Chapter 32
brOOKLYN
Annnd just like that, there's another shift in my life.
One day, I’m technically not fucking the man twenty years older than me who owns the ballet company I dance with. The next day, I am.
Very much so.
And “frequently” doesn’t even cover it.
There’s no slow easing into it, either. I still have all my things in my room, but immediately after that first time, I spend every night in his bed, in his arms.
Under him. On top of him. With my back arched before him as he fucks me to hell and back with his perfect cock.
I wake up to his mouth or fingers on me, or I wake him up by pushing my ass back, raising one leg, and guiding his morning stiffness into my drenched pussy. Usually, he fucks me again at the breakfast table, or in the shower, or both.
Usually at rehearsal, if we have a break while Madame Kuzmina works with a small group of dancers, I still end up sitting with my friends or doing some conditioning.
But there’s been twice in the last week where I took a “short break” and stepped outside to bolt down the alley to Kir’s waiting car, after which he drove us to a secluded parking garage and fucked my brains out in the back seat.
At night, after I get home from the theater, we take our time.
Usually, he ties me up or surprises me with some new, pulse-pounding binding device.
I like this new shift in my life.
A lot .
I discovered early that sex was something to be feared and that you had to keep to yourself, or else some man would forcibly take it from you. That was my daily reality after I hit my teens in the system, and it’s been like that my entire adult life on my own.
Until him.
There’s a certain comical irony that the brutal, literal Bratva kingpin who's into bondage and pain has been the first man to show me what tenderness could look like—what it means to have control and agency over your body and sex.
But here we are.
“Thanks for the ride, Matvey!”
Kir’s man, who spent the first three or four times we met pretending to be an Uber driver, turns to nod at me through the partition as I open the back door of the Range Rover.
“You are very welcome, Miss,” he rumbles in his heavy Russian accent.
I feel myself tingling as I skip across the stone driveway toward the back door. But I pause, my brow furrowing when I spot it.
Next to Kir’s Aston Martin, there’s a matte black Lamborghini Revuelto sitting in the driveway that I’ve definitely never seen before, with blacked out windows and a small pink skull and crossbones painted onto the back fender, right above the Lamborghini logo.
Odd .
My brow is still furrowed as I walk inside.
I texted Kir earlier about dinner ideas, but I’m guessing he’s still neck deep in work, because I haven’t heard back from him.
I almost head up to his office, because, well, I missed him today.
I’m a huge dork and I miss him all the time when I’m not with him.
The less flowery reason is that I’m seriously horny, and I’m more than slightly curious to see what he’d do if I tried to fuck him while he’s on a work call.
I head upstairs to my room first to drop off all my dance crap. I grunt, easing the bag off my shoulder just as I swing the door open?—
Reality shatters around me, my heart tensing and then breaking as a girl whips around with a gasp on her lips, staring at me with wide, horrified eyes.
Close to my age. Gorgeous , with super pale skin, jet black hair, and a bit of a gothy look. She’s got a myriad of tattoos, including a stunning koi fish swimming up her arm. Her fucking nipples are pierced .
I know all this because she’s standing in my fucking bedroom in lacy black lingerie with the bra pulled down while she poses for selfies, her arm extended.
“ Fuck! ” she blurts as she stares at me.
I can’t even say a word. All I can do is drop my bag and slowly back away, my heart shattering as my throat closes.
Did you really think you were the only one…
I hate him. I hate the tears that sting my eyes as I whirl and bolt down the hallway, half falling down the stairs before I rush through the house and out the back door.
Matvey is just pulling away but his brake lights flash when he sees me chasing after the car.
“Miss?”
“ Midtown !” I blurt. “Quickly, please.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
I look up miserably from my drink, meeting Roman’s eyes.
“I'm fine,” I shrug, taking another heavy sip of my overpriced rooftop bar martini.
He looks at me dubiously.
“ Riiight . You and I are always hanging out when there’s nothing wrong,” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
I smile glumly at him.
“We should do this more often, then,” I shrug. “For real, you know, hang out just to hang out. Not just because one of us is spiraling or in the dumps.”
