My cheeks are on fire, and I rub them as if I can remove the feeling of my skin, but the shame follows me to the top floor.