Intercepted (New Hope #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mason

The lights are off in Mallory's studio, but the front door is unlocked. I enter, setting the haphazard bouquet of daisies on the floor in the entryway. Leave it to Mallory to find beauty in a pile of weeds, the stems of which are hastily bound with one of Grace's hair ties I had lying in the center console of my car.

A somber, steady piano rhythm drifts from the back of the studio, muffled by a half-closed door. I swallow heavily, approaching the private room, which is separate from the main hall. When I peak into the space, my heart climbs into my throat.

Mallory glides on the wooden floor, dressed in a black leotard and a matching chiffon skirt. The silk ribbons of her pointe shoes are like vines creeping up from the polished wood, trying to drag her into the earth. She prevails, lifting onto her toes, her arms rising above her head, only to wilt. Her limbs loosen, her fingers dusting the dancefloor.

Pale moonlight pierces a long, dirty window. It illuminates her fair skin, revealing miniscule beads of sweat. Her hair is down, a river of white clumped together with perspiration. Her eyes are closed, a line of frustration between her brows. Her lips are parted, her ribs exposed as she controls her breath.

An instrumental cover of OneRepublic's "Apologize" plays on repeat. When the song comes to an end, Mallory finds her starting position again. She plants one foot in front of the other, her arms lifeless at her sides. The music begins, and she leaps into action like a doll rewound over and over.

Her movements range from smooth and sensual, to jagged and violent. She twirls on one toe, using her left leg to propel her. Then, she drops to her knees, whipping her face to the side as her arm bursts into the air, searching for something far from reach.

My eyes burn, my throat thick with the emotion her dancing evokes. I can feel it—the agony, the anger, the remorse, the grief. I can feel it like she's shed her skin, allowing me to see the inner workings of her mind. Allowing me into this small part of herself. This aching, raw compartment she keeps hidden from her children, from anyone who tries to peel back a layer.

Mallory is an ocean, and most people only get to skim her surface. Most people only see the beauty of a sunset over her crystal waters. They dip their toes in, giggling at the frigid temperature. But like the ocean, Mallory isn't always kind. In the blink of an eye, she can turn on you. One minute you're floating in the shallows, the next you're sucked out to sea in the middle of a hurricane.

At one time, she allowed me in. But now, I'm stuck in her storm, and there's nowhere else I'd rather be. Because even being hated by Mallory is a gift. I'll take the punishment that I've earned. I'll gladly drown in her ocean, if only the feel the cool water on my skin.

After I've watched her dance through three sets—each a little different than the last—I enter the room, pressing 'pause' on the old-fashioned stereo. Her steps falter, her wrists twitching like she was anticipating the notes from the piano. She turns her head, sweat dotting her forehead and lips.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, struggling to catch her breath.

I lean against the mirrors, studying her body to make sure she hasn't injured herself. "How long have you been at it?"

Hours, by the looks of it. Her fatigue is evident. Aside from her labored breathing and soaked leotard, her hands are trembling. Her muscles are weak, strained after being put under tenuous exercise for so long. I glance around, noting there isn't any water. She hasn't even bothered to stay hydrated. When it looks as though she won't answer my first question, I ask another.

"Why this song?"

She hesitates, placing her hands on her hips. "Because I owe David an apology."

I furrow my brow. "What for?"