Stolen Heir: Chapter 31

It’s the night of Nessa’s ballet.

I’ve been waiting for this almost as eagerly as Nessa herself. Maybe more so, because I’m simply excited to see it, while Nessa has become increasingly anxious the closer it’s gotten.

I’m not worried. I already know it’ll be brilliant.

It’s being performed at the Harris theater. That fuckwad Jackson Wright is directing it. I had planned to visit him a few more times if he gave Nessa any shit—just casually, of course. As a gentle reminder. No broken bones required, unless he annoyed me. But it proved to be unnecessary. He got sucked into the project almost as much as Nessa herself.

Nessa got tickets for all her friends and family, deliberately seating me right next to her parents. It’s not the most comfortable position, but I have to take whatever opportunities I can to get to know them. I don’t expect that they’ll ever like me. They might not even stop hating me. They have to accept me, however, because I’m not letting go of Nessa.

Truthfully, my patience is running thin. I thought I could take my time—but I overestimated my own resolve.

I want her back. I want her fully. I want her as my bride.

I’m sitting right next to Fergus Griffin. He’s a tall, trim, intelligent-looking man, well-dressed, with handsome gray streaks in his hair and cultured manners. To the untrained eye, he looks like a wealthy Chicago businessman. I see him for what he really is—a chameleon who takes on the appearance that best suits his purposes. I have no doubt that when he was breaking knees as an enforcer, he looked like walking retribution. When he rose through the ranks of the Irish mafia, I’m sure he dressed like a gangster. Now he behaves like he’s lived all his life in the upper crust.

It’s difficult to tell who he really is, underneath all that. I can guess a few things: he must be intelligent and strategic, with a core of steel. You don’t get to the top any other way.

But he can’t be your average criminal sociopath. Because he made Nessa. He raised her. That gentle heart and creative mind of hers must have come from somewhere.

Maybe from Imogen Griffin. She’s sitting on her husband’s opposite side. I feel her looking at me, with those cool blue eyes she passed down to her son.

“Are you a patron of the arts?” she asks me, acerbically.

“No,” I say.

After a moment of chilly silence, I add, “I do like dancing.”

“You do?” Her frosty expression melts by the tiniest degree.

“Yes. My sister and I did folk dancing when we were young,” I take a breath, trying to think how normal people speak when they make conversation. “We won a prize once, for the Polonaise. We hated dancing together because we always quarreled—Anna wanted to lead. She was better than me. I should have let her. We probably only won because we looked so alike, like a matched set. The judges thought it was cute.”

The words come out faster, once I get in the flow of it. It helps that Imogen and Nessa look a little alike. It helps ease the awkwardness.

Imogen smiles.

“I danced ballroom with my brother Angus,” she says. “We thought it was so embarrassing being paired up together. We never won any prizes.”

“You needed a better partner,” Fergus says.

“I hope you’re not talking about yourself,” Imogen laughs. She tells me, “He broke my foot at our wedding. Stepped right on my toes.”

Fergus scowls. “I had a lot on my mind.”

“And you were drunk.”

“Mildly inebriated.”

“Completely sloshed.”

They share an amused glance, then they remember that I’m sitting right next to them, and they hate me.

“Anyway,” Fergus says. “Nessa’s talent comes from her mother.”

I hear the pride in his voice. They love Nessa—that much is clear.

Before I can say anything else, the lights dim and the curtain rises.

The set is stunning, epic in size and scale. It looks like a bright, verdant forest. The music is light and joyful, too. Three girls come out dressed in green, blue, and pink—Nessa, Marnie, and Serena.

I notice that Serena Breglio has kept the brown hair the Russians gave her. I guess she decided she liked it. I don’t know how much Nessa has told her about why she was abducted and then abruptly released again. I do know that Serena is one of Nessa’s best friends, and that hasn’t changed. So in a fit of guilt, I anonymously paid off the balance of Serena’s student loans. It was forty-eight thousand. Less than I make in a week, but a fuck-load of shifts at the coffee shop where Serena works to supplement her meager dancer’s salary.

A few months ago I would have said she was lucky we didn’t cut her throat and toss her in a ditch. Now I’m Father Christmas. That’s how soft I’ve gotten.

The three girls are dancing in a formation that Nessa tells me is called a “pas de trois.” Their dresses are soft, not stiff like a tutu. Every time they twirl around, the skirt bells out in a shape like flower petals.

I’ve watched very little ballet, but the dances Nessa choreographs are mesmerizing. There’s so much movement and interaction, patterns that shift and evolve, with barely any repetition.

Nessa’s parents are fascinated, right from the start. They lean forward, eyes locked on the stage. I can see from their surprised expressions that even they didn’t realize how beautiful Nessa’s work can be.

Toward the end of the dance, Nessa separates from the other two girls. They exit the stage on the left, while Nessa crosses in the opposite direction, wandering as if lost.

As she moves across the stage, the lighting changes. The forest that looked bright and welcoming now becomes dense and dark. The music alters too, switching from cheerful to eerie.

