Chapter 26
brOOKLYN
“You need ice on that.”
I pull my gaze from the gorgeous painting leaning against the wall—an explosion of heavy blacks and bright pinks—to glance at Dove.
Enigmatic and a little standoffish at times as she can be, it turns out Dove is pretty awesome. So when she invited me over to her carriage house/art studio again today after rehearsal, I gladly said yes.
It’s been two days since I moved into Kir’s house, and I’m still waiting to wake up in the back seat of Pearl and realize it's all been a dream.
I begin every morning in that gorgeous new room, in the bed I can scarcely bear to leave. Then I have my morning coffee with Kir—which always includes him putting me on the kitchen counter, spreading my legs, and going down on me until I’m screaming.
I go to rehearsal—though by now I’ve figured out that the guys taking me to the Mercury in the black SUVs are definitely Kir's men, not Uber drivers.
Uber drivers don’t usually have sidearms and Bratva tattoos.
Then, I come home to dinner with him, which also involves him putting his mouth on me and making me writhe and scream as he devours me.
Actually, the last couple of days could almost entirely be measured in “orgasms per hour” or “OPH”, because most of what I’ve been doing is coming on his tongue and fingers.
But he mentioned running late tonight for some work thing, which is why I’m over at Dove’s instead of spread out on Kir’s desk with his mouth between my thighs, calling me a good girl as he makes me scream.
Dove nods at my right ankle. “How'd you do that?”
I shrug. “Just a wonky landing earlier.”
She frowns. “Still, you should put some ice on it, maybe stay off it for the night. You’ve been favoring it since we left the theater.”
I wince. “It does hurt a little. You have a couple of ibuprofens I could grab?”
Dove stiffens for a second, then shakes her head. “I’m out, sorry.”
“Crap. Tylenol? Motrin?”
She shakes her head again. “Nada. Sorry.”
“No problem.” I shrug, then I laugh. “How about a drink? That might help.”
She gives me a strange smile. “Sorry again. I don’t do alcohol.”
“It’s fine,” I smile, gently rotating my ankle to work the stiffness out. “Hey, how’s your show going?” I frown. “I’m an asshole, I haven’t gone to see it yet.”
“You don’t know where the show is .”
“That's because you haven’t told me!”
She laughs. “I will. Maybe …” She lifts a shoulder. “I dunno, I’m still trying to decide if I want to share it with anyone who actually knows me.”
I stare at her in amazement, then slowly turn to look at the gorgeous art all over the carriage house.
“Why the hell not ?”
Her brow puzzles. “I don’t know.” She shrugs again and looks down. “It feels vulnerable to show this side of me to friends.”
“I get that.”
She eyes me curiously. “Why do you want to dance for the Imperiya Korona ?”
“Because it’s one of the best companies in the world.”
“So is the Zakharova,” she says with a pointed look.
I shake my head. “I guess part of it is also looking to get out of New York, maybe? I mean, I love it here…” I frown. “But I guess I also hate it? I don’t know, it’s complicated. I think I just want something new.”
Dove nods. “And… Why haven’t you told any of your friends that you’re hoping to move to Moscow?”
She gives me a gotcha look, and I grin.
Fuck . Walked right into that one.
“Touché,” I sigh as she laughs.
The door to the carriage house bangs open, startling us both. I turn in surprise when a woman who looks maybe thirty walks in, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, dressed to kill .
She’s in Dolce everything, except for the red-soled Louboutin shoes. She’s also carrying what I at first think is a stuffed animal before the little dog shoots me a hate stare and yaps at me.
Dove exhales tightly, turning to glare at the woman as she click-clacks in.
“You could knock ,” she mutters coldly.
The woman ignores her, pausing to give me a superior look.
“And you are…?”
I turn to glance at Dove, who sighs heavily.
“Brooklyn, this is my evil cunt of a stepmother, Medusa. Medusa, this is my friend, Brooklyn.”
