Merciless

Chapter 4

Austin

Emmélie DeLuca.

She wasn't all that hard to find with a few keywords entered into Google, but that's only because I'd recognized her dance ability beyond what she did to Ms. Jackson at Cardinal Sin. A search for "professional female ballet dancers in Chicago" pulled up a mere handful of results, making it rather easy. Even if she hadn't given me a shortened version of her name, I would've recognized those soulful eyes anywhere.

I've had a busy week. When I wasn't at the station for a tour, I was helping my Dad with his DIY (or in his case, Do It with Your Son) kitchen renovation project. Since he retired from the department last year, he fills his time trying to be handier than he knows how. I've had to call Chance a couple of times to help him when he got in too far over his stubborn head. Benefits of having a best friend who owns his own construction business. At any rate, between my job and my dad, I haven't had time to do anything about seeking out Emi.

But that all changes tonight.

I took a chance that I'd find her at the Bissett Ballet Institute, the dance school started by her mother. It's the least creeper-ish thing I can do. Getting one of my cop buddies to give me her home address would be crossing the line, but she told me to find her, and the fact that she runs the school is public knowledge, so here I am.

The website said they run classes up to nine at night, so I showed up a little after as the last of the students were leaving. My hand was on the long handle of the glass door when Hozier's "Arsonist's Lullabye" began to play. Emi started to dance in front of the wall of mirrors and I've been frozen in place, watching her move like the sultry music is flowing through her, the heavy beat bending her body to its will like it owns her. She's not conforming to any one discipline; it looks to be a mix of ballet and modern dance, and it's the most amazing thing I've ever seen.

She's wearing a pair of tight dance shorts and a loose long-sleeved shirt that falls off her shoulders and gives me peeks of her bare stomach when she raises her arms. Her long, black hair is pulled into a ponytail, and her face is covered only by a fine sheen of perspiration—very different from the blue wig and dramatic makeup I saw her in a week ago.

Unable to stay away any longer, I pull the door open and step inside, careful not to make my presence known. She's lost in the music, and I don't want to interrupt her.

I can't stop watching her.

But I need to do something, because this situation calls to my kinkier side, and this isn't the time or place for that. Not with her. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

That might be the case—I have no way of knowing whether Emmélie DeLuca is the kind of girl who shares my darker desires—but so many things about her call to me. I won't pass up the opportunity to explore things and see where they might go.

My feet move before my head even registers the steps, and then she's suddenly in my arms as I catch her around the waist in the middle of a series of turns. She gasps, but before her shock can fully register, recognition lights in her eyes.