Nessa comes to a castle. After some hesitation, she walks inside.

The castle set slides across the floor in sections, locking into place around her. The set is incredibly detailed—Marnie’s work. Huge leaded glass windows give the walls a cage-like feeling, and there’s a tattered, aged, and neglected look to everything, down to the melted candlesticks in the chandeliers.

Inside the castle, Nessa meets the Beast.

The Beast is played by Charles Tremblay, one of the principal dancers at Lake City Ballet. Usually, he’s tall, fit, and friendly-looking, with a shaggy surfer’s cut of strawberry blond hair, and a slight southern drawl. Onstage he’s unrecognizable. Makeup and prosthetics have turned him into a monster—half-wolf, half-human, like a werewolf partway through its transformation.

Everything about his movement has changed, too. Gone is the confident swagger. Now he darts around the stage with unnerving speed, low to the ground, like an animal.

Nessa told me she chose him for exactly this reason—his ability to “act” as well as dance.

I know they’ve been rehearsing together for hours every day, something that would usually make me horrifically jealous. Except that every night when I visit her, Nessa runs to me like she hasn’t seen me in a hundred years. Like she can’t stand another second apart. So I know who she’s been thinking about, even when she’s dancing in another man’s arms.

The Beast entices Nessa to dance with him.

The beguiling strains of “Satin Birds” begin to play. I let out a long sigh. I didn’t know that Nessa even remembered that song, let alone that she planned to use it in the ballet. It brings my own ballroom into view before my eyes, and makes me vividly remember the first night I held Nessa in my arms.

The pair are waltzing across the stage, reluctantly at first, then with greater speed and intensity.

I see Nessa recreating that moment between us. I don’t mind that she’s portrayed me as a Beast. Actually, it’s fitting. I was a wild animal that night. I wanted to tear her to pieces and swallow her whole. I barely kept control of my desire for her.

What I didn’t realize is how strong her desire already was in return. I see it now, as she looks up into the Beast’s face. I see how intrigued she is. How drawn to him, despite her every natural inclination.

The ballet goes on.

It’s the classic fairytale of Beauty and the Beast. But it’s also our story, Nessa’s and mine. She’s mixed in pieces of what happened between us.

I’m reliving it all again.

I forget that I’m sitting next to her parents. I forget that there’s anyone else in this theater. I just see her and me, how we broke apart and came back together again, over and over, neither of us able to resist the pull of attraction that lured us in and bound us tight. She’s showing me our whole story over again, a dark fantasy retold through her eyes.

Finally there’s a duet between the Beast and Nessa that takes place on a stormy night. The stage lighting mimics the appearance of rain, punctuated by lightning.

At first the duet is like vicious combat—violent, and aggressive. The Beast dragging Nessa, pulling her back when she tries to escape. Even lifting her over his head and carrying her across the stage. But as the dance goes on, their motions become synched. Their bodies are locked tight together, so they become perfectly aligned, even in the most outrageous formations.

Soon they’re moving as one person, faster and faster. Nessa told me this is the most technically difficult dance. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to keep up with Charles.

She’s more than keeping up. She’s dancing better than I’ve ever seen before—swift, precise, passionate. She’s fucking incredible.

I can’t take my eyes off her. The theater is completely silent. No one wants to even breathe, in case they interrupt the pair whirling across the stage. It’s erotic and ethereal, all at once. It’s mesmerizing.

When at last they stop, locked in place in the center of the stage, wrapped up in a kiss, the crowd erupts. The applause is thunderous.

Imogen and Fergus Griffin are staring at each other. They’re amazed by Nessa’s performance. But it’s more than that. They know what it means, just as well as I do. They’ve seen how Nessa really feels. She’s laid her heart out on the stage for everyone to see.

At the end of the show, the applause goes on and on. The cast comes out to take their bows. The audience gives them a standing ovation, except for one man who slips out of his seat and exits via the side door before Nessa comes to take her bow.

The man’s movement catches my eye. As thrilled and pleased as I am for Nessa, I can’t turn off that part of my brain. The part that’s always looking for something out of place.

Nessa strides across the stage, blushing with pleasure as the crowd cheers louder than ever. She curtseys, then scans the crowd, looking for her family. When she catches sight of me, she blows me a kiss.

Jackson Wright grabs her hand and lifts it up in triumph. He’s gotten his cast off finally, which seems to have improved his spirits. He’s grinning, looking genuinely proud.

As the dancers head backstage once more, we go out to the lobby to wait for Nessa. She’s changing out of her costume, probably talking excitedly with her friends. They’ll all be high on the wave of their success.

I wait next to Nessa’s parents, with Callum, Aida, and Riona. Imogen is quiet, as if she has a lot on her mind. Aida is talking enough for everyone.

“That was the best ballet I’ve ever seen. It’s the only ballet I’ve ever seen, but I’m sure if I watched others, I’d still think that.”

“It was beautiful,” Riona agrees.

