Page 10 of The Vampire’s Ballerina

Peter

Every rehearsal for the rest of the week was torture. Watching Imogen dance, watching the fluid movement of her body, watching Ramón put his hands all over her—it drove me to near madness. Holding myself back was close to impossible. All I could think about was our kiss, how Imogen felt in my arms, and all the things I wanted to do to her.

Everything is Imogen—every unnecessary breath I take, every slow beat of my almost-dead heart, every second, every day—it all belongs to her. Even now, as I wait for her in my penthouse apartment in the city, thoughts of her consume me. Thoughts of her in my arms on the stage, and thoughts of her here with me, under my body as I take her to new heights.

Soft, warm skin. Her supple, pliant body beneath my hands, responding to my every touch with nothing held back. Blue eyes hiding under hooded lids, lashes fluttering as I caress her. Goosebumps forming and a moan slipping from her as my lips brush the base of her throat. Her pulse jumping and my fangs descending so I can—

Beep beep beep. Beep beep beep. Beep beep beep.

I flinch, pulled from my daydream by the sharp, incessant noise. Thick, heavy, gray and black smoke leaks out from the gaps in the oven’s door, setting off the smoke detector.

“Goddess fucking damn it!”

I dart forward and open it, grabbing the cast-iron skillet with two bacon-wrapped filets and tossing it onto the black quartz countertop, next to four other failed attempts at cooking steak. Then I run to the windows and tap the keypad, opening the top row and releasing the smoke into the chilly night sky, before I turn and stare at my failures.

Ten filets. Ten black, burnt, rock-hard, inedible steaks. I run my hand through my hair just as my phone rings. I glance at the display, then sigh, answering it because I know Ramón will just keep calling until I do.

“What?!” I snap, not even bothering to greet him.

“How’s it going?” he asks in a singsong voice.

“Terrible.”

He laughs. “I told you cooking for her was a bad idea. You’ve never been good at it.”

“I had to try. She deserves better than the restaurant food here. She deserves—“

“The food she deserves can only be found in your home country, and I don’t think there’s time for you to fly to Italy and back before rehearsal tomorrow morning.”

I can picture his smirk.

“Next time.” As I hang up on him, I grip the counter’s edge, the sharp corner digging into my hand.

I could make it happen. The company has a break coming soon because of the holidays. Imogen and I could fly to Italy on my private jet, and I could take her to my villa. It would give us several days of uninterrupted time. I could show her what our life could be like—what an eternity together would be like.

There I go again, picturing a future. Assuming this means the same to her as it does to me, assuming she’ll give everything up to spend the rest of time with me.

“This is foolish.” I toss my phone onto the docking station and pick up the wasted steaks, throwing them all into a small garbage bag. As I move towards the door so I can toss them in the dumpster outside, I mutter to myself. “I shouldn’t have invited her here. I shouldn’t have kissed her. Hell, I shouldn’t have even danced with her. This is a dead-end road, leading to the goodbye I’ll have to say to her, one way or another, because—“

I open the door, and Imogen stands there with one hand lifted to knock, a large paper bag carried in the other. Her blue eyes stare right through me.

“Imogen!” My mouth goes dry.

Nyx, she is stunning. Her golden hair frames her face in perfect, bouncy ringlets, and her black-and-white polka-dot dress drapes over the beautiful, lithe lines of her ballerina body. It’s delicate yet sexy, with a low square neckline and a slit up to her thigh, and I’m mesmerized by her—entranced by her.

She smiles, and I remember the garbage bag of overcooked steaks in my hand. I swiftly place them behind my back.

“Come in.” I step to the side and make room for her to enter. “What’s in the bag?”

“Thai food.” She spins to face me as I close the door.

I frown. “Thai food?”

“Yes.”

“But I told you I was going to cook for us.”

“Well, Ramón called me earlier and told me you’re a terrible cook, so I figured I’d pick up some takeout just in case. And judging by the smoke in the air, the dirty cast-iron skillets on the counter, and the garbage bag full of burnt food you’re trying to hide behind your back, I’m thinking I made the right call.”