He frowns. “I never spiral.”
I exhale. “You know what I mean.” I smile wryly and reach across the table to pat my hand on his. “Sorry for only ever calling when I’m feeling fucked up.”
He grins and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. But I guess you also just admitted that you aren’t okay.”
Fuck .
“No I didn’t,” I protest, wanting to change the subject. “Hey, how’s that secret club thing of yours? You ever still looking for dancers?—”
“Brooklyn.” Roman’s face is darkened and tense as he shakes his head. “You promised you’d never bring that up again.”
Months ago, at a fundraiser thing that some of us from the Zakharova were performing for, a man pulled me aside and told me he represented “an organization” who were always looking for dancers like me for their “functions”.
He didn’t say who the group was, or what these functions were. But it paid five fucking thousand dollars for about four hours of my time and did not involve taking my clothes off or doing anything sexual. Just dancing.
“Just dancing” ended up being “just dancing…in an elegant if revealing costume, a gold Venetian mask over my face, under which I was blindfolded.”
We—myself and the other girls I saw in the changing room at the venue we’d been driven to that night…also while blindfolded…wore earpieces, too, through which a voice guided us through the evening.
We each danced in our own cage, to music piped into our earpieces, while something —I don’t know what, because I couldn't see or hear—happened around us. But I guessed some sort of swingers club, or a high society orgy, given the level of secrecy, the money we were paid, and the overall vibe.
I did the gig a few times and even pulled in Lyra from the Zakharova once when she was really struggling—this was before she married Carmine. But then the calls from the unknown number stopped, and I assumed the gig was over.
It was a night a lot like this one, where I was down on myself and having drinks with Roman, when I mentioned that I’d had this great side gig dancing for this strange party, but the work had dried up, and I missed the cash.
Roman was pretty drunk that night, so I didn’t really understand him when he slurred something about not being “in charge of the entertainment for Black Court sessions”.
But when he patted my shoulder and told me he’d “talk to Matteo about getting me hired again”, we both sobered up at the same instant.
He’d told me he was talking out of his ass and to ignore everything he’d just said.
Then, when I kept joking about it, he got super serious—more serious than I think I’ve ever seen him—and made me swear we’d never talk about it again.
He almost looked worried, which is also something I’d never seen in him before.
“Sorry,” I mumble into my drink as I take another sip. Then I glance at him. “You really aren’t hiring dancers?—”
“ Stop it ,” he growls. “I’m dead fucking serious. You can’t talk about that shit, B. Ever. It makes me nervous, for you .”
I frown. “Hang on. Did the job go away because you and I hang out??”
When his mouth thins, I groan.
“ Seriously , Roman?”
“Trust me.” He shakes his head. “You don’t want that gig.” He cocks a brow. “Besides, I don’t think you actually need it anymore.”
I frown at him. “Meaning?”
Roman smirks, rubbing a hand over his Abercrombie-and-Fitch-model jaw.
“C’mon, B. The new clothes? Jewelry? The fact that I saw you get dropped off here by a private driver in a Range Rover?” He grins. “I’m guessing you’re not pulling shifts at The Mirage anymore, either.”
I shake my head, looking down. “Well…no.”
“So, which is it: did you win the lottery, or is there someone new in your life with a lot of money that he likes to spend on you?”
I glare at him. “It’s not like that , if that’s what you’re implying.”
Roman shakes his head, holding his hands up. “That isn’t what I was implying at all. I just meant a guy in your life who was more than a little well off.”
I glower into my drink.
“Well,” I mutter. “There was .”
I knock the rest of the martini back in one swallow, grimacing.
Roman frowns. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he says gently. He rakes his fingers over his jaw again. “Anything you want to talk about?”
“Like the girl I just caught parading around his house in sexy lingerie?” I snarl. “Nah, not particularly.”
Roman’s face darkens. “Are you fucking serious?”
“ Yup .”
He glowers. “Who the fuck is this guy, so I can go beat the shit out of him.”
I giggle, reaching across the table to pat his hand. “ So chivalrous .”