“I felt like there was a metaphor in there somewhere . . .” Aida muses, casting her sly gray eyes in my direction.

Callum gives her a stern look to make her shut up.

She grins up at him, not chastened in the slightest. I can see the corner of his mouth quirking up in return.

Waiters in tuxedos circulate through the lobby, carrying trays laden with bubbling champagne flutes. Fergus Griffin takes a drink off one of the trays and swigs it down. He offers a glass to his wife, but she shakes her head.

My stomach is rumbling. I haven’t eaten any dinner yet. I doubt Nessa has, either. Maybe I could convince Fergus to let me take her somewhere to celebrate . . .

The cast comes out into the lobby. They’ve changed into street clothes, but they haven’t washed off the heavy stage makeup, so they’re far from blending in. Audience members swarm around to congratulate them. A sinuous line forms, like a reception line. I curse how far away I am—I’ll have to wait my turn to speak to Nessa.

There’s a flow to crowd movement. People naturally fall into the line, or move aside to get out of the way. Again, out of the corner of my eye, I see motion that doesn’t quite fit the pattern. A man in a wool coat, striding toward the cast members from the edge of the room.

He’s got dark hair, his collar pulled up so I can’t see his face. But I see his hand, reaching inside his coat.

I look over at Nessa, directly in line with the man’s trajectory. She’s changed into leggings and a knit sweater, her face still made up from the stage with false lashes and pink cheeks. Her hair is pulled up in its tight bun, dusted with glitter. She’s flushed and laughing, her eyes bright with pleasure.

As I watch, she glances up and catches my eyes. Her smile beams out, then falters when she sees the expression on my face.

I start sprinting toward her.

The man is pulling a gun out of his coat. He’s thumbing off the safety, raising the barrel up.

I’m plowing through the crowd. I slam into a waiter, knocking the tray of champagne out of his hand. The glasses fly everywhere. I catch the silver tray out of the air and I sprint forward, shouting “NESSA!”

In slow motion I see the man point the gun right at her face. Nessa sees it, too. She freezes in place, eyes wide, dark brows flying upward. The dancers on either side of her cringe away. She’s all alone, unprotected, too startled to even put up her hands.

I leap forward, tray outstretched.

The gun goes off like a cannon.

I feel the jolt as it hits me, simultaneous with the noise.

I plow into Nessa, knocking her to the ground and covering her with my body. I don’t know where the first bullet hit. I expect to feel several more, riddling my back.

There’re three more shots, but I don’t feel any pain. I smother Nessa, keeping her trapped beneath me so nothing can hurt her. All through the screaming and stampeding of people trying to get away, I cover her up, keeping her safe.

When I open my eyes, I see the bloodied, snarling face of Kolya Kristoff. He’s lying on the ground in front of me. Completely dead.

Fergus Griffin stands over him, smoke still rising from the barrel of his gun. His face is contorted with rage, his green eyes glittering demonically behind the sensible frames of his glasses. Now I see it—the real fucking gangster behind the veneer of civility.

His eyes dart in my direction and I can read his thoughts as clearly as my own: he could move that gun an inch to the right and shoot me right now, solving the last of his problems.

Instead, he keeps it pointed right where it is and puts another bullet in Kristoff’s back. Then he tucks the gun back inside his suit jacket.

Callum Griffin is helping me up. I pull Nessa up too, frantically looking her over for signs of damage.

“Are you alright?” I ask her.

She’s shaking with shock, teeth knocking together, but she doesn’t seem hurt.

“I’m fine,” she says.

She’s clinging to me, her arms around my neck.

I see Fergus’ jaw twitch. Nessa is his baby girl—usually she’d run to him for comfort.

Callum picks up the silver tray. It’s got a dent the size of the softball, right in the center.

“Holy fuck,” he says. “How’d you know that would work?”

“I didn’t,” I say.

Imogen throws her arms around Nessa, tears rolling down her face.

“Oh my god,” she sobs, “I can’t take much more of this.”

“Callum,” Fergus says, sharply. “The police will be here in a minute. Take Aida and go home. You don’t need your name attached to this.”

He looks over at me.

“I assume you don’t have the cleanest record, either.”

“I’m not leaving without Nessa,” I tell him.

His expression softens ever so slightly. “I’ll be here with her,” he says. “We’ll give a statement to the police. Then we can meet you back at the house.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Riona says to him, folding her arms across her chest. “As legal counsel.”

I hesitate. I don’t want to leave Nessa, but Kristoff is dead. There’s no point fighting with Fergus. Not when we’re finally starting to get along.

I kiss Nessa softly on the lips. Her parents are watching, but I don’t give a damn.

“I’ll see you at the house,” I tell her. “You were unbelievable tonight, Nessa. Don’t let this detract from that. You’re a fucking star.”

She kisses me again, not wanting to let go of me.

I hear sirens, and I gently unclasp her hands from around my neck.

“See you soon,” I say.

As I turn to leave, Fergus claps me on the shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says, hoarsely. “You were quicker than me. I wouldn’t have made it in time.”