Chapter 10
KIR
She stares at me like terrified, cornered prey.
The strange thing, much like my inability to shake her from my thoughts, is that usually, I relish this sort of look when I step into a room.
Not because I’m a bully, but because I realize that when I step into a room, power comes with me. And power has a way of making people feel threatened.
But when I see that look on Brooklyn’s face, not a single part of me enjoys it.
Quite the opposite. I don’t want to intimidate this woman. Instead, there’s a burning need to be the shield between her and whatever does scare her.
That said… I’d like some answers about the lies she keeps feeding me.
“Why did you have me drop you off at a random building the other night, claiming it was your workplace?”
She twists like a fish on a line, her sharp blue eyes avoiding mine. Her lip catches between her teeth, and I watch her roll it gently, a mix of jealousy and frustration at her lack of answers growing within me.
“Brooklyn.”
“I—” Her throat bobs heavily. “I was embarrassed. I…” She shrugs and looks at the floor. “I’m kind of in between side gigs right now, so money’s a little tight.” She swallows again. “And you’re…you know.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “I’m what?”
“Rich…?”
I shake my head. “First of all?—”
“Please, don’t give me a lecture on how I shouldn’t be embarrassed by poverty,” she says quietly. “I’ve heard it before and it’s…”
“Stupid?” I finish for her. “Unhelpful? Patronizing? Generally coming from a position of privilege?”
A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. Her bright blue eyes slowly drag up to meet my gaze, and a fire ignites within me.
“Pretty much,” she says quietly.
“I’m not here to lecture you, Brooklyn. And I’m quite aware how poverty tastes, for what it's worth.”
“It’s just…” She frowns and looks down again. “I mean, I fucking love ballet. It’s why I get up in the morning. It’s what I breathe. But…” She lifts a shoulder. “It’s not exactly a path to wealth.”
I shake my head. “Art rarely is.” I frown. “Are you having trouble living off what you make here?”
She looks away. “It’s not that. I mean, I didn’t become a dancer for money. It’s just…” She trails off and shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“No, keep going.”
Her lip retreats between her teeth again.
“Pretend I don't own the company.”
She snorts quietly, as if to illustrate how ridiculous an ask that is with me standing here wearing a ten thousand-dollar suit and a watch worth a cool quarter of a mill.
“I want to help you if you’re in trouble, Ms. Ellis,” I growl. “I think I’ve made that fairly obvious by now.”
Color floods into her cheeks as her eyes dart to mine.
“Thank you again for?—”
“Don’t keep thanking me. Just tell me what’s going on, and why money is so tight right now.”
“It’s fine, you?—”
“I’m not asking you, Brooklyn. I’m telling you.”
Her lips tighten, and I can see the tiniest flicker of defiance in her eyes. She doesn’t like being told what to do.
Interesting.
Or perhaps she just doesn’t like being told what to do by men who don’t know how to tell her.
“Family? A sick relative?” I take another step toward her, and her mouth opens slightly, her eyes widening. “You can tell me, or I can simply…find out.”
She swallows.
“My stepdad. He’s got these legal issues…he's charged with things I know he didn’t do. I’m trying to fight that.”
I lift a brow, trying to hide the bored amusement on my face.
The stepfather being charged for something he didn’t do.
Right .
Either she’s a compulsive liar, or naive enough to believe another liar.
“He didn’t ,” she insists, her blue eyes blazing into mine.
I nod. “Go on.”
“His legal bills cost a fortune, so…” She looks away. “Sorry, overshare.”
“I asked you to.”
“I think you told me to.”
I smirk. “ Touché . You understand that the Ballet Imperiya Korona doesn’t pay its apprentices?”
She swallows, her eyes dropping to the floor. “I do.”
“How would you continue to pay for your stepfather’s legal defense while you’re in another country, dancing for free?”
“I’ll figure it out,” she says firmly, a little too quickly.
“And if you’re unable to?—”
“I said I’ll figure it out ,” she says coldly.
I say nothing, just clasp my hands behind my back and let my eyes bore into her.
“Since we’re here,” I say evenly. “I’d like you to dance for me.”
Brooklyn’s brow furrows as her lip trembles.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a dancer. We’re standing in a rehearsal studio at one of the finest ballet companies in the world.
You’re considering pushing yourself to the absolute professional limit, not to mention the financial one, to travel halfway around the world to an even more brutal institution which won’t even pay you. ”
She nods stiffly. “And?”
My eyes narrow. “ And I’d like you to dance for me, so I can tell you if this dream of yours even has a prayer of coming true.”
