Chapter 15
brOOKLYN
For one brief moment, it felt like I was dancing in the stratosphere.
The rest of the world stopped mattering, the Earth stopped turning, and time itself seemed to stand still when Kir’s hands were on my waist and those dark devil eyes were piercing into my very soul.
But ever since that moment shattered, the universe has been speeding to catch up—even though it’s pretty clear that moment is never coming back.
It was obvious enough when he abruptly walked away and acted like nothing had happened. But Kir has spent the last two weeks of our private sessions being an absolute fucking dickhead to me, just in case I needed it to be even clearer.
Spoiler: I didn’t.
The one good thing about the last two weeks has been Lou pretty much sealing himself in his office and barely coming out.
Lou might manage The Mirage and be the owner on paper, but it actually belongs to a Russian mobster who—according to Maya—uses it to launder money since it’s such a cash-heavy business.
Anyway , Zak getting the shit kicked out of him in the men’s room has resulted in the police coming by to sniff around a few times, and Lou’s boss isn't so happy about it.
Plus, Lou himself does business with a bunch of super shady guys, and his head bouncer getting half beaten to death has him extra paranoid.
So, work might be a little easier…relatively speaking. But my after-hours sessions with Kir have become much, much harder, between the grueling repetition and Kir’s razor-sharp critiques.
He’s a monster of a coach: brutal, unencumbered by niceties, and uncaring of things like physical human limits. He just keeps pushing .
But loath as I am to admit it…I am getting better. Noticeably so. Even Madame Kuzmina made a comment about it earlier today, which feels damn good.
Doesn’t mean Kir isn’t still a giant dick.
“Uh… What are those?”
Clad in form-fitting black gym pants and a black t-shirt that clings to every single muscled groove on his torso and arms, Kir stands in the studio doorway.
He’s holding two pairs of boxing gloves.
I swallow, feeling the now-familiar twist of excitement and caged wariness that slides through me whenever we’re in the same room. Kir walks over to where I’ve been stretching on the barre. I fidget, tugging at my dance shorts and readjusting the straps of my tank top.
“Put them on.”
I stare at the gloves, then at him.
“I’m sorry?”
“We’re doing something different tonight. Put them on.”
He pushes them into my hands, then starts pulling on his own. I watch him use his teeth to tighten the Velcro on the second glove, my pulse quickening with nerves and anxiety as I mimic his technique.
Milena and I took a self-defense course a year or so ago on a whim. But that’s the extent of my combat experience. So when Kir ushers me to the center of the studio and raises his fists in a very practiced way, my insides knot.
“I… I don’t know how to box.”
“This isn’t about boxing,” Kir says. “It's about conquering fear. Hands up.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Too bad.”
With zero warning, he surges right into my personal space, throwing a wild punch. I shriek, my heart hammering in my chest as I jump away from him.
“What the fuck ?!”
Kir eyes me. “You’re scared when you dance. We’re addressing that today.”
I stare. “I’m scared when a man twice my fucking size throws a punch?—”
“Language, Brooklyn.”
I bristle. But… fuck . It’s hot the way he says my name. Like a warning. Like a stern authority figure.
“I said I didn’t want to do this,” I hiss.
Kir lifts a muscled shoulder. “And I said too bad. This is what we’re doing today. You can either put your hands up and learn how to deflect, or you can get knocked down.”
He lifts his gloves, his dark eyes burning into mine.
“I’m going to come at you now. What I need you to do is not be afraid.”
I bark a laugh. “I won’t be, when you remember that this is fucking ballet ?—”
“Language—”
“Yeah, got it ,” I snap. “But this is ballet, not hand-to-hand combat.”
Kir shakes his head. “I’ve already told you. Ballet is war. It is merciless, and unforgiving, and it’s never going to wait for you to be ready .”
He steps closer to me, invading my personal space. The heat of his body and his heady, masculine scent—clean, mixed with citrus and a hint of pine—sends my system spiraling.
“You’re a very good dancer,” he murmurs.
My face burns as my teeth sink into my bottom lip. “Thank you?—”
“I wasn’t finished.” He fixes me with a look. “ Lots of dancers are very good, Brooklyn. What’s holding you back from actual greatness is fear. I will be removing that from you, one way or another.”
My brow furrows. “I’m not scared?—”
“Maybe not of dancing itself, or of me,” he continues. “But of something . It dogs your steps, making you hesitate when there needs to be immediate action.”
My lips purse. I want to chalk this up to him being a tyrant on a power trip.
But…part of me deep inside knows this isn’t Kir trying to insult me, or “neg” me, or anything.
