Page 5 of The Vampire’s Ballerina

Chapter Two

Peter

I hate cell phones. I hate how necessary they’ve become, how integral to day-to-day life they are. Humans spend entirely too much time and energy focusing on those tiny handheld computers. They don’t realize how detrimental these devices are to their mental, physical, and emotional health.

Yet, here I am, seated in the middle of the darkened ballet theater, holding one of those infernal devices in my hand. And instead of preparing for the rehearsal scheduled for today, my eyes are glued to the photo set as my phone’s background.

The photo of Imogen.

I don’t know what possessed me to put the photo as my background. I shouldn’t have even saved it. As soon as Haven sent it to me, I should have deleted it. But no. Instead, I downloaded it, saved it, and made it the first thing I see whenever I unlock my phone. Over the last two weeks while I’ve had it as my background, it’s made me forget what I was doing in the middle of doing it more than once. But I can’t bring myself to change it.

Not that I want to. Haven caught Imogen during a rare split second where she’d let her guard down, and the resulting photo is exquisite. Captivating. The drape of the velvet fabric over Imogen’s elegant body would move any artist’s hand, driving them to paint her again and again until they captured the essence of femininity and grace she portrays. The subtle arch of her neck creates a cascade of golden hair flowing down her exposed back as she stares at herself in the wall of mirrors.

But it’s her eyes and face that draw me in. The vulnerability, the authenticity, the raw openness there strike a chord in me. They speak to me. Remind me that there’s more to her than what she lets the world see, more than what she presented to me and everyone else here in this ballet company when I first formed it three years ago.

“What has captured your attention so, Peter?”

Ramón—a company member I turned into a vampire several centuries ago as a favor to his mentor—traipses down the row of seats.

I fumble to lock my phone before he can see the photo, but it slips from my hands and clatters to the floor. A groan escapes me as I drag a hand down my face. “I swear to Nyx…”

Reaching for my phone proves pointless. Ramón gets there first, snatching it off the floor before blinking himself three rows in front of me.

With a sigh, I put my hands on my hips and glance around to make sure no other company members are present. The last thing we need is a human witnessing our abilities.

“Stop being so careless.” I hiss the words between clenched teeth as my eyes flash red and then back to their normal bluish-gray.

“We’re alone.” Ramón peeks at my phone, a cheeky smirk tugging at his lips. “Ah, now I see why you didn’t sense my approach.”

I blink myself into the same row as him and pluck the phone from his hand, shoving it into my pocket. “I was just thinking.”

“Of course. Thinking. About our darling, sweet Imogen.”

My eyes flash red again. I grit my teeth, tilt my head to the side, and zero in on him. That word. His unintentional claim, his casual use of the word “our.”

Our Imogen. It’s like claws on a chalkboard, the scratching of a record, the skip of an unpracticed violinist’s bow.

She is not his.

“Excuse me?” I stalk closer to him, one slow, predatory step at a time.

Ramón is oblivious though. He slings his bag over his head and tosses it into the row of seats in front of us, focusing on the contents as he rifles through it to find his ballet shoes.

Our Imogen. Our Imogen. Our Imogen. Those words pulse through me, an echoing heartbeat rattling my senses and nerves, toying with my control.

He straightens, shoes in hand, and I lock my eyes onto the stretch of his neck. Easy. It would be so easy to slice through his neck and end him right now, to punish him for thinking he could claim my Imogen.

I freeze in place, gripping the back of the chair. My extended nails almost pierce through the plush fabric.

She’s not my Imogen. I have no real claim on her.

I inhale.

It’s sharp, and loud, and unnatural.

Ramón’s gaze slides to me, and he flinches back, scurrying down the row until he’s no longer within arm’s reach. He scans my posture and my clenched hand on the theater’s seat.

“Why are you denying yourself?” he asks, meeting my cold, harsh stare.