I won’t lie. Part of me rather enjoys the look of fury that spreads over her face.
“I got a callback ,” she says tightly through clenched teeth.
I lift a shoulder. “As did Lin Xiuya, Camille Blanchet, and Allegra Vitale. All fantastic dancers.”
Brooklyn bristles.
“You’re shooting for the moon ,” I say tersely. “And I’d like to see you dance.”
“Why.”
My brows shoot up at her sharp reply before they settle again.
“Because I said so.”
“Because you’re friends with Ivan Yelchin.”
She’s smart, I’ll give her that.
“ No . Because you need guidance if you want to have a shot at that position, with or without my friend being the artistic director.” My eyes narrow. “And for what it’s worth, Ivan is above petty favoritism.”
Brooklyn inhales sharply, stiffening as I take another step toward her.
“As am I ,” I growl.
She chews on her lip as she eyes me. “You want me to dance?”
“I want to not repeat myself.”
What the fuck am I doing? On no level is this something I should be indulging in. Encouraging this insane dream of hers to go to Moscow is just cruel.
She won’t be going. Nor will Lin Xiuya, Camille Blanchet, or Allegra Vitale.
Inessa Moskovic will, as part of my deal with Dimitri.
So why the fuck am I humoring this girl? Probably for the same fucked up reason I can’t get her out of my goddamn head. Why I can’t resist this… pulling sensation dragging me closer to her, especially now, alone together in the studio.
Brooklyn intrigues me. So do her secrets, and her very obvious lies.
It’s like she’s daring me to discover them. Challenging me to throw the lies in her face and drag out every one of her dark little secrets.
Without waiting for an answer, I turn and march across the room toward the piano and the sound system. I shrug off my jacket, setting it carefully on top of the Steinway before I deftly roll my sleeves over my forearms to the elbow. When I glance back at her, Brooklyn is looking at me curiously.
“I assume you’re familiar with the Gamzatti Temple variation from La Bayadere ?”
The curiosity deepens around her eyes, but she nods. “I could do it in my sleep.”
“No one’s asking for that. Not yet, anyway. From the top.”
I turn to the sound system, locate the track on the iPad plugged into it, and glance back at her.
“Ready?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Sure,” she says casually.
So cocky.
It’s…not an unattractive trait in her.
I tap the play button on the iPad and turn to lean casually against the piano, watching as Brooklyn begins the variation.
She was fantastic from the back of the auditorium, when I observed her through the windows of Magda’s office.
Up close, she’s magnificent .
Her phrasing, her musicality, her fluid arm movements. She nails every pirouette, every jump, every single step in the variation.
And yet…
There’s something missing.
There’s no question that she’s insanely talented—I’m talking best of the best, most likely top one percent in the world. But even so, as I watch, there’s something lurking there in her every step.
Is it fear? Darkness surges in my chest as I think about the bruises I saw on her body. Not from those fucking hyenas the other night. The older ones.
The fury in me roars louder and louder the longer I watch this magical creature coming so fucking close to perfection, only to be dogged by the shadows haunting her steps.
I hate the fact that somebody stole the freeness from her dancing.
Brooklyn is launching into the diagonal piqué turns when I abruptly stop the music. She whirls on me with a fury in her face I wasn’t expecting. Then it hits me.
She’s the kind of artist who loses herself so deeply in her art that to disrupt that process before it finishes is like shoving a painter aside and spray-painting a cock across their masterpiece.
“What the fuck ?!” she snaps.
My brow furrows deeply as I draw in a long breath.
Don’t do this .
But I’m already walking closer, my gaze critical as I slowly circle her.
“What are you doing?”
“Lift your arm, like this.”
I try to ignore the explosion that ripples through my body the second I touch her skin. But it’s like trying to ignore being electrocuted. Still, I grit my teeth and continue with my corrections, lifting her wrist to where I want it, moving my hands to her upper arm and repositioning her shoulder.
“What are you?—”
“Stop talking and pay attention.”
Her eyes blaze. But her mouth snaps shut.
Good girl .
“Cheat the right leg out a bit, point the toe.” I sigh. “ Point the toe, Brooklyn.”
“I am pointing it,” she mutters testily.
“I know you can point it more. I’ve seen you do it. Now, the other hand… here .”
I know this is wrong. I’m crossing several lines. But I can’t stop.
I keep one hand on her right hip as I move around to her left. My arm circles her small waist, feeling the muscles expand and contract as she breathes against my touch. I lift her left hand, checking the line in the mirror before my fingers trace back down her forearm to the elbow.