The woman rolls her eyes at Dove before she turns her attention back to me. “ Friend ? From where?”
“From ballet?” I offer. “I dance with Dove at?—”
“The theater ,” she sighs dramatically. “Of course , of course.”
Her demeanor shifts. I guess I’ve somehow proven my worthiness. She sticks out a dainty hand, still clutching the little fluffball in the other one.
“Felicity Marchetti,” she drawls like we’re at a country club. “And this little lovey here”…she boops the mean-looking dog on the nose with a manicured finger…“is Chanel.” She looks back up at me. “As in Coco.”
I smile politely. “Of course.”
“Felicity, take your devil spawn and get the fuck?—”
“ So rude. ” Felicity cuts Dove off with a snap—like a literal finger snap—in her face, before turning back to me. “I apologize for my daughter’s poor manners.”
The “daughter” part is weird. Dove literally just introduced her as her stepmother, and also Felicity looks all of maybe five years older than Dove.
“ Step daughter magically turns into daughter whenever she’s recently had more work done,” Dove smirks.
“She wants you to say ‘oh, you're far too young to be her mother!’ But the real reason you can tell we're not related is, obviously, my lack of horns, forked tail, and my inability to turn men to stone with a glance.”
Felicity turns to level a withering look at Dove. “Hon, the real reason it’s clear I’m not your mother is that I would have had the sense to abort you.”
Jesus Christ .
Dove glares daggers at her stepmother as the woman turns back to me.
“Brooklyn, was it?”
I nod. “Brooklyn Ellis.”
“ Oh !” She brightens a little. “Of the Upper East Side Ellises?”
“Afraid not.”
Her face falls again. “I see.”
“And I see you’re still leaving brimstone footprints on my floor, so get the fuck out ,” Dove snaps.
Felicity twists her face into a fake, overly-concerned look. “Aww, Dovey. Are we not feeling well today?” She smiles viciously, a wicked glint in her eye. “You’re not relapsing, are?—”
“ FUCK. YOU. ”
The sheer ferocity of Dove’s voice startles even me, but it almost topples her stepmother and the “dog” right over. Felicity recovers, then sniffs primly.
“Well, a pleasure to meet you, Brooklyn. If you have any brains at all, you’ll stay away from this”—she jabs a finger at Dove—“fucking train wreck .”
Without another word, she spins and clip-clops out the door, slamming it shut behind her.
Dove exhales slowly, turning away and shoving her fingers through her silvery pink hair.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
She nods, still facing away as she brushes perhaps a tear from her eye.
“Yeah,” she mutters. “Fine.” She turns back to me, sighing.
“Sorry about that that. She’s…well, obviously the Queen of Hell, and I don’t mean that as a compliment.
” Dove's brows pinch. “She just says stupid shit all the time, accuses me of…whatever she’s seen on the news.” She rolls her eyes.
“My family is…” She shakes her head again, looking away. “ Insane . Sorry.”
I shake my head. “No apology necessary. I get insane families, trust me.” I bark a cold laugh.
“My dad left before I was born, my mom OD-ed when I was a kid, and my stepfather, who I’m currently trying to keep out of prison, lost custody of me when I was nine, which is how I wound up in foster care. ”
Dove smiles wryly. “I'm sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks, but there's no need.” I reach out and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m just saying, I get families who don’t do what they're supposed to for you.”
She nods before suddenly jerking her head up. “Hey,” she grins, “wanna throw paint balloons at a canvas with me? It’s super fun, and great for aggression.”
My lips pull into a smile. “ Definitely .”
Kir isn’t back yet when I get home. I’m a bit fidgety, and still sulking a little about the step I was practicing earlier that led to the pain in my ankle.
Dove’s right: I should be icing and resting it. But I do the opposite.
In the ballroom of Kir’s house—yes, the literal fucking ballroom —I put on some dancewear and pointe shoes and get to work.
I grit my teeth as my ankle screams at me. But I push on, forcing myself to repeat the sequence until I know there’s no way I’ll mess it up ever again.