It's the truth.
It's harsh, hurtful, and ego-bruising…but it is the truth.
I do hesitate. I know that. There are moments where I pause where there needs to be unflinching, unthinking, immediate action. I used to have that. At least, I think I did. But wherever it went, it hasn’t come out in a long, long time.
“Gloves up,” Kir says sternly. “And then hit me.”
I swallow, lifting my fists, my pulse thudding heavily in my ears. My muscles coil, my teeth clamp down on my lower lip, and I look him right in the eye, over our raised fists.
For a second, I wonder if this is some sick punishment for me kissing him the other week. It's possible. I think he could be a sadist like that. But there’s no time to dwell on it now.
“Hit me, Brooklyn,” he growls. “If you can. You might be too scared.” He shrugs. “I forget sometimes that you’re just a scared, weak little girl.”
My eyes pull to slits as he looks at me, unblinking.
“I know what you’re doing.”
He lifts a brow. “Oh? What might that be?”
“Goading me.”
“Maybe.”
“You want me to hit you and play this stupid fucking game.”
“Language. I won’t say it again,” he hisses icily. “ Yes , I want you to hit me. And yes, you will be playing this game.”
I bristle, trying to ignore the throb inside me when he said “language” in that disturbingly hot authoritative way of his.
“And if I refuse?”
Kir looks right at me. “Then I’ll know that this whole show about you wanting to get into the Imperiya Korona is just a front, and that, like I assumed, you’re actually just a scared, weak…” His eyes glint. “ Poor young woman living a life of regret and missed opportunities.”
Viciousness snarls and stretches awake inside me.
“That was uncalled for,” I spit.
He shrugs. “Do something about it.”
My teeth grind. “I don’t want to, okay?! I don’t want to hit you, I don’t want to play these mind games. You’re just trying to be an asshole?—”
“Not playing the game doesn’t mean you don’t lose, Brooklyn,” he snaps, stepping closer.
My breath catches as he puts his gloved hands behind his back and leans down, his lips brushing my cheek in a way that sends my heart rate soaring. His breath, scent, and heat tease against the sensitive skin of my neck, making me tremble in spite of myself.
“I’ve read your file, Ms. Ellis,” he whispers quietly. “No parents. In and out of foster care. A product of the system . A failure, some might say.”
Anger flares in my veins.
“ Screw —”
“A girl with no money, coming here every day and trying to pretend that she fits in with all the other girls—like Milena, the daughter of a Bratva pakhan . Or Lyra, married to an Italian don. Or Evelina, born a privileged princess.” He sighs.
“And you, Brooklyn, come here every day with a chip on your shoulder and pointe shoes that need replacing.
With thrifted clothes and ambitions you know deep down you'll never realize, given the circumstances into which you were born.”
I know what he’s doing. It doesn’t mean I’m not shaking with fury and blinking back hot tears as I grit my teeth.
“You don’t know shit about me.”
“ Language . I know everything about you,” he snarls.
“You’re no mystery, Brooklyn. You think I don’t see how you look at your friends?
See the jealousy you loathe having? You know you’re not really like them, and never will be.
You think I don’t see the jaded desperation, a poor artist spending her evenings serving drinks to men and flaunting her body to get better tips? ”
“ Fuck. You ,” I choke, a tear trickling down my cheek. “And fuck this, I’m done?—”
“Why don’t you just get up on the pole next time you’re at work? Then maybe you'll finally get the scraps of attention and love you’re so desperate for?—”
Kir's words cut off with a grunt when I wind up and slam my gloved fist into the side of his jaw with a satisfying thunk .
Instantly, the whole studio goes silent. My eyes widen, my gloved hands flying to my face and pure, unadulterated horror dripping through me like ice water.
“ Oh God ,” I choke, backing away from him, my chest rising and falling. “ I am SO sorry?—”
I scream when he surges into me, his gloved hands plowing into my shoulders and shoving me stumbling backward. I barely catch my balance to avoid falling, then whirl to stare at him in utter confusion.
“I—!”
“Never show weakness,” Kir growls. “Accept your wins. Take them. Don’t apologize for them,” he barks.
“I don’t want to hit you!” I yell. “I don’t want to fight!”
“ Then give up !” he roars. “Go take your goddamn clothes off for money and accept that life is always going to be hard, and the deck will always be stacked against you. If you give up,” he hisses, “then that’s your pathetic little life.
” He glares at me. “That what you want, Brooklyn? To be pathetic?”
“ Fuck you ,” I spit. “You power-hungry egotistical fucking psycho?—”
“ Language !!” he bellows.