In the end it does not matter anyway. I will make her care about me. I will drive her crazy. I will make her see me and only me, until she forgets the name and face of every man she has ever met.
The little ballerina is going to be possessed by me and she is going to enjoy it, welcome it. She will be nothing but a shell and I will live inside of her.
Letting her leave my house was the biggest mistake I have ever made. From now on, I am not letting her go. Tonight I will take her up on her offer. Tell her that I will help find her friend as long as I get something in return. She will agree (hopefully), only that I won’t let her know that I am the one who has her friend.
When time comes, I will explain to her what happened. But as of now, I am too greedy to let this opportunity pass and I want to use it for my own benefit. Inhaling fresh air coming from an open window, I inwardly shake my head.
Ah...the lengths males go to take what is theirs.
Plastering a charming smile on my face, I nod back at people who greet me out of sheer courtesy when I in my periphery notice a swarm of elfin women, dressed in tulle.
Curiously I turn, my eyes landing on Lyla without any effort as if my gaze can only go to her anyway. I swallow hard, my gut hurting and warmth spreads across my chest. She is a vision, a beautiful swan with a lovely neck I want to wrap my hands around when I take her.
She does not notice me and I frown when I realize how pale she is underneath her heavy makeup. Her eyes look apprehensive. Lost. Is it because I refused her my help? She should not worry so much. I will make sure that she gets everything she wants, in the end.
“Check her out,” a voice says, coming from a man standing close to me. He and his friend seem to be about in their early twenties, their suits ill fitted and they look rented. “That’s the girl I was telling you about.”
“Fuck you were right, now I get it why you’ve been acting so gay and watching ballet.”
They burst out into a thick laughter, clamping down on each other with their fists like they cannot contain their excitement. I assumed they were talking about the girl in the front but then I notice the direction their eyes go in.
They’re fixed on the last girl...and I grind my jaw.
“Hell...look at those eyes. Imagine her looking up at you with those while she drains your ba...”
My lips pull over my teeth and in a rapid movement, I stomp my boot into the guy’s kneecap, his scream so choked, nobody hears it, or notices except for the other guy who turns around with a shocked look in his eyes.
“What the...” he begins but I point at his shoes.
“You should tie you shoelace,” I suggest and he bends his head down in surprise, giving me the opportunity to smash my knee into his face. Tears flood his eyes and he grabs his busted nose, sinking down against the wall together with the other one.
Straightening as if nothing happened, I brush my hair out of my face, my gaze going to Lyla again but to my disappointment she has already disappeared into a room with the other dancers. The show is about to start and I join the line of people walking into the stage room.
I purposefully got the best seat because I want to be able to see her clearly but the overweight gentleman in front of me who is accompanied by two women, doesn’t seem too happy about my presence.
Feeling benevolent tonight, I give him a calming smile and he smiles back, looking as if he thinks I’ll kill him if he doesn’t.
“Director,” one of the women twitters, clutching his arm. “Keep your eyes on the stage.”
Director? Interesting...
“Yes, yes,” he quickly says turning to look at the stage that soon will fill with dancers but then he looks back at me, nervously clearing his throat. “First time you’re here? You will have a wonderful time. Nicoletta is the best prima ballerina we’ve had in years.”
I frown. Who?
“I thought Lyla Andrews was the prima ballerina,” I say. It is what I naturally assumed. Apparently I drew conclusions too quickly and it perplexes me.
“Lyla?” The director waves dismissively with his hands and it grates on my nerves. “Oh no, not her. Though she is a mighty fine dancer.”
Grazing my teeth over my lip, I bend forward, not too fast because I don’t want to startle him. “Director,” I say in a low, persuasive voice, the kind I use when I do business, “that seems like a waste of talent. I very much think Miss. Andrews should be the prima ballerina.”
His lower jaw drops, exposing his double chins. “Sir...” he looks like he’s about to protest but then his eyes go to my neck tattoo, to the ink on my knuckles and the symbol of the brotherhood on the back of my hand.
He closes his jaw before saying with alarmed eyes. “Is that how you really f...feel?”
I put my hand on my chest. “From the depths of my heart.” He swallows before nodding. I shrug, withdrawing into the shadows, adding, “Just a suggestion.”
7