Sage lifted her arms, pretending she carried a beach ball between them. Her lips twitched with a smile. That was the example her instructor had used in her first dance classes, and the same words she told the students she’d been trusted to teach.
From there, she gracefully hinged her arms open. Her back cracked with the stretch, but she didn’t lean into it. She kept her hands right on the edge of her vision to prevent any extra arching, remembering the call to watch her lines.
Posture and form were important in ballet. What most saw as a flow from one movement to the next was intricate and technical when boiled down to the finer details. Even as she pulled one arm in to wrap around her imaginary beach ball, the other lifted over her head, not daring to cross the invisible line running right down her middle.
She flowed through the arm positions once more, then added her feet to the mix. Toe out, feet wide, come together. Her muscles stretched and burned to make the turnout she used to handle with ease.
Wanting to push herself, she tipped forward, using her arms as a counterbalance against the leg she lifted behind her. She wobbled, overcorrected, and came back down to both feet before trying again.
The second try came easier, and with an unfamiliar smile twitching at the corners of her lips, she added more bends and turns to her movements.
She dug deep for choreography of recitals performed by her small town studio as she twirled around her den. The stuttering, awkward motions fell away as she gave herself over to the dance.
Her heart pounded after just a few moments and her lungs ached to draw in air. Her arms and legs burned with the exertion. Best of all, she felt a smile stretching across her face.
She ignored the scratch at the back of her head. Dancing was freedom. There wasn’t any room for worry while she focused on building something beautiful. No matter how bad things got at home, her mother always made sure she showed up for classes just to give her a little room for joy.
She spun and tumbled against the couch.
Sage’s smile crashed, and all the problems dug back in with sharpened hooks. This was wrong. All wrong. The floor wasn’t smooth or springy. The space was clearly too small. She didn’t have the proper attire. Her hair hung in messy waves around her shoulders. She was better suited to watching than dancing.
And joy? Joy didn’t exist when she could feel the shadows reaching for her. She shouldn’t have even tried to find it again.
Sage jumped at the sharp knock on her door. She braced herself for the door to bang open, then shot a questioning look when no one waltzed on through like her privacy didn’t matter. When no one appeared, she cocked her head. No voices. No heartbeats or breaths or other sounds of someone waiting.
Curious, she prowled closer and cracked open the door. No one stood on the other side. She was about to close it again when something on her porch caught her eye.
A small, wooden lioness sat right in front of her door.
Sage crouched down. She picked up the figurine and turned it end over end, eyebrows pinching her nose. The lioness crouched in a defensive position, but one paw poised in the air as a threat. The fierce snarl that peeled back her lips and narrowed her eyes warned everyone who got close that she was prepared to lunge at any moment.
Sage sucked in a breath when her fingers found the J carved into the shoulder.
The lioness was her.
She jerked her head upright. Her nostrils flared as she caught the mocha and spice scent that made her inner cat purr. Marching across her porch, she peeked around the corner and found Rhys posted like a sentry against the side of her den.
“What is this?” she demanded quietly, waving the carving at him. “Why did you leave it at my door?”
And why did he make it look like her?
Rhys glanced at her hand, then slowly dragged his eyes upward. Silver laced the deep blue, but didn’t quite take over his human color. The combination gave him an eerie, haunted look that sent goose bumps skittering up her arms.
“It’s a reminder,” he said in a gravelly voice.
Sage leaned her hip against the railing. It felt odd to be the one looking down on him, even if it was only by a few inches. A fleeting thought crossed her mind of ladies in their towers talking to their admirers in the courtyard beneath their windows. One look around at the trucks spattered with mud disabused that notion. “Of what?”
“That you’re strong. That you don’t break. When the worst happens, you face it head on with claws ready to defend yourself.”
Sage took a step back. “That’s not—” she started and gave a shake of her head. Why did her ears buzz with the rush of blood? “That’s not me.”
He canted his head and watched her silently for a loaded moment. “You don’t see it yet, but it is. You’re on fire, Sage.”
Chapter 10
Rhys sighed the moment the Crowley barn came into sight. His shoulders ached from the ton of tension weighing on him, and his eyelids felt like an extra planet’s worth of gravity dragged them down. Sheer exhaustion pulled on his limbs, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep for long even if he fell into bed right that instant. His lion would snatch control the moment his eyes closed.
The days since finding tracks across their borders had been split between the typical ranch work and sticking close to Sage. Even when Lindley posted up next to him, his lion wouldn’t let him stray out of sight of her den. The pride had been caught with their pants around
