The Darkest Corner of the Heart (The Brightest Light Book 2)

I’ve never truly felt pure, raw dread. Not even when I realized my future had just gone down the drain. No, at that moment, I only felt angry at the world and sorry for myself. A killer combination if you ask me.

According to Sammy and Grace, I grew up a fearless child. Curious, adventurous, never particularly scared of the unknown. And for the first time in my life, I wish I could grab my inner child from wherever she’s hiding and force her to do this for me.

Studio B is everything I’ve been dreading for the past five weeks, compartmentalized into a medium-sized room with a wall full of mirrors and a wheeled ballet barre.

I thought booking the last slot of the day would bring me some kind of inner peace, knowing I could leave a few minutes earlier with the excuse of the studio closing for the day, but I still feel miserable.

Maybe this was a mistake. It sure feels like one.

But no—I spent Saturday’s shift money on this studio, and I will make the most of it. Even if I don’t last the whole hour, at least I’ll go home tonight knowing I tried.

I’ll see James tomorrow and tell him I did all I could and that I didn’t back down. I don’t know why what he thinks is becoming more important to me the more time we spend near each other, but it doesn’t bother me. He wants me to do better, and I can’t say I don’t want that for myself too.

I move toward the middle of the room and set my bag on the floor then sit down and take out my portable speaker. It’s been so long since I used it, I had to spend half an hour looking for it this morning.

After my phone is connected to the speaker, I scroll down my ballet playlist, hit a random song, and get on my feet.

My reflection stares back at me in the mirror, and I’m confused by what I see.

Sleek bun, pink tights, black leotard, black skirt, pink ballet shoes. This is exactly how I looked most days through college—an image I’m as used to as seeing myself in my pajamas—and yet I barely recognize the woman in front of me.

Because, under that put-together facade, there’s a broken spirit.

There’s a girl who, somehow, for some reason, thinks she’s never enough.

Not good enough to keep my parents’ love and attention. Not good enough to get into The Norcastle Ballet. Not good enough to perform a simple ballet routine for children without having a mental breakdown.

I inhale. Exhale. “Focus, Maddie.”

I try. For myself, I try.

Flashbacks from the day I injured my ankle fill my head as I move, but my steps don’t falter. I’m being slow, careful, always listening to my body.

I can do this. I was born to dance. Under different circumstances, maybe, but my fate has always been to wear these shoes, to move to the rhythm of this music. I know it deep inside.

Realizing this is exactly where I’m meant to be after all the hurt and self-loathing is a strange feeling—bittersweet.

This is what I wanted, wasn’t it? To wear my ballet flats again and dance. Being here, finally in my element again, takes some of the weight off my shoulders, and my pace picks up before I force myself to slow down again.

I won’t make the same mistake twice.

The piano hits the cords of my heart, the vibrations of the music becoming a part of me. Slowly, the internal spark I’ve always felt on the dance floor flares back to life. In this moment, it doesn’t matter that I missed an audition or that I won’t be able to go back to professional ballet for months.

Because this is me. This is my life. Dancing—in any way that I can. Always.

One moment I’m feeling as light as a feather, concentrating on the sensation of my feet touching the ground. The song ends and a new one starts, equally as moving and beautiful.

And the next, my foot gives out.

And I fall.

I hear myself shouting. What, I can’t recall.

All I’m aware of are the tears in my eyes and the throbbing pain in my bad ankle, not as bad as it was the first time but still concerning.

With tears blurring my vision, I crawl until I reach my bag and turn off the speaker. If I listen to one more second of that song, I might go insane.

Chest heaving, I grab my phone and unlock it.

Now what?

I could call Beth. Or Kyle. Or any of my friends who live or work nearby, and I know they’ll come to help me.

But there’s only one person I want right now. There’s only one person I need.

I ignore all the alarm bells in my head yelling at me that this is highly inappropriate, that this is crossing too many lines, that he won’t pick up.

I send them all to hell, search his work phone number in my contacts from that one time he called to check on me after my panic attack, and press Call.

He said I could call him if I needed him, didn’t he?

A beat passes. Two.

“Who is this?”

My throat is dry as sandpaper, and it hurts to even open my mouth. I lick the tears now rolling down my face, but it doesn’t help. “J-James.”

Not Dr. Simmons. Right now, I need James.

“Maddie, what’s wrong?” I hear shuffling in the background. “Are you hurt? Where are you?”

Amidst the panic clouding my head, I manage to rattle off my current location.

