After class, the girls (and two awesome little boys) take turns giving Callum hugs, and then slip out of the room, smiling shyly at me as they skip past and head for the locker room.

I consider leaving, but then I realize that Callum's gearing up to dance again, turning on the stereo and moving until his body is trembling and he's soaked in sweat. I notice he keeps putting his hand to his lower back and closing his eyes like he's in pain. At one point, it’s like his ankle gives out and he stumbles, hitting the floor hard and then sitting there with his head hanging down, blond hair covering his eyes.

My heart contracts, and I feel like I'm watching something I shouldn't, so I take off down the hall, grab the bus, and head home.

On Wednesday, Callum takes off for the dance studio again, and I follow him.

This time, he teaches a mixed male/female class of teens around our age. It doesn't escape my attention that every girl in that class—plus a boy or two—are hitting on him. I'm surprised to see him act like a professional, ignoring their advances, and focusing on getting the group to perform a rehearsal that has my jaw dropping.

I don't know much about dance, especially ballet, but as an audience of one, I'm captivated.

The dancers exit the room after class, and one boy pauses to put his hand on my arm.

“Cal wants to see you,” he says, and I feel my throat close up.

Shit.

Caught red-handed.

I slip into the room and find Callum waiting for me, arms crossed over his chest, a slight smile on his face.

“Hello, Bernadette,” he says, watching as I step into the studio, the smell of floor polish and fresh sweat in the air. “Come to see me dance?” he asks, voice neutral but not unpleasant. I shrug my shoulders, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. My leather pants and jacket look so out of place in here. “Take your shoes off,” Cal suggests, turning up the music and grabbing a pair of pink slippers from his bag. He smiles at me, but there's a hint of a challenge there that I can't resist.

“Why not?” I say with a shrug, sitting on the stool in the corner and shedding my boots and socks. Not sure what Cal's planning on doing with me. I'm not completely inept on a dance floor, but I'm certainly not trained for ballet.

Callum moves over to the mirror on the far wall, the one that I've just now realized is the window I was looking out from the other side. No wonder Cal never spotted me through it. He pulls the cord on some curtains, blocking the view of any passers-by in the hallway, and then locks the door.

Part of me wonders if I should be afraid.

But I'm not.

Welcome to the family.

I'm part of Havoc now, and unless the boys are playing some kind of fucked-up long game with me then … No. Not with the way Vic looks at me. No fucking way.

“There's a leotard for you in my bag. You should put it on.” Cal moves across the floor in his black slippers and flips through songs on his phone until he finds one he likes. It ends up being Shatter Me by Lindsey Stirling and Lzzy Hale.

Slipping my jacket off, I move over to the bag and find a plain black leotard waiting for me. I finger the fabric for a moment before turning my back on Callum and slipping my shirt over my head. I'm fully aware that he can see everything, considering there are mirrors both in front of and behind me, but I don't care.

I peel my leather pants down my hips, and then take off my bra and panties.

When I glance over my shoulder, I find Callum leaning one shoulder against the wall, watching me.

He waits until I've pulled the leotard on and parked my ass on the stool before he closes the distance between us, kneeling down and slipping one pink slipper on my foot. It's not a pointe shoe—like I'd even know what to do in a pair—but it has long, pretty ribbons that tie up my calves.

“Traditionally, these wouldn't have ribbons on them,” Cal explains as his fingers tickle the skin on my legs, tracing over one of my tattoos with his thumb. “But every little girl wants to imagine, at least for a moment, that one day she'll be wearing pointe shoes and standing center stage.”

“Have you mistaken me for a little girl?” I ask as he slides his palms down my leg and presses his thumb against the arch of my foot, leaving me, for a brief moment, completely breathless. Callum looks up at me with a cerulean gaze, his blond hair stuck to his sweaty forehead.

Today, he’s wearing a gray zip-up hoodie with the arms torn off. It’s only zipped up about halfway, so I’ve got quite the view of his chest and abs, these chiseled muscles that contract as he presses his fingers into my foot, simultaneously massaging and stretching first one and then the other. It takes a concentrated effort on my part to hold back a groan. I’m not sure if I’ve ever had a foot massage in my entire life.

“Come on,” he says finally, ignoring my question and standing up. He holds out a hand to help me to my feet, and then moves back to the stereo, starting the song over from the beginning.

