Chapter 41 Keira
KEIRA
My phone pings with a text from Marco as I’m lounging on the couch, scrolling through choreography videos. I glance at the screen and sit up straighter.
I bite my lip, glancing toward the kitchen where Ace is making calls. Cyrus left twenty minutes ago to meet with Felix about monitoring Kozlov’s men.
I should ask permission. That’s what they’d expect—what they’d demand, really. After the tracker incident yesterday, they’ve been hypervigilant, their protective instincts in overdrive.
But something rebellious flickers in my chest. This tiny decision, teaching a dance class at my own studio, shouldn’t require their approval.
Sure. Hope everything’s ok. I’ll head over now.
I type back quickly before I can change my mind.
A small thrill runs through me, not because what I’m doing is particularly daring, but because it’s mine.
Since I entered the Hunt, I’ve surrendered control in every aspect of my life to Ace and Cyrus, willingly and completely.
This single decision feels like reclaiming a small piece of myself.
I slip my phone into my pocket and grab my dance bag from the closet. Ace’s voice echoes from the kitchen. I walk to the door, pause, then decide against announcing my departure. He’ll see my location on the tracker anyway. The thought burns slightly, but I push it down.
In the elevator, I open the ride-sharing app and order an Uber.
After attempting to leave yesterday, I found out Ace & Cyrus have the doorman watching for me, but I know he always takes a break at this time of day.
Once outside, the driver arrives within minutes.
I slide into the backseat, giving him the studio address.
“Beautiful day,” he comments, pulling into traffic.
I nod, watching the city blur past my window. The knowledge that I’m being subtly defiant makes everything feel sharper, more vibrant. It’s not that I want to worry Ace and Cyrus, I love them more than I thought possible to love anyone, but I need this sliver of autonomy.
My phone buzzes. Ace, of course. I silence it and tuck it away. The conversation can wait until after class.
I arrive at the studio fifteen minutes early and do a quick warm-up while waiting for the students. The clock hits 2:00 PM, then 2:05. No one arrives.
Strange. Marco’s advanced class is always packed.
I pull out my phone, dialing Marco’s number. It rings several times before going to voicemail.
“Marco, it’s Keira. Where are your students? Call me back.”
By 2:15, the empty studio feels wrong. I text the group chat for all our dancers:
Anyone know why Marco’s 2pm class is a no-show?
Jasmine responds immediately.
Marco’s 2pm? He canceled that yesterday. Said he was visiting his mom this weekend.
My blood runs cold. I open the earlier text and study it. The wording was a little off for him. He’s not the kind of guy to say, “Owe you big time.” The realization hits me like ice water. This wasn’t Marco.
I grab my bag and rush to the door, but as my hand touches the handle, I hear the electronic locks engage with a heavy click. The security system I insisted on installing last year has trapped me inside.
I fumble for my phone, hands shaking as I try to call Ace. Before I can hit dial, the back entrance that leads to the alley crashes open.
Three men step inside. They’re dressed in dark clothing, moving with military precision. The first is tall with a jagged scar across his left cheek. The second, shorter but broader, scans the room with cold eyes. The third stays near the door, blocking my only remaining exit.
I back away, the barre pressing into my spine as the men advance. My phone slips from my trembling fingers, skittering across the polished wooden floor with a hollow clatter that echoes through the empty studio.
I don’t hesitate. The moment the scarred man lunges forward, pure instinct takