Page 17 of The Vampire’s Ballerina

I back away again, stepping out of his grasp. “I need to use the restroom.” I turn and dart off towards the packhouse before he can say anything else.

He could follow me, could blink himself to where I am, but he doesn’t, and somehow that makes me fall harder for him. I don’t even make it to the restroom. I stop at the stairs that lead up to the back deck of the house and grip the railing to steady myself. It’s freezing out here at the lakeside. The icy air pricks at my delicate skin, keeping me from fully drowning in my panic and fear.

Of course, now that I’m alone, now that I’m no longer caught up in the moment and wrapped up in Peter’s overwhelming tenderness and sensuality, I realize my mistake. He’s all but offered me what I want, all but told me what I desire to hear. And yet I continue to shut him out and keep my true feelings from him. Because even though it’s what I want, it’s also what I’m most afraid of. Being vulnerable and ending up hurt.

But how can I expect him to open up to me when I won’t do the same for him?

I take in a deep breath and turn back to the tent, walking towards it with newfound determination.

But a chilling, ear-splitting howl echoes across the grounds and around the forest. I stop, glancing around, the fear and panic returning, albeit for a different reason. More howls join in, and near the edge of the lake, I see wolves—werewolves—running towards the trees and up the mountain.

I’m frozen in place as yells and screams hit me from all directions. All the werewolves of Crescent Lake are in motion, off to fight some unknown foe or seek shelter, and I’m lost, unsure what to do or where to go. There’s no way for anyone to contact me. I can’t mindlink, my phone is upstairs in the packhouse still, and there’s no one nearby to ask for help.

My rapid heartbeat returns, and I lift my skirt, taking off at a run towards the tent, hoping I’m making the right decision by heading this way instead of into the packhouse.

Pack members and wedding guests flood out of the tents. I push through them like a fish swimming upstream, scanning the crowd. I’m jostled and shoved, but I keep fighting the current until I’m back inside. Unfortunately, the chaos is worse in the tent. My hands shake as I press myself back against the wall, butterflies wrestling in my stomach as wildly as the people rushing around me.

“Peter!” I call, but the shouting and stampeding guests drown my tentative, emotional, weak voice.

My eyes well up, and I squeeze them shut, as I crouch on the tent floor, wrapping my arms around my stomach. It’s too much, too much danger and intensity for me. I’ve heard how perilous my friends’ lives can be, and I’ve witnessed the aftermath of an aggressive lycan attack. But being in the middle of it all isn’t something I thought I’d ever experience.

My blood rushes in my ears, and a choked sob works its way up my chest when Peter appears next to me. He cups my cheeks, scanning my face and body with terrified red eyes before he pulls me into his arms. I cling to his neck, breathing a sigh of relief as wind whooshes by us until the world is quiet and the air is warm.

I lift my head just enough to scan our surroundings, taking in the gorgeous entryway of the house he’s blinked us to. It’s framed by massive staircases on either side leading to a second level, every detail crafted with opulence and care. But before I have time to truly take it all in, he scoops me up against his chest and walks into an adjacent room, sitting us on a tan leather couch in front of an enormous stone fireplace.

“You’re safe now, Imogen,” he says as he holds me in his lap.

I nod, but don’t let go of him, burying my face in his neck as I hug him tighter. He rubs my back and cradles the back of my head with his other hand, swaying me from side to side.

Such care. Such tenderness. Such devoted attention, even after I dismissed him so callously.

A drop of water falls from my eye and lands on his collar. The sight of it pulls more tears free until I’m a crying mess. I held it all back before, but I can’t any longer. The adrenaline is gone and all that’s left are the emotions.

“How’d you find me?” I choke the question out through my unfettered tears.

“I can find you anywhere, cara mia,” he murmurs into my ear.

“But how?”

“Because you’re mine.”

A small sob breaks through my lips, and he squeezes me tighter, pressing his hand into my back and kissing my cheek.

You’re mine.

Those words tug at my heart again, my throat tightening at them and the pulse echoing through my soul, but I push through it and pull back to meet his gaze. Those red eyes should frighten me, but instead, they intrigue me, awakening a hidden part of me.

His. I yearn to be his. And not just in the way I’ve been his for the past week, but in the way that Haven is Wesley’s and Wesley is Haven’s. In my naivete, when I learned about what they were to each other, I thought that type of romance was only achievable with a werewolf soulmate, but I know now I was wrong.

“Peter…” I take a breath and slide my hands to his chest, keeping my eyes locked on his as I say the words I’ve never in my life said to anyone else. “I love you, Pietro.”

Chapter Six

Peter

Imogen’s words hang between us, her confession echoing in my ears and pulsing through my veins. Her eyes stare at me, raw and honest, full of hope and trust and that aching loneliness that is twin to my own.

It’s no wonder her blood calls to me, signaling that she could be my chosen. We are two lost souls searching for someone to accept us. I don’t yet know the circumstances that brought her to such despair, but I don’t need to know the why behind it to know her pain is real.