"Whatever." She backed up.

But Niall took both of her hands in his, gently so that she could pull away if she wanted. "Dance with me. If you're still unhappy, we'll see you home. Seth and I both."

Leslie looked back at Seth. He sat in a club that she hadn't known existed, surrounded by people in extreme costumes and bizarre behavior, yet he was calm. Unlike me.

Seth tugged at his lip ring, rolling it into his mouth as he did when he was thinking. Then he motioned toward the floor. "Dancing's fine. Just don't drink anything he offers you—or that anyone else offers you, okay?"

"Why?" She forced the question out, despite her instant aversion to asking, to knowing.

Neither Niall nor Seth answered. She thought to press the matter, but the music was beckoning her, inviting her to let go, to forget her doubts. The blue lights that came from every corner of the club spun across the floor, and she wanted to spin with them.

"Please dance with me." Niall's expression was one of need, of longing and unspoken offers.

Leslie couldn't think of any question—or answer— worth refusing that look. "Yes."

And with that Niall spun her into his arms and onto the floor.

Chapter 12

Several songs later, Leslie was thankful for the long hours of waitressing. Her legs ached, but not as much as they would have if she'd been out of shape. She'd never met anyone who could dance the way Niall did. He led her through moves that made her laugh and taught her strange steps that required more concentration that she thought casual dancing could ever need.

Through it all, he was curiously careful with her. His hands never strayed out of the safe zones. Like at the museum, he was almost distant as he held her. If not for a few flirtatious remarks, she'd suspect she'd imagined that delicious look when he'd invited her to dance.

Niall finally paused. "I need to check in with Seth before I" — he burrowed his face into the side of her neck, his breath almost painfully warm on her throat—"give in to my unconscionable desire to put my hands on you properly."

"I don't want to stop dancing. …" She was having fun, feeling free, and didn't want to risk that pleasure ending.

"So don't." Niall nodded to one of the dreadlocked guys who'd been dancing nearby. "They would dance with you until I return."

Leslie held out her hand and the dreadlocked guy pulled her into his arms and spun her across the room. She was laughing.

The first guy passed her to another dreadlocked guy, who spun her toward the next. Each of them looked identical to the last one. There were no pauses in their movements. It was as if the world had begun spinning at a different rate. It was fabulous. At least two songs passed, and Leslie wondered how many guys there were—or if she was dancing with the same two over and over. She wasn't sure if they really were identical or if the illusion was a result of being spun so impossibly fast. But then she stumbled to a halt. The music hadn't ended, but the dizzying movement had.

The dreadlocked guys stopped moving and she realized there were five of them.

A stranger walked across the floor toward her, moving with languid grace like he heard a different song than she did. His eyes were surrounded by dark shadows. He looked like he was surrounded by shadows, as if the blue lights glanced away without touching him. A silver chain glinted against his shirt. Dangling from the chain was a razor blade. He waved a hand dismissively at the dreadlocked guys and said, “Shoo.”

She blinked when she realized she was staring. "I know you. You were at Rabbit's once. … We met."

Her hand drifted to the top of her spine, where her not-yet-complete tattoo was. It suddenly throbbed like a drumbeat caught under her skin.

He smiled at her as if he could hear that illusory beat.

Two of the dreadlocked quints had bared their teeth. The others were growling.

Growling?

She looked at them and then back at him. "Irial, right? That's your name. From Rabbit's …"

He stepped behind her, slid his hands around her waist, and pulled her back to his chest. She didn't know why she was dancing with him, why she was still dancing at all. She wanted to walk off the dance floor, find Niall, find Seth, leave, but she couldn't walk away from the music.

Or him.

Her mind flashed odd images—sharks swimming toward her, cars careening out of control in her path, fangs sinking into her skin, shadowy wings curling around her in a caress. Somewhere in her mind she knew she needed to step away from him, but she didn't, couldn't. She'd felt the same way when she'd first seen him: like she'd follow him wherever he wanted. It wasn't a feeling she liked.

Irial spun her against his chest, holding her firmly to him as he matched his movements to hers. She didn't want to like it, but she did. For the first time in months, the humming fear that was always just under the surface quieted completely, as if it had never been there. The stillness was enough to make her want to stay next to Irial. It felt good—natural, as if the rush of ugliness she was constantly fighting not to feel had drifted away when he took her into his arms. His hands were on her skin, under the edge of her shirt. She didn't know him, but she couldn't find any words to make him stop. Or start.

Laughing softly, he slid his hands over her hips, his fingers bruisingly tight on her skin. "My lovely Shadow Girl. Almost mine …"

"I'm not sure who you think I am, but I'm not her." She pulled back with a ridiculous amount of effort. She felt like a cornered animal. She shoved at him. "And I'm not yours."