Page 7 of The Vampire’s Ballerina

Imogen stretches, one foot in tendu in front of her, neck tilting just so as she arches her upper spine. Her skin is smooth and taut, the curve of her body in perfect alignment. She’s elegance and allure in equal measure, a sweet offering laid bare for hungry eyes. I long to sink myself into her—both my aching fangs and my aching cock—and lose myself in the artistry of all she is.

My head tips back against the seat, eyes closing and teeth grinding as I clench the armrests. It’s the only thing keeping me from acting on those desires—from storming the stage and throwing Imogen over my shoulder before blinking us somewhere private, somewhere I can do all the things I want to do but shouldn’t.

I force my fangs back into my gums, force everything in the theater out of my senses so I can steady myself and ease the pent-up tension from my body, and focus on doing my job.

“Start from the top!” I call out once the desires rolling through me ebb and drift away.

For now.

My eyes stay closed, but the sounds of the barres moving and Ramón and Imogen finding their positions fill my ears. I remain that way until the music begins, until it’s played for several very long moments, and only then do I open my eyes and lift my head to observe their rehearsal.

Except. They’re not dancing.

Ramón stands behind Imogen, his deft fingers plucking pins from her bun and tossing them into the orchestra pit. Her soft, voluminous golden-blonde hair tumbles free in a tidal wave, bouncing as she shakes it loose from its twist at her nape. Ramón runs his fingers through it, a teasing smile on his lips as he makes another joke that I again don’t hear, because the rich scent of a deep-red wine sangria with peaches and orange zest floods my nostrils, reawakening all those twisted, unwelcome desires.

A blush paints Imogen’s ivory cheeks. Her blue eyes drift to me, filled with a mix of embarrassment and apprehension, and what seems to be a flicker of heat, although it’s gone in a flash. But I don’t have the time or the mental capacity to dwell on it. My focus is on Ramón’s fingers in her hair, on the way they dance and twirl through her silky strands.

That ugly jealous thing inside me rises again, snapping the careful restraint I’ve held in place for far longer than I should admit.

“What are you doing?” I sit straighter, narrowing my eyes on them—on Ramón’s hands in her hair, to be precise.

Shit. I’m becoming as bad as a werewolf or a lycan.

Imogen answers first. “Ramón reminded me I need my hair down. So he can smell it.”

I grit my teeth. “What?”

“It’s in the choreography.” Imogen pushes Ramón’s hand away. Finally. “He was giving suggestions for a few different ways I could style it for the performance, and—”

My finger snaps towards the stage-left wings, and a vein pulses in my forehead. “Get to work!”

Ramón stares at me over the top of Imogen’s head, eyes widening, brows raised in warning. I realize too late my own eyes must have flashed red again.

I swallow and glance at Imogen, bracing myself for the fear I’m bound to find, for her to flinch or back away, to run and hide. Instead, she stands her ground, chin held high as she meets my gaze. Her eyes fill with what I can only describe as desire and appreciation as she takes me in: the tension in my body, the veins in my exposed forearms as they tighten, and my burning red eyes.

Everything she sees is a warning for the meek to keep their distance—that I’m not to be trifled with. That I’m dangerous. A lion in wait, a snake poised to strike. But that doesn’t deter Imogen. If anything, it intrigues her more. The heat in her gaze deepens into longing, striking my near-dead heart like lightning.

And then she’s gone, slipping into the wings, taking her stare and the emotions behind it with her.

I imagined it. Both the look she gave me—the look filled with desire and longing—and the familiar loneliness fueling the depth of the longing in her gaze. It’s the same loneliness haunting me, the loneliness I’ve felt for centuries.

It’s unexpected, to sense it in someone so young, someone with the world at her fingertips. I’ve known for a while there’s more to her than she shows, but it’s still a shock to my system, a bucket of frigid water poured over my already ice-cold heart.

Ramón restarts the music on his phone, and they dance through the piece, stopping to listen when I give notes and implementing those corrections into the choreography with seamless precision. I manage to push Imogen from my mind for most of the rehearsal, focusing on my job, though it’s far from easy. The piece is intimate, layered with sensuality, and it’s harder than I should admit to stay seated in the theater instead of tearing Ramón’s throat out.

It’s a dance, I remind myself. A performance. An act. There is nothing to be jealous of, other than his hands on her, and her body sliding along his as he lowers her to the floor.

After the fourteenth run-through, the music fades. I lift my hand and wave them away. “Thank you,” I say through clenched teeth. “You may be done for the day.”

I drop my forehead into my hand, elbow braced on the armrest, and stay there while the two dancers exit the stage and pack up their bags, leaving the theater in silence and me in solitude.

Except I’m not alone.

I inhale and stiffen. Imogen’s scent hangs too heavy in the space. I lift my eyes to find her standing at the edge of the proscenium, pointe shoes on her feet, hands clasped, biting her lip.

Her heart races. Even if her blood didn’t call to me, I’d be drawn to the rush of it through her veins, ensnared by the magnetic pulse keeping her alive. But the song of her blood, the music only I can hear, adds another level of intoxication, another layer to every interaction between us.

“Did you need something?” I stop short of using her name. Imogen is too intimate, even after three years of working together, but Miss Van der Berg is too formal, too distant. So I settle for neither.