Dangerously yours

Elena's pov

The neon lights hummed above me, hot and merciless. They painted the stage in pulsing shades of violet and crimson, matching the pounding bass that shook the floors of the club. Sweat already kissed the back of my neck, but my body moved with the music like it belonged to me and only me.

The mask clung to my face, cool and steady against flushed skin. My shield. My safety. People saw mystery in it, they whispered, they gossiped, they imagined. For all i care, they wanted to strip me bare, not just of clothes but of identity. And that was the one thing I would never give them.

Not my face.

Not my name.

Not me.

My hands wrapped around the pole, sliding upward as I spun with practiced grace. The crowd roared, and somewhere at the back, I heard the sharp laughter of one of the other girls. Jealousy always had a sound bitter and edged.

Let them talk. Let them burn.

The music rose, my hips rolled, and I bent low, the tattoo on my lower back flashing in the lights. I felt the stares like hands crawling across my skin, but I had long since learned to separate myself from them. On stage, I was untouchable. On stage, I wasn't Elena, the orphan girl with scars on her heart. I was "Siren," the masked mystery that men would pay fortunes to taste.

But they never could.

No matter how high the offers climbed, I never agreed to a private session. Not once.

"Show-off," one of the girls hissed when I glided past backstage, grabbing a towel to pat my skin dry.

I ignored her. Words didn't sting anymore. Hunger did. Rent did. Debt did. My stepfather's hands still lingered in nightmares, and the echo of foster homes still clung to me like the scent of mildew. I had run, yes but running meant bills, running meant loneliness, running meant I had to survive.

Clara was all I had now. Sweet, silly Clara with her messy bun and chipped nail polish. She laughed too loud, cried too easily, and trusted the wrong people. But she was my family, my friend, my roommate. The one person who didn't look at me like a paycheck.

Sometimes I wondered what she would think if she knew what I did at night.

But then I remembered the way she cried when I showed up at her apartment door two years ago thin, bruised, starving, carrying nothing but a torn school bag and I knew she wouldn't care. She'd still let me in. She'd still hand me her blanket while she froze.

That was Clara.

"Nice show, Siren," one of the bouncers grinned at me as I passed. He didn't know my real name, none of them did. He only knew the mask and the mystery.

I muttered thanks and slipped into the dressing room, where my reflection stared back from the cracked mirror.

The mask stared too.

I traced the edge of it with my fingertip. Without it, I wasn't anyone people would notice. Just Elena Romano, twenty-two, high school graduate, no college, no family, no future. The mask made me someone. It gave me power, even if it was fragile and borrowed.

I pulled it off and set it carefully beside the mirror.

"Elena?"

Clara's voice rang from the hallway. She peeked her head in, holding two greasy paper bags. Her grin widened when she saw me. "Saved you a burger. Don't say I never do anything for you."

I smiled despite myself. "You're an angel."

She laughed. "Hardly. Eat fast, I'm starving too."

We sat cross-legged on the floor, splitting fries, grease staining our fingers. For a moment, the world outside didn't exist. For a moment, I wasn't a girl who danced behind a mask.

I was just Elena.