Page 107 of Eat. Prey. Love.
“Sharper on the high E, Dolly,” Alexandre critiques snootily. Her gaze is sharp normally, but today, it’s like a knife blade.
“Understood,” I reply, adjusting my posture and taking a deep breath. The piano keys dance under Alexandre’s fingers, and I match them with a renewed fierceness. My voice soars, powerful and clear. For those moments, I’m not just a bunny shifter; I am the music.
The harsh demands to push my voice and my talent continue as the lesson goes on, and I know for sure that she’s been inducted into this cult of bullshit the faux Khan, the recently dyed Rockland, and the headmistress have concocted. Alexandre hasn’t always been nice, but she’s seemed mostly fair, and that wasn’t the case for this lesson. She behaved like she wanted to injure me, and that’s new.
I exit the room with my resolve hardened. “Fitz will tear them apart for this,” I mutter to myself, already composing the message in my head to sic my guardian on Felicia and the brainwashed voice professor. The injustice of the accusation fuels my steps, each one a silent vow of retribution.
How the hell is it that the adults in these damn schools behave worse than the damned kids? It’s fucking embarrassing , honestly.
The corridors stretch before me, leading to the dance studio. Dread coils in my stomach, the whispers of my peers scratching at my ears even when they’re silent. If word has spread to Fabreaux, my ballet instructor, then my reputation might as wellbe toe-shoes strung up to dry—an exhibit of shame rather than talent.
“Shut the fuck up before I make you shut it,” I hiss under my breath, not caring if anyone hears.
It’s not just about clearing my name now; it’s war against the conformist pred mentality. The very thought makes me want to scream or kick—anything to vent this building fury. As I approach the dance studio, my pulse quickens. Every step is heavy with the weight of what I’m about to face. A predator among predators, all too eager to pounce on the wounded.
Delores Diamond Drew doesn’t cower—not anymore—so I straighten my spine and walk in with my Lucille-esque ‘get fucked’ face on.
“Bring it on,” I whisper, my fists clenching at my sides.
I’ll handle Fabreaux, the gossips, the Council—anyone who dares stand in my way.
This bunny no longer runs away from a fight—she starts them.
The momentI cross the threshold into the ballet studio, Fabreaux’s eyes lock onto mine, and her expression is a frigid overture of disdain. It’s the same look the alpha predator gives when a lesser animal has stepped out of line—an unspoken warning that I’m on thin ice. No words needed; her tight-lipped frown and the slight narrowing of her eyes broadcast the rumors that have found fertile ground in her ears.
“Great,” I mutter, feeling my own expression harden in response.
She can get fucked by a giant spiky troll club, too.
I pivot sharply on my heel, stalking toward the locker room with my spine rigid and chin definitely raised. My fingers tremble with barely contained rage, but I shove them into my bag to fish out myleotard and tights.The metal locker door slams shut louder than I intend, echoing off the walls like a challenge.
“Calm down, Dolly,” I order myself, though the clatter of my pointe shoes hitting the wooden bench betrays my frustration. The soft thud is unsatisfying, nothing like the impact I wish I could make on those spreading lies. I yank the tights up my legs, each movement brusque and efficient. There’s no room for error, not now. The leotard follows, hugging my skin tightly and serving as a reminder that I’m about to enter a battlefield.
Looking at my reflection in the locker mirror, I take a deep breath and sigh. “You have to focus and not let them see you sweat,”
This class isn’t just about pliés and pirouettes anymore; it’s about proving that I won’t be broken by petty gossip or intimidation. As I tie my hair back with a snap of elastic, there’s a grim set to my mouth. Once done, I push through the locker room door with a resolve as unyielding as my pointe shoes’ shanks. Today, every step will be an act of defiance, every leap a testament to my tenacity.
These people think they can test my limits? They haven’t seen anything yet.
Stressed Out
I perchon the cold stone of my solitary tower, specially formulated ink on a quill scratching across a parchment. The message is crucial, vital information about the Fae’s movements in the predator world, but cloaked in vagueness that seems almost casual. I can’t risk any directness; our enemies are many and ever-watchful.
This is something I will never be prepared to do—and I thought I never would have to.
The ink smudges slightly as I press too hard, a physical manifestation of the inner turmoil that never quite abates. I’m aching inside, snide thoughts plaguing me with memories of betrayal and loss, guilt gnawing at my insides like a persistent worm. And yet, there’s something else—a scent that tugs at the edges of my consciousness, elusive and haunting.
It’s a whiff caught on the wind, a trace so familiar it sends shivers down my spine. Since arriving in Apex, that fragrance has teased me, a ghostly presence that should be impossible. It speaks of home, of the days before my exile, heavy with implications that could unravel the fragile peace of my present.
I know that scent, intimately tied to my past, my mistakes, the reason I was cast out. But it’s been gone for ages, eradicated from my life until now. My nostrils flare as I try to capture it once more, but it’s just a phantom, leaving me doubting my own senses.
Greetings, Laveaux Clutch.
Cela fait très longtemps, non?
As difficult as it is to receive this letter, you must know that it is even more so for me to write to you.
When I was sent away, I spent many centuries resenting your decision. I did not understand why you chose to honor some ridiculous prophecy over keeping the heir to the throne—your eldest child—in your life. However, I now see what motivated you to follow the words of the seers. They foresaw a future where such a union would be outlawed, and it would endanger the entire clutch, possibly to the point of being hunted. Acceptance may well have caused the corrupt shifters on Councils and the nebulous ‘Society’ to have our entire species wiped out once they found out the true provenance of our people.