His orders would be obeyed. His staff jumped at his command. He wasn’t the abandoned, penniless kid anymore. He had the power now.
Trace glanced over his shoulder at Skye’s closed apartment door.
He had the power, and he was going to use it.
***
The dream came again. It snuck up on him when he was tired or when she got into his mind too much.
He found himself back in that old house. The one with the roof that sagged. With carpets that had been worn bare.
Another home. Another place.
His first night there.
“Don’t, please…”
The voice had called out to him.
He’d been on his feet before he’d thought twice. On his feet and on his way to her.
The dream took over.
His fist shoved open the wooden door, revealing a small bedroom. He hadn’t seen that one when they’d brought him in to the house earlier that day. Two people were on the bed. The boy—his new “brother” Parker. The other was the girl…the one with the long hair and the sad eyes.
The pretty girl who’d been too shy to speak to him before.
But he was sure her voice had been the one calling to him, begging, “Please, don’t…”
Only she wasn’t speaking anymore. Wasn’t crying out, not pleading.
Because Parker had his hand over her mouth.
“What the hell are you doing?” Trace demanded.
“Get out, man, get out!” Parker snapped back, but he kept his voice low.
So his parents wouldn’t hear?
Trace’s gaze shot to the girl. Tears leaked from her eyes. Parker had one hand over her mouth, and one of his hands pinned her small wrists to the bed.
Rage pushed through Trace. “Get off her, now.”
“Get out,” Parker said again, “or I’ll tell my parents to ship your ass out of here. This is my house, I say what—”
He didn’t get to say anything else. Trace knocked the guy off her. He drove his fist into Parker’s face, again and again. Bones broke. Blood spurted. Trace kept hitting him.
“Stop! You’re going to kill him!” Her voice. Her hands on him.
Trace’s eyes flew open as the dream—his past—vanished.
His hands were clenched into fists.
Skye needed him again.
I won’t let her down.
Chapter Two
Skye stared at her reflection. Too pale. Too thin. She didn’t look like a star who belonged in the center of the lights.
That’s not who I am.
Sometimes, she wasn’t sure she’d ever really been that woman.
Her hands reached for the barre. She’d installed it herself. Just gotten the mirrors positioned a few moments ago. Right after she’d finished up the paint job. Done it all—herself. There was a grim pride in her accomplishment. She’d sweated blood and tears for this place.
The studio had taken the last of her money. She’d put down her deposit and paid rent for a half a year. Skye knew that opportunity—that precious six months—was her chance. To do something. To get her life back.
The studio was hers. She would make it work.
Only the image staring back at her in the mirror didn’t look so certain.
Skye rose onto her toes, ignoring the twinge in her left calf. That twinge would soon turn to an ache, but she’d ignore that, too. She’d grown used to ignoring pain over the years. That was the first rule of dancing. No pain. If your body was weak, you ignored the weakness. You danced until your feet bled. Then you went out onto the stage, and you danced some more.
Her arms stretched. Her back arched. Her first dance class would start in three days. That would give her just enough time to—
The lights turned off. Every single light shut off at once, plunging her into total darkness.
Her heels hit the hardwood floor. The circuit breaker. Dammit, this same problem had happened before. Only then it had been daytime and sunlight had trickled through the windows, providing enough illumination for her to see. Now, there was just night to deepen the darkness.
She kept her hand on the barre as she made her way to the door. The building manager had promised her that the problem had been fixed.
This isn’t fixed. This is—
A faint rustle of sound reached her ears.
Like a shoe. The quick press of a footstep.
Skye froze. “Is…is someone there?” When she’d left her apartment, Trace’s men had been installing new locks and an alarm system. One of the men had even followed her to the dance studio. She was supposed to be safe.
The floor squeaked. She knew that squeak. There was a weak spot near the front door. Every time she came inside the studio, she stepped in that spot and the floor squeaked beneath her.
Not alone.
She stopped advancing toward the door. Instead, she backed up, fast.
“Skye…” A rasp of her name.
Turning, she ran away from that rasp.
But she didn’t get far. Hard hands grabbed her and locked tight around her stomach. He spun her around and jerked her against his body—and those hands holding her so tightly hurt.
“I’ve been watching…” His voice was still a rasp. A terrifying rasp. He was bigger than she was. So much bigger and stronger, and he held her easily when she twisted against him.
But he hadn’t covered her mouth. His mistake. “Help me!” She screamed as loudly as she could.
Trace’s agent was outside. He’d hear her. He’d—
Her attacker slammed her into the mirror. The glass cracked and shattered around her. His fingers pressed over her mouth, reminding her of a nightmare from her past that wouldn’t ever stop.
Her head ached where it had hit the mirror. The wooden barre shoved into her back.
His breath blew against the shell of her ear. “I will be the one,” he told her, voice low and hard.
She lifted her knee. Tried to shove it into his groin, but he was already pulling back.
Even as the sound of footsteps pounded toward her.
Footsteps—and a light?
“Ms. Sullivan?”
She clung to the barre. It seemed to be the only thing holding her up right then. He was here. He was here.
The flashlight hit her in the face. “Ms. Sullivan, what happened? I heard you cry for help.” It was her guard—Reese Stokes. She recognized his deep voice and that faint Alabama accent. If she could have moved, Skye would have hugged that man right then. Instead, she managed to say, “He’s here!”
That flashlight immediately swept the room, cutting through the darkness. But finding no one.
“He?” Reese asked her as he came closer. He put his arm around her.