“I’m serious, B. Fuck that guy. You’re a fucking catch, and he’s a damn idiot.” He sighs. “I’m gonna grab us another round.”
“Thanks, I think that’s an excellent idea.”
He ends up coming back with another martini for me, another whiskey for himself, and two shots of tequila.
I shake my head when he pushes one my way.
“Nope,” he shakes his head. “This is a necessary cure for lonely hearts. Drink up. Doctor’s orders.”
Fuck it . Why not.
We clink our glasses, sprinkle salt on our hands, shoot the tequilas, and then bite down on the limes.
“ Fuck ,” I groan, grimacing. “I just remember why I never do shots.”
Roman chuckles as he takes a swig of his whiskey.
“So, what about you?” I eye him.
“What about me?”
“You said this was the lonely-hearts club, plural. Why are you in the club?”
“I’m not,” he says, far too quickly.
“ Do tell,” I grin, leaning onto my elbows and fixing him with a curious look.
“It’s nothing, B.”
“Bullshit.” I narrow my eyes. “Spit it out—wait! Is this about that marriage your dad wants to arrange?”
Roman looks away. “New topic.”
Yeah, like that’s happening.
I gasp. “Oh, oh. Is it a prince and the commoner kind of thing? You're in love with a regular girl, but King Dad wants you to marry a mafia princess?”
He stares at me incredulously. “You watch way too many movies.”
“What’s her name?”
He frowns. “The princess?”
“No! The commoner girl.”
He rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, there is no commoner girl.”
I wink at him. “Commoner boy , then?”
His eyes snap to mine. “I’m fucking straight , Brooklyn. I don’t know why you keep pushing that.”
I roll my eyes. “Finefinefine. Be all touchy about it.” I smirk, feeling the effects of my second martini. “I’m going to go get us some truth serum.”
I come back to the table a few minutes later with two more tequila shots.
“Bottoms up,” I giggle as we tap glasses and bring them to our lips.
“Who’s the boy, Roman.”
He almost does a spit-take with his shot before he muscles the tequila down.
“Why the fuck are you so stuck on this? Like why exactly is it so hard to believe that I am utterly and completely straight?”
The gay hookup app open on your phone that night, I resist saying out loud.
“I’m just teasing you. Jeeeez.”
“Well, stop it. I like girls.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that,” I grin. “Say it again, and maybe it’ll sound?—”
In half a second, before I can even finish my sentence, he’s leaning across the table, grabbing the back of my head, and kissing me on the mouth.
What the FUCK .
It’s only for a split second, because instantly, I’m jumping out of my chair and shoving him away from me.
“ Dude ,” I blurt, wiping my mouth on the back of my arm. “What the hell ?”
Roman is staring at me in pure horror, all the color drained from his face.
“ Fuck , Brooklyn,” he mumbles, shaking his head quickly. “I’m so sorry. That was... I don’t know where the fuck that came from.”
“Roman—”
“Brooklyn, I swear , I have no idea why I did that. There’s no lingering subtext here. I’m not that guy pretending to be your friend to so that when you’re lonely and single he can swoop in.” He looks downright angry as he shoves his fingers through his hair. “Fuck, I am so fucking sorry.”
I shake my head. “It’s…fine.”
“No it fucking isn’t ,” he growls. “B, I’m…” He exhales and looks away. “I just…sometimes, I wonder if I—” He scowls. “I’m not even sure I’m…”
He exhales loudly and looks up at the city sky above us.
“I’m going to regret what just happened the rest of my life,” he says quietly. He smiles wryly at me. “I mean, no offense.”
I reach across the table to squeeze his hand. “None taken. Apology truly accepted.” I smile at him. “It’s fine , Roman. Seriously, we’re good. It was just a little?—”
Roman’s hand is suddenly ripped away from mine as he’s yanked from his chair and thrown into an empty table, crashing him and it to the floor.
I gasp as I lurch to my feet. My gaze drags from Roman, groaning and grimacing, pushing himself to his feet, to the man standing behind where Roman was just sitting.
Kir , looking fucking livid .