“Is it your ankle?” he asks, but I have a feeling he already knows.

I gulp. “I-It hurts.”

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, but I still hear it. It doesn’t give me much hope. “I’m on my way, all right? Don’t move.”

“Studio B,” I choke out, wrapping my shaking fingers around my ankle.

I was doing so good, and now it hurts so much. It hurts so damn much.

“Okay, don’t move, please.” Traffic sounds reach me through the line, and I know he’s outside. He’s really coming for me. “Stay calm. Everything will be fine, I promise.”

“P-Please, hurry.”

“I’m getting in the car right now. I have to hang up. Don’t move, Maddie. Please. I’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

When he hangs up, I take a deep breath and dry my tears.

Will this nightmare ever end?

✽✽✽

James

I’ve been staring at his message for the past half an hour. He’s not waiting for a response, but it doesn’t make this invisible pressure go away.

Andrew is nothing if not a persistent bastard, I’ll give him that. For three months, he’s been asking, and for three months, he’s gotten one rejection after another. He knows he doesn’t deserve my time, but that doesn’t stop him from asking for it. In his fucking dreams.

Shadow and Mist are curled up on my couch, oblivious to my current dilemma. Oh, to be a spoiled cat. I pet their small heads—they continue to ignore me—before grabbing my mug of steaming coffee from the kitchen island. My mind goes so fast, I’m basically immune to caffeine by now.

Sipping on the boiling drink, I lean against the island and have a stare-off contest with my phone, currently resting on my coffee table. When I got home over an hour ago, I barely had time for a shower and a quick change into my sweatpants and hoodie before the nightmare began.

You could be honest with yourself and admit you’re curious about whatever he has to say.

Yeah, right. And I could also jump off the roof.

Twelve years ago, I promised myself I would never go back to the two people who took everything from me. I wouldn’t talk to them, talk about them, or seek them out. And I sure as fuck don’t plan to start now.

I’m so deep in my thoughts, it takes me longer than it should to realize my phone is ringing. My work phone.

Frowning, I place my mug back on the counter and cross over to the living room area. At first, I think my parents are calling me, which would be weird since Dad called just yesterday. They have both of my numbers, and they sometimes get confused and end up calling the wrong one.

But as I get closer, I notice it’s an unknown number.

A sudden, terrible feeling takes over my body as I accept the call. “Who is this?”

For a second that stretches out for too long, I hear nothing. And then her voice, shaky and broken and all wrong, reaches me. “J-James.”

My heart stops.

“Maddie, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Where are you?”

My mind is on overdrive. I shoot toward my keys, stuffing them into the pockets of my sweatpants, and I put my workout shoes on.

There’s something very wrong about this. And when she tells me exactly where she’s at, it dawns on me.

“Is it your ankle?” I ask, but I already know.

“I-It hurts.”

I curse under my breath. “I’m on my way, all right? Don’t move.”

If she does, she’ll only make it worse, but I don’t tell her that. The last thing either of us needs right now is to be blinded by panic.

“Studio B,” she mutters, which I’m guessing is the room she’s in. I hope whoever is at the front desk will let me get to her without a hassle, but if they don’t, they’ll hear me.

There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, that will keep me away from Maddie right now.

That realization strikes the organ erratically beating inside my chest. Maybe it should concern me that I’m having such a primal, visceral reaction to her being hurt, but right now my only priority is getting to her.

The only reason I take the elevator is because it’s faster than the stairs, but I’m so worried about her, I mess up and end up in the lobby instead of in the garage below the building. When I realize it, I’m almost outside.

Get a grip. She needs you.

“Okay, don’t move, please.” I hit the elevator button again like I have a personal vendetta against it. “Stay calm. Everything will be fine, I promise.”

“P-Please, hurry.” Her strained voice sounds pained, and I have to remind myself to take a deep, calming breath.

Why the hell are you freaked out anyway? She isn’t your first patient. You’re used to dealing with injuries.

I shut my inner voice as quickly as it takes over.

As I reach my car, I tell her, “I’m getting in the car right now. I have to hang up. Don’t move, Maddie. Please. I’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

The streets of Norcastle are a blur as I speed through them. When I stop at a red light, I allow myself a few seconds to dwell on the fact that she called me.

I feel a strange sense of protectiveness when it comes to her, and I’m lucky that the light turns green just as I start pondering why.

