Love Without Measure

21. Whispers in the Wings

The rain had been falling over Edinburgh all week, turning the cobbled streets into dark, glistening mirrors. From the castle above to the closes below, the city seemed to hum with secrets. Elena Markovic pulled her coat tighter as she walked the Royal Mile, her breath clouding in the mist. The weight of her rehearsal bag tugged at her shoulder, pointe shoes knocking against each other softly with every step.

She had dreamt of this—joining the Scottish Ballet, dancing Odette under the gothic arches of the Festival Theatre—but reality was heavier than fantasy. The troupe whispered of missing girls. First an understudy, then a corps member. Dancers who left rehearsal and never made it home. The air was thick with unease.

Elena tried to shake the thought as she neared the stage door. But then she saw him again.

Alistair MacGregor.

He wasn't part of her world of pirouettes and pliés, yet he fit into its shadows perfectly. Fifty, a retired detective with storm-gray eyes and a body still cut from years of discipline. His presence wasn't gentle; it was commanding, edged in danger, like a blade hidden beneath a coat. He was here because the theatre board had panicked—someone had to watch them, someone who knew killers when he saw them.

"Elena," he said, voice deep, softened only slightly by his Highland burr. "You shouldn't walk home alone."

She stopped, chin tilting up in defiance. "I'm not a child, Mr. MacGregor."

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "No. You're not." His gaze lingered a moment too long, then shifted to the rain-slick street behind her. "But there's a man who's been following the girls. Two are gone already. Vanished."

Her pulse stumbled. "Vanished?"

"Not a trace," he said grimly. "No ransom. No bodies. Just silence."

She swallowed, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag. She wanted to walk past him, to brush it off as paranoia. But there was something in his eyes—experience, weight—that told her this wasn't a man prone to exaggeration.

"Then maybe," she said carefully, "I'll let you walk me inside."

Something passed between them, wordless but sharp, before he nodded once.

The theatre was a cathedral of shadows when the lights dimmed. Dust and rosin scented the air, the floorboards whispering beneath the corps as they rehearsed. Elena danced until her lungs burned, every movement sharper than the last. She would prove herself—prove that she wasn't just the foreign girl filling a space.

But even as she leapt, she felt eyes on her. Not just the eyes of the ballet master, not just her rival dancers, but eyes darker, heavier. She told herself it was Alistair, standing in the wings, watching with that unreadable expression. Yet sometimes... she swore it was someone else.

That night, as the troupe left, a scream tore through the air.

They found one of the girls—an understudy—in an alley behind the theatre. Bloodied, broken.

Elena clutched the barre so tightly her knuckles whitened when the news spread the next morning. The studio buzzed with panic, some dancers crying, others refusing to rehearse.

Alistair's hand landed firm on her shoulder. She flinched, then turned, meeting his unyielding gaze.

"Look at me," he said.

Her eyes burned, but she forced herself to meet his.

"You're not alone in this," he continued, low and steady. "Whatever's hunting these girls—it won't touch you. Not while I'm here."