Prologue
Gideon
Another work trip. Or so my family back on the island thinks. For months, I’ve kept the real reason behind my frequent trips to the city a secret, even from them. Maxwell, as devious as he may be, is unlikely to approve of my plan.
Blackmail is one thing. Outright kidnapping another altogether. Especially when the target of said kidnapping is a dancer for the New York City Ballet. Someone whose disappearance won’t go unnoticed.
The doors to the theatre open, and she steps out into the night. Despite what I’m sure was a vigorous practice session, her chestnut hair is still pulled up in that perfect bun, not a single strand out of place. Even in the pale glow of the streetlamps, I can see the soft, delicate curve of her cheek. The slender lines of her neck.
My perfect little doll.
With a wave for her so-called friends, she hurries toward the corner, where she pauses just long enough to glance around, to ensure she isn’t being tailed by the police before turning into a darkened alley.
Fury boils in my veins at her recklessness. Little girls shouldn’t be out on the streets at this late hour, making drug deals in sketchy back alleys. Even back on the island, as safe as it is, our Little ones would never be allowed out after dark, especially not alone. A lesson my niece Juliet has recently learned all too well.
But that fury won’t serve me now. Not when my plan requires such careful planning and execution. If I let my mind become clouded by emotion, I risk ruining everything. And I will not let anything, even my own righteous anger, deprive me of my Little girl.
So I stay in the shadows, as I’ve done so many nights before.
Watching.
Waiting.
And like so many nights before, I follow her to her tiny apartment. If you could call the cramped one-room space such. Being a ballerina apparently doesn’t pay well.
No matter. Soon, my little doll won’t have to worry about things like rent or groceries or any of the other mundane concerns she currently faces.
Out on the sidewalk, I take up my usual spot, unnoticed by the bustling New Yorkers hurrying past me on their way to their own homes as I watch the light flip on in her apartment. Her silhouette appears in front of the window shade like the heroine in some old movie, and my cock hardens as she slips out of her uniform. She moves around the tiny space, readying herself for bed.
And when her shadow disappears from sight, I force myself to wait another half hour before I finally make my move.
Tonight, sweet, unsuspecting Isabella will finally bemine.
ChapterOne
Isabella
Leaving practice, it’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the other as I step out into the warm night air. I’m exhausted, not just from the hours I’ve put in with the company today, but from the hours spent working my other jobs. The ones that cover the deficit my salary as a dancer leaves behind.
In any other city, the money I make with the ballet would be more than enough to live a comfortable life. But here in New York, where I’ve made my home, it’s just barely enough to scrape by. And I’m smart enough to know that I won’t be able to dance forever, and that I’ll need a cushion when the day finally comes that I’m forced to hang up my pointe shoes.
Maybe if I was good enough to get out of the corps, to become a soloist or even a principal, I wouldn’t have to struggle so much. But it’s been made abundantly clear to me I don’t have what it takes.
Perhaps more to the point, I don’t want it badly enough. Years of busting my ass, of starving myself to fit the perfect ballerina image, of being passed over time and time again, have worn the shine off the dream I’d come to New York to chase.
All I ever wanted was to dance. Now… Now I’m not sure what I want, if I’m being honest with myself.
Brushing at the tears welling in my eyes, I stop at the corner and look around, checking to make sure I’m not being followed. Lately I’ve had this feeling that someone’s watching me, tracking my every movement, but I’ve never been able to catch anyone in the act.
You’re just being paranoid, Izzy. Get a fucking grip.
Fortified by that internal pep talk, I turn and disappear into the darkness of the alleyway.
“You’re late.” The rough voice comes out of the shadows, a moment before he does. Typhon, the man who keeps my friends in the ballet supplied with what I'm told are top-tier drugs. Large, several inches and at least two hundred pounds larger than my own under-nourished frame. As always, I’m on high alert, well aware he could snap me like a twig if he had the urge.
I make it a point never to give him the urge.
“Sorry. Practice ran late.” I try to keep my voice strong, without a hint of fear. In this business, I learned a long time ago that fear is the ultimate enemy. The second someone senses even a hint of it in you, you’re done for.
