Page 9 of Run, Starlight (The Royal Ballet Presents #3)

He says my name with a different accent, the way my grandad used to. I’m dying to ask if he’s Italian too, but I just follow him to the door at the very end of the hall.

I’m assuming they put me up here because I’m an inconvenience. If you need a room alone, you’re going to be the farthest away from everyone else. That makes sense to me and seems perfectly fair. I don’t mind being hidden away. As long as I can stay here, I’m happy.

When Enzo opens the door, my expectations crumble. Whatever I thought I was getting, this is far outside the mark. It is not a tiny forgotten corner of the Floquet housing I find, but a massive apartment with a view.

“Wait…what? Who?” I ask, turning around, and my backpack falls to the hardwood floors.

Hardwood floors? This is insanity.

Each dancer has a budget attached to their employment.

Our housing is factored into that, and while I may be one of the higher-paid dancers here, there’s no way they would give me this much in housing, certainly not because I keep making things awkward for my roommates and forcing them out.

I’m not being rewarded for bad behavior.

I’m not , I tell the obsessive voice in my head before it can get consumed with evening the score.

He shrugs. “I don’t know, Miss Marcella, but don’t look so upset. It’s a really nice room.”

It’s more than nice. It’s surprisingly beautiful and spacious, but not only that, it’s been warmly decorated in ocean tones that I love.

It’s spacious enough that I can even dance here.

And I never need to worry about my roommates’ dirty clothes or used pointe wraps.

I rub my chest, feeling overwhelmed with the good news, but I manage to turn to Enzo with a weak smile on my lips.

“Call me Marcella,” I tell him.

“Marcella.” His voice takes on a whole new cadence I didn’t hear before. “That’s an incredibly beautiful name, especially for a dancer. It suits you.”

Clearly, there's some flirtation going on here, or I’m being stupid?

Jesus, as if a crush on my stalker isn’t enough.

I smile at him and turn to hide my blush.

Walking to the window, I take in the view while watching the cars down on the street.

Even when the mean voice in my head tells me not to trust it, I can’t stop myself.

This is happening, and I’m happy. His shoes on the floor catches my attention, and I turn around in time to see him placing the boxes on the counter of the kitchenette.

“Thank you,” I say, hugging myself.

There’s a damn kitchenette! I can’t believe it.

I can prepare simple meals without having to elbow my way through the ballerina kitchen, which is hardly bigger than a closet, and expected to be enough for all of us.

I guess it doesn’t matter since we’re not intended to eat, but I have no plans to starve, and that will be a lot easier here.

“Do you need anything before I go?”

His eyes burn when he asks the question, and I suspect his intentions aren’t fully innocent.

His voice has a deep and raw quality that makes my knees melt.

He looks me up and down long and slow, eyes caressing my curves, clearly appreciating what he sees.

It’s been so long since I’ve gotten any, and I’m so horny after last night, I seriously consider inviting him to christen my new bed with me.

God, I’m beyond ridiculous. He’s just a nice guy helping me with my stuff.

“Maybe another time?” I offer shyly. This won’t be the last time I see him, so there will be more chances if I don’t decide it’s a bad idea before then.

“Whenever you want, Miss Marcella. Whatever you want.” And the promise is so salacious it raises goosebumps all over my body, but he’s still calling me that .

“Maybe another time then,” I say, enjoying the chemical charge between us.

He leaves, and I take until I can’t hear his footsteps anymore before I react.

Giggling, I run to the bed and jump on it, my arms open.

The softest pillows and blankets absorb me, and I only barely bounce since the mattress is of such high quality.

I’m breathless and happy, surrounded by down when I roll over on something hard that sticks to my back.

I roll to the side and grab the object. My eyebrows furrow at the knife resting inside a leather sheath.

Where did this come from? I draw the knife, perplexed by it.

The blade is wickedly sharp, but instead of metal it’s made of a yellowish material.

This isn’t anything I immediately recognize.

It’s lighter in weight than I expected, and there seems to be some natural pattern or grain, but I don’t know enough to tell for sure.

Careful designs have been carved in the handle and blade alike, and the whole thing looks both dangerous and fragile, like it could shatter in the same instant as it would kill.

I turn it over in my hands, jumping slightly as it pricks my skin and draws a red bead of blood. Who the hell would leave this for me, and what is it made of? Like everything beautiful today, I decide it is now mine.