2. Raphael
CHAPTER 2
RAPHAEL
The security footage plays on repeat before me, each viewing stoking my growing fascination. I lean back in my leather chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin as I watch the lithe dancer move through Obsidian's private rooms. Kit Thorne. Even his name carries a hidden sharpness.
"Sir?" Marcus hovers in my doorway. "Lady Ashworth's driver confirmed our suspicions. She's been passing information to Dominik."
I wave him silent, eyes fixed on the screen. Kit is speaking with Lady Ashworth, his posture a study in contained grace. Even in grainy black and white footage, his defiant energy radiates through the screen. Not the typical submission I see from my dancers—this one has fire.
"How long has he been feeding her information?"
"Three months, sir. But..." Marcus hesitates. "He seems unaware of the larger implications. The boy's drowning in debt—student loans, medical bills for a past injury. Lady Ashworth's payments are keeping him barely afloat."
Interesting. Not simple greed then, but desperation. I tap my finger against my desk, considering. Betrayal typically earns a swift, permanent response in my world. But something about this dancer intrigues me. Perhaps it's the way he maintains his ballet career despite everything—that level of discipline resonates with my own appreciation for control and precision.
"Show me his schedule."
Marcus hands me a folder. "He has late rehearsals at the city ballet studio most nights. Minimal security, easy access."
"Perfect." I stand, adjusting my cuffs. "Have the room prepared. And Marcus? Make sure it's done quietly. I don't want to spook our little dancer just yet."
After Marcus leaves, I return to the surveillance footage. Kit is performing now, his body a perfect instrument of seduction. But beneath the deliberately provocative movements, I see the classical lines of his ballet training. Such control, such potential—all of it wasted on the likes of Lady Ashworth.
I've built my empire on recognizing opportunities, on seeing the hidden value in things others overlook. Kit Thorne is no mere informant to be disposed of. He's a prize worth claiming.
The next few hours pass in a blur of meetings and phone calls. My legitimate businesses require constant attention, as does the darker side of my operations. But my thoughts keep drifting back to the surveillance footage, to the defiant tilt of Kit's chin when Lady Ashworth made her demands.
Evening finds me in my private car, watching the ballet studio's rear entrance. The building is old, all brick and weathered stone, with security that wouldn't stop a determined child. Kit emerges alone, as expected. His dance bag hangs heavy on one shoulder, his steps weary but still graceful.
I signal my men with a slight nod. They move silently, efficiently. Kit never sees them coming. One moment he's walking toward the subway station, the next he's being bundled into my waiting car. He struggles, of course—that fire I admired showing itself—but it's futile against professional restraint.
I study him in the dim car interior as we drive. He's younger than he appears on stage, early twenties at most. His face holds a fascinating mix of delicate and sharp features, currently twisted in anger despite the blindfold. Even bound and captured, he maintains that dancer's poise.
"You're making a mistake," he spits, voice steady despite his situation. "I'm nobody important."
"On the contrary." I drop my voice low, enjoying how he tenses at the sound. "You've made yourself quite important, Mr. Thorne."
His head turns toward my voice, throat working. "Who are you?"
"Someone who's been watching you very carefully." I reach out, trailing one finger along his jawline. He jerks away, but there's nowhere to go in the confined space. "You've been quite busy at my club, haven't you?"
Understanding dawns on his face, followed by a flash of fear quickly masked by defiance. "Kova?."
"Very good." I withdraw my hand, pleased by his quick mind. "Though I prefer Raphael, given the intimate nature of our upcoming relationship."
"There is no relationship," he snarls. "Whatever you think I've done?—"
"I don't think, little dancer. I know." I cut him off smoothly. "Every whispered conversation with Lady Ashworth. Every piece of information you've fed to my enemies. The only question is what to do with you now."
He falls silent, but his body remains coiled tight, ready to fight or flee. Such spirit. Breaking him will be exquisite.
The car turns up my private drive, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Kit's head tilts, clearly trying to track our location despite the blindfold. Always observing, always calculating—yes, there's far more to him than a simple desperate dancer.
My men escort him inside efficiently, following my pre-arranged instructions. I take my time following, pausing to remove my jacket and roll up my sleeves. The night's work is just beginning.
The room I've had prepared combines elegance with security. Thick carpet, comfortable furnishings, but reinforced walls and unbreakable windows. A gilded cage for my captured bird. Kit stands in the center, blindfold removed, taking in his surroundings with barely concealed panic.
"Welcome home." I enter quietly, enjoying how he spins to face me. "For the foreseeable future, at least."
Whatever fear he feels, he masks it well. His chin lifts in a defiant tilt. "You can't keep me here. People will notice I'm missing."
"Will they?" I circle him slowly, admiring how he turns to track my movement. "The struggling ballet dancer who moonlights at a strip club? Who lives alone and barely makes rent? I think you'll find your absence creates barely a ripple."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know everything about you, Kit." I stop directly behind him, close enough to feel the heat of his body. "I know about the scholarship that ran out. The injury that nearly ended your career. The mounting debts that drove you to my club. The question is—what don't I know?"
He trembles slightly but doesn't move away. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" I lean in, my lips brushing his ear. "Then shall we discuss your meetings with Lady Ashworth? The information you've been selling?"
"I never sold anything!" He spins to face me, eyes flashing. "She just asked questions—harmless things about the club. I didn't know..."
"Didn't know she was working with Dominik? Didn't know you were helping my enemies?" I catch his chin in my hand, forcing him to meet my gaze. "Or didn't want to know?"
Something breaks in his expression—fear finally overwhelming defiance. "Are you going to kill me?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with possibility. I study his face, noting the fierce pride still visible beneath the fear. Such a waste that would be.
"Kill you?" I stroke my thumb along his jaw, feeling him shiver. "Oh no, little dancer. I have far more interesting plans for you."
I step back, giving him space to process the implications. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to project confidence he clearly doesn't feel.
"I won't help you," he declares. "Whatever you're planning."
I smile, enjoying his persistence. "You already are. Your betrayal has exposed Lady Ashworth's connection to Dominik. And now..." I gesture to our surroundings. "Now you'll help me destroy them both."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then we'll have to focus on more immediate concerns." I move to the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. "Rest well, Kit. Tomorrow we begin your training in earnest."
I leave him standing there, shoulders straight despite his obvious fear. Such perfect posture, even in captivity. Yes, this one will be a delightful challenge to break and remold.
In my office, I pull up the surveillance feed from his room. He's exploring now, testing windows and doors with growing desperation. His movements hold that dancer's grace even in panic. I catch myself leaning forward, captivated by the play of emotions across his expressive face.
Marcus appears with my evening briefing, but I wave him away. Business can wait. Tonight, I want to watch my new acquisition adjust to his cage. Tomorrow will bring interrogation and discipline, but tonight—tonight I simply want to observe.
On screen, Kit finally sinks onto the bed, head in his hands. Even in defeat, he's beautiful. My fingers itch to shape him, to mold that defiant spirit into something exquisite. He doesn't realize it yet, but he's exactly where he belongs.