Page 89 of Bound By Threads
The silence follows me like a shadow, thick and clinging. I don’t speak, and Will doesn’t push. When we pull up to the house, I expect the stillness to keep swallowing me whole, but Archer’s already on the porch.
“You okay?” his voice filled with concern.
“I need to dance,” I say, barely recognizing my own voice.
His expression shifts. Concern turns into understanding, and he doesn’t ask anything else. He nods once and grabs his keys from his pocket.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull into the back lot of The Velvet Room. The neon sign buzzes above us, glowing dull red. It’s not even late yet, but the place hums like it’s always alive.
Oscar’s already inside, posted at the entrance like a sentry. He lifts a hand when he sees me, eyes flicking from my face to Archer’s, then back to me.
“What’s wrong?”he signs worriedly as he approaches.
I shake my head and keep walking.
I don’t need to talk.
I need to move.
Because if I say the words. It means it’s true and I… I can’t.
The dressing room is quiet, and I change quickly—black lace, stockings, boots that hit hard against the stage. I paint on eyeliner like armor, and pull my hair up with shaking fingers.
When I step out onto the floor, the DJ is waiting for my cue.
I nod once.
The lights drop. The music starts.
And I start to dance.
At first, it’s routine—muscle memory—the sway of hips, the slow bend, the drag of fingers down skin. But then it starts to build—this pressure in my chest, thisburnthat I’ve been forcing down, and I stop pretending.
I stop performing. I let it out.
I ignore the whistles and shouts.
The anger and grief bubble to the surface. The bitterness that’s been living under my skin since I was a child.
Roman, sneering at me like I was something less than human.
Crew, laughing while I broke in silence.
Elijah, whispering pretty lies to me in the dark, only to throw me to the wolves by morning.
And his father… the man who wanted to lock me away—who stole my voice and gave me fragments of a nightmare.
They took everything from me, and for a long time, I let them because it was the only way I knew how to survive.
But not anymore.
I drag my nails down the pole, bend backward, twist into the light until the spotlight above me feels like fire, and I am burning. I feel my heartbeat in every motion—raw, furious… alive. I throw every ounce of pain I’m feeling into the music pulsing through the club, and for once, I don’t feel empty.
I feel angry, and it feels good.
The crowd cheers. They always do, but I’m not dancing for them, I’m dancing for me.
For the girl who never got to scream.