Glenn Avenue is one hell of a busy street, so I’m convinced some kind of miracle is in the works when I find a parking spot just a few feet away from the entrance of the building. I fly through the revolving door, get on the elevator, and hit the button of her floor.

My luck runs out when some guy at the front desk says, “Sorry, sir, but I can’t let you in if you haven’t rented a studio.”

Oh, for f—

“Look, man, I’m really sorry to put you in this position, but I really need to go inside,” I explain hurriedly, already knowing he won’t waver. “My… My friend is in Studio B, Maddison Stevens, and she hurt her ankle. She called me for help.”

For a second, he looks convinced enough to give in, but then he shakes his head again. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you in for security reasons.”

Right. I could be a murderer for all he knows.

Desperate, I grab my phone and do the only thing I can think of—I call Maddie and put the phone on speaker.

She answers instantly. “Where are you? Are you close by?” Her voice sounds so pained, I’m one second away from shoving this guy aside and running to her.

I give him my best dry look, meaning, See? I told you I had a reason to be here.

“Maddie, I’m here. I’m at the front desk.” The kid, who doesn’t look a day over eighteen, gets another murderous look from me. “The guy at the reception desk says I can’t get inside without a reservation. Could you please tell him—”

I don’t need to finish that sentence.

“Let him in, please!” she begs, and hearing the angst in her voice tears me apart. “I called him because I hurt my ankle. He’s my doctor. Please.”

He swallows, clearly torn between following the company’s policy and being ripped a new one first by Maddie, then by me. But he ends up making the right choice. “Okay, you can come in, but remember there are cameras in every room, and I’ll—”

“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” I don’t have enough time or patience to listen to the rest of his warning. As if I’d ever lay a hand on Maddie. Not that he knows that, of course, so I get it—but I’m in a hurry.

I rush through the hallway until I reach Studio B, and when I finally open the door, my stomach sinks with a feeling of dread I’ve never felt before.

Maddie is on the floor, dressed in very delicate ballet clothing I don’t have the mind capacity to appreciate right now, cradling her ankle. Her beautiful hazel eyes are all puffy and red, and even though she’s trying to conceal it, I know she’s been crying.

It feels like a stab in the fucking chest.

“James…” Her voice is barely louder than a whisper, but it’s enough to snap me right into doctor mode.

I kneel beside her and gently peel her fingers off her ankle. “Let’s take a look, all right?” I stay calm for her, talking in a soothing voice. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

She stays silent, killing me with every sniffle.

After a few moments of close examination, I find out it’s not serious. I shift it around, and she doesn’t flinch, which I take as a good sign.

“I’ll need to examine it more thoroughly just to make sure, but everything looks fine,” I tell her, and her shoulders drop with relief. “It was probably just a little sore from the lack of practicing, and it gave out. Can you stand up?”

She looks at me, and there’s a kind of raw fear in her eyes I have never seen in her—and I don’t want to ever again. She’s strong, resilient, and seeing her like this…

Stop it.

Slowly, she shakes her head. “I’m scared.”

I notice her phone, shoes, and a small portable speaker are still on the floor, so I put them all inside her bag and hang it over my shoulder. “I’m going to carry you to my car. It’s just at the front. Can I?”

She nods, and I don’t let myself think too much about how well her body fits against mine, or the warmth of her skin, or how she rests her head against my shoulder as I carry her outside the studio in my arms.

Forcing myself to remain in doctor mode, I don’t look down at her pouty lips or vulnerable eyes. I don’t look at that cute button nose resting against the black fabric of my hoodie. Because, if I do, I’ll be gone. And I can’t afford to be.

“Are you all right, miss?” the guy at the front desk asks when we pass by, alarm in his voice. Now he gives a crap.

Maddie gives him a weak smile and a thumbs-up, a gesture so adorable it makes my chest hurt. “I’m safe now.”

Her words are a bullet aiming for my heart.

Safe.

She feels safe with me.

Pride swells inside of me, and so does another part of my body that has no business being so alert right now.

“I just wanted to remind you that the studio isn’t to be held responsible in a personal injury case!” he calls out as we reach the elevators.

“I know! I signed the waiver!” Maddie exclaims back just as the elevator doors open, and we get inside. She doesn’t sound pissed off, which is impressive, considering the guy almost prevented me from getting to her in the first place.

We say nothing as I carry her to the front seat of my car. Once she’s safely inside, I close the door and climb behind the wheel. “To your apartment?”