“You should be resting that ankle.”
I gasp, whipping around to see Kir standing in the doorway. He’s in his usual armor—dark suit, white dress shirt, no tie—and the black pools of his eyes bore into me from across the room.
“I didn’t even hear you come in,” I breathe.
He arches a brow, a smile teasing his mouth. “I’ve been watching for a while,” he says. “That was very good.”
I won’t lie, I love the swell of pride in my chest that accompanies his praise.
“All the same…” He furrows his brow, lifting a hand to point. “You need to rest that ankle. Whatever you've done to it, you’re clearly favoring it.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. And I need to keep going. The callback for the Imperiya Korona is in?—”
“I’m aware ,” he growls. “You still need to listen to your body.”
“I am,” I toss back, still panting a little from exertion. “And it says I’m fine.”
Kir’s dark eyes narrow. “Sit and rest, Brooklyn.”
“I’m okay ,” I say, rotating my ankle with a grimace. “I’m going to keep?—”
“It wasn’t a suggestion,” he growls.
“And I don’t take orders from you,” I say testily.
Kir’s eyes glint, his jaw rippling as he clenches it. An eager thrill tingles through me. But suddenly, without a word, he turns and marches from the room.
“So there, ” I mutter at his retreating back, feeling smug.
I go back to the routine, pushing myself again to perfect the sequence that I'm having trouble with, which is also the part that makes my ankle scream.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps. I shriek when Kir surges into me, grabs me around the waist, picks me up as I flail, and tosses me over his shoulder.
“Let go of me!!” I scream, kicking and thrashing as he marches out of the ballroom. It’s like trying to fight a brick wall. All I can do is yell and swear at him as he storms through my bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom.
He unties the pointe shoes and yanks them of my feet.
“Get the fuck off of?—”
I gasp as he whips me off his shoulder and suddenly plunges me into the fucking freezing cold ice water.
I screech, almost levitating as I try to get out of the icy water. But Kir’s grip is relentless, his dark eyes locked with mine as he easily keeps my squirming, thrashing body in the water.
“Does it feel like a sprain?”
“It feels like I just fell off the fucking Titanic ,” I spit.
Kir glares. “Your ankle, Brooklyn,” he grunts. “Does it feel like a torn ligament?”
“I’m fine ,” I mutter petulantly.
“You’re reckless,” he hisses back. “You’re trying to push past pain because you think it gets you a badge of honor. All it’s going to get you is a ruined career.”
“I don’t have the luxury of slowing down,” I seethe.
“Tonight, you do ,” he growls back.
I try to get out again, but his grip is unyielding, and eventually I stop fighting.
I exhale, glowering, as I slump back in the icy tub. Which, though I hate to admit it and never would to his face, is helping my ankle a lot.
“ This is what care looks like ,” Kir says quietly. “Learn to recognize it.”
He makes me sit there another five minutes, until my entire body is numb from the ice water.
But goddammit, my ankle feels way better.
I don’t resist when Kir lifts me out of the water and carries me back to the bedroom. Nor do I fight when he deftly undresses me before sitting me on the edge of the bed and wrapping a tensor bandage around my ankle.
When he suddenly shoves me back, sending me sprawling across the bed, my pulse thunders as I stare at him.
“ What are you ?—”
“Life is a series of gives and takes, Brooklyn,” he growls, shrugging off his jacket. “If you sometimes suffer the bad, you can more readily savor the good.”
He starts to roll his shirt sleeves up to the elbows.
“You suffered the bad—that would be the unpleasantness of the ice bath.”
I glare at him from the bed. “ Unpleasantness ?” I mutter.
“And now,” he continues, “you can savor the good.”
I bite my lip. “Which is?”
I whimper when he suddenly grabs my thighs, yanks me to the edge of the bed, and spreads my legs, taking care not to touch my injured ankle.
“Me warming your pussy up with my tongue.”
Oh .