Page 8 of The Vampire’s Ballerina

“I’m struggling with the timing of this one section,” she says.

“Which part?” I rub my chin, brows furrowing. “Nothing looked off when you ran through it.”

“The pirouette into the arabesque before the shoulder lift.”

I lean forward in my seat, elbows resting on my knees, shoulders slumping. I glance at the doorway Ramón disappeared through several minutes ago. “Let me call Ramón back and—”

“He’s likely long gone by now,” Imogen says. “He mentioned needing to meet someone, so—”

“What do you suggest, then?” The words come out harsher and sharper than I intend.

She blinks at me though, pressing her lips together for a moment. “I thought maybe you could run that section with me? If you don’t mind.”

I swallow, staring at her, waiting for… for I don’t even know what. She stares back, fingertips playing with the hem of her pink wrap skirt, eyelashes fluttering.

Why am I sitting here? Why am I not already on the stage with her? Of course I don’t mind. This is what I’ve fantasized about through the entire damn rehearsal—getting my hands on her, holding her body against mine.

I pop up from my seat and stride down the aisle, focused on closing the distance between us and joining her on the stage. I don’t worry about how eager I must seem. All I think about is what will happen once the music begins.

As I check the rolled sleeves of my red shirt and walk upstage, Imogen’s eyes track every move of my body, filled with appreciation. My hands settle on my hips as I watch her watch me, noticing how her gaze lingers on my backside before lifting to my face. My heart thuds in my chest, louder and stronger than its usual weak beats.

When she catches me staring—when she realizes I’ve caught her staring at me—that rosy glow returns to her cheeks. She ducks her head, hair curtaining her beautiful features as she bends to pick up her phone and find the track.

The music fills the theater, and Imogen takes her place with me, her hands in mine as we wait for our cue. Her skin is warm and soft against my perpetually cool touch. She squeezes my hands, pressing her palms harder against mine. It’s just for balance, to prepare for the developé at the beginning of this section. But I imagine it’s because she craves the closeness, because she yearns for my touch as much as I yearn to deserve touching her. Something I’ve forbidden myself from doing as much as possible since the day I met her.

Imogen inhales, then dances through the steps before the lift with rehearsed fluidity and natural grace. I swing her into a seated lift on my shoulder, and she gazes down at me, eyes locked on mine. A burning intensity blazes within them. Imogen’s lips part, and her chest expands and contracts with each breath. Her body slides down mine as I lower her and sink to one knee. Our gazes never break. Our eyes never blink.

She tips closer, and my heart gives another hard pulse in my chest. But then she’s moving to the next section, her leg in a beautiful arabesque before she twists and wraps it around my torso, leaning her upper body against me as she extends her leg in front of her.

Her hair envelops me. Her scent surrounds me, and my fingertips dig into her abdomen, holding her in place a beat longer than necessary. I breathe in, eyes falling shut, cheek pressed against the bare skin revealed by the open back of her black leotard. My hands itch to roam over her torso, to twist her towards me again and pull her down onto my lap.

But the beat ends, and she moves away, dancing downstage left. The magic of the moment breaks, but I stay on my knees behind her, watching her back and the flutter of her skirt.

Imogen pauses, still facing away from me, lifting her hand to her chest as she catches her breath. Neither of us moves, but tension hangs heavy in the air between us, making the distance seem greater than it is. I could go to her, stand behind her, touch her, but wading through the thick, murky film separating us feels impossible.

“Did that help?” I ask.

Her head snaps towards me, eyes wide, pupils blown, chest still heaving. “Yes.”

My heart sinks, and I rise to my feet, licking my lips. But I keep my disappointment from my face and out of my voice. “All right then.”

As I stand, her eyes linger on my legs, on the pull of fabric tightening around my toned dancer muscles, before she lifts her gaze to mine again. Nerves I haven’t felt in centuries flood through me, creating bubbles of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. How can this human, this little ballerina, have such a hold over me? How can she render me speechless and powerless beneath her stare when I’ve never once given in to the pull of her blood or scent?

“Can we run it again?” Imogen walks towards her phone. “I just want to get it into my body. To make sure I’ve really gotten a feel for it.”

She picks up the phone and rewinds the track to the same section of the piece. I reposition myself, face straight, but internally I’m cheering, because I get to put my hands on her again. I get to hold her close and pretend for a moment that she’s mine.

Imogen moves back into place with me, taking my hands. Her body is closer than before. Or maybe I’m imagining it.

We run through the sequence again, her scent swirling around me with every movement, only this time there is more to it. Mixed with the natural scent of her body and blood is something else. Something just as intoxicating. Just as addictive. Something that changes everything.

I stare up at her in my arms, at the flush staining her cheeks and chest, breathing in every trace of her arousal as it hits me full force. And fuck. If I thought her scent was irresistible before, it’s nothing compared to this.

I hold my breath—I don’t need to breathe anyway—and lower her down my body. I continue the choreography, but I hold her tighter this time, pulling her closer to my torso as I set her on my knee. Her lips hover above mine as we lock eyes the way the choreography demands, although neither of us is acting anymore. I’m not, at least.

The music continues, but Imogen doesn’t move from my thigh. Her fingers drift to my face, stroking my cheeks, and my eyes close at her touch—the touch I’ve longed for but never thought I’d experience. I slide my hands up her back just as her breath fans across my lips, her mouth still a hair from mine.

Fuck it. Fuck it all. I’m not letting this moment slip from my grasp.