When she nods, I start the engine. The journey to her apartment is full of silence, which I only break once to ask her how her ankle is feeling. A bit sore, she says, but much better than a while ago. I’m quite confident she didn’t sprain it and only moved it too abruptly, but I want to be sure.

“Do you mind if I take a look at your ankle again at your place?” I ask, which for some reason makes my hands all clammy. I tell myself I’m only doing this for her own sake, because she needs the reassurance that her recovery hasn’t been compromised.

“Please.”

It hurts me that she’s hurt. She’s been through enough shit with her ballet career, and I suspect there’s much, much more pain in that big heart of hers that she hasn’t told me about.

I know how it feels. I’ve been there, and unlike me, she won’t fall. I’ll make sure of it.

I’ll pick her up every time until she learns to stay balanced.

A small eternity later, I park a couple of blocks away from her apartment. When I get out of the car and open the door on her side, she tells me, “I think I can walk.”

That would be good. It would give me a better idea on the state of her ankle, and it would prevent my cock from straining my pants while I carry her. Sounds like a win-win situation.

“I’ll get your shoes.” I notice she’s still wearing her ballet slippers, so I reach into the back seat for her bag and pass it to her.

She changes quickly, and I offer to carry it for her again, but she shakes her head. “It’s fine, thanks.” But she does grab my arm as she walks.

When she lets go to open her front door, I instantly feel cold, and I don’t like it. I don’t like that she has the power to affect me so much.

I never allowed myself to imagine Maddie in a more private and intimate setting, so I never wondered where she lived. But somehow, as I scan her quaint studio, it very much feels like her.

There’s a small kitchen right next to the entrance, with a few odd-looking mugs showcased on the counter that look like modern pieces of decoration more than anything. Then there’s a small couch and a coffee table, separated from her bed by a folding screen. Colorful pictures of abstract paintings and plants are scattered all over the place, and it feels cozy. It feels like Maddie.

It also smells like her—flowery with a hint of vanilla.

Sweet, so damn sweet.

I close the door behind us, suddenly very aware that we’re alone in a space that might be even tinier than my office at the clinic, and I try not to panic.

“Shall we sit on the couch?” she offers, visibly more at ease than I am.

I clear my throat. “Sure.”

She takes one step and curses under her breath. “I need to change out of my tights. You’ll want to look at my bare skin, right?”

Now’s not the time to think about her skin. “Preferably, yes.”

She grabs something from a dresser and disappears behind the only door of the studio, which I assume is the bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”

I take a seat on her couch and check my phone. No new messages, but I still find myself opening my chat with Andrew. His text from a few hours ago looks back at me, mocking me.

Unknown: Maybe not this week, but what about the next? Let’s just talk, James. Think about it.

That’s the problem—I think too much about it, and it’s the last thing I need.

Maddie reappears a moment later, wearing a sinful pair of sleeping shorts. I look away from the smooth skin of her legs as quickly as my eyes land on it. Fucking hell.

“It barely hurts anymore,” she says, sounding more enthusiastic now.

She takes a seat and places her foot on the cushion next to me. Without using my fucking brain, I take it between my hands and place it over my lap. I don’t miss her slight intake of breath.

“Is this okay?” I ask.

She gives me a small nod. “Yes.”

I concentrate on her ankle for the next few minutes, instead of on the nearness of her foot to my cock. As I suspected, it’s nothing to be worried about.

“Everything looks fine,” I tell her. “You can apply an ice pack tonight and rest for the next couple of days, but I’m pretty confident it won’t give you any trouble.”

She lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank you. I thought I’d have to start all over again.”

“Not necessary.” Carefully, I place her foot on the plush rug below the coffee table and stand up. “It was just a scare. Make sure you warm up for a bit longer next time. I’ll give you some exercises at the clinic tomorrow.”

Her genuine, bright smile makes my heart leap. This girl.

I need to get the hell out of here.

But just when I think I can’t possibly die harder on the inside, she gets up after me and throws her arms around my middle.

And hugs me.

She hugs me.

Maddie is hugging me.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice muffled against my hoodie. “Thank you for coming to my rescue and taking care of me. You didn’t have to.”

My traitorous arms move around her smaller frame, engulfing her. It feels right to have her here, safe against my chest, and I hate it.

I hate that I don’t hate it.

“No problem,” I murmur, not entirely sure that she’s even heard me.

But when she squeezes my middle, I know she has.

It’s only now that I realize a haunting truth—Maddie Stevens, my twenty-one-year-old patient, has me wrapped around her little finger.