Cal stands in the center of the room and carefully moves his arms in time to the music, rising up on his toes when the song starts to pick up, Lzzy's voice singing about pirouetting in the dark. Callum follows her softly sung command before moving across the stage and spinning several times, extending one foot, and then looking up at himself in the mirror. He doesn't seem satisfied with what he sees, so when the song picks up even further, he follows along with the pace.

There's a bit of dubstep woven into the pop/classical mix of the song, and when the drop hits, Callum just lets completely loose, taking over the entire room with his energy. What becomes apparent to me as I watch him is that he's dancing from a place of anger.

He whips around the room, his body moving in ways I never could.

When the second drop in the music comes, he takes off for this fantastical leap and doesn't quite land right, stumbling and falling into the wall with a curse. For a moment, he closes his eyes and breathes through it. From what I can see on the opposite side of the room, he's in pain.

But he doesn't stop. Instead, he pushes off the wall and keeps going, captivating me completely. I've never seen a man move like that, especially not when he’s covered in ink the way he is. Damn, he’s good, I think, studying him as he pushes through the pain, muscles trembling, forcing his body to bend to his will.

The song comes to an end, and Callum's left bent in half in the center of the room, his breath coming in sharp pants. When he lifts his head up, he looks devastated, staring at himself in the mirror for a long, private moment while I try to figure out what it is that he wants from me.

“You're a beautiful dancer,” I say, and he laughs at me. It's not a nice laugh either. Not at all. I Don't Care by Apocalyptica and Adam Gontier comes on the stereo next, and it feels properly morose.

“I was a beautiful dancer,” he says, limping over to the stool and sitting down heavily on it. His jaw clenches, and he leans over like he's hurting. I don't know what to do, so I just stand there and watch him try to get through whatever it is.

“Are you alright?” I ask finally, and Cal nods, lifting his head up, his blue eyes dark.

“I'm fine.”

“How did you know I was watching?” I ask, and he quirks an almost-smile, forcing himself to his feet and exhaling.

“One of my girls asked who the rock star in the hallway was on Monday,” he says, flicking his gaze to my face. “That, and your smell lingers in the hallway.”

“My smell?” I ask as Callum holds out a hand for me to take. I do, and he pulls me into the center of the room, guiding my body with his. Adam's husky voice slips through the speakers in the four corners of the room as Cal walks me in a slow circle, putting my back to his front, and extending my right arm by sliding his fingers along the length of it until our hands curl together.

“You smell like peaches and leather,” he whispers against my ear, his rough voice breaking a bit. Cal pulls away from me and encourages me to spin, slipping an arm around my waist and yanking me close again. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest as he moves us back a few steps, our slippers brushing against the shiny wood floor.

I can't stop staring at his face, at this mixture of elation and desperate agony.

“Why are you so angry?” I ask him as he turns me in another circle and then dips me. I have no idea what I'm doing, but it's not hard to follow the smooth, easy cadence of his movements. It's like the music speaks to him in secret words I'll never be able to understand, and he translates that mystical language with his body.

The song ends, the last notes echoing around the room, and then the power shuts off.

“Fuck,” Callum murmurs as I freeze in his arms. “The building manager hasn't been paying the electricity bill on time, so sometimes we get blackouts.”

He steps back from me and walks a tight circle around my sweating form. I yank the scrunchie off my wrist and throw my white-blond and pink hair up into a high pony.

“Do you know what first position is?” he asks, and I shrug.

“Vaguely.” I put my body into what I think the right position is, and Callum steps forward to make some corrections, his hands gentle as he guides my arms into place and slides a finger down my spine to encourage me to straighten up.

“Good. Second position?” I shake my head because that's as far as my knowledge goes, and even then, it's only from watching movies and TV shows with vague references to dance. Callum shows me what to do by taking the position and waiting for me to imitate it before he moves over to correct me, gently putting one of his shiny black ballet slippers between my legs and encouraging me to spread them apart a bit more.

Our eyes meet, and my throat gets tight.

“You think I'm angry?” he asks finally, and I nod.

“It's in every movement you make,” I tell him, and he nods, stepping behind me so that he makes a shadow in the mirror. The only light in the room comes from a dusty skylight up above our heads, and even then, dusk is approaching quickly. Speaking of, I really should get going … “It's like you both hate and love dance at the same time, like it's the air you breathe but also the poison that’s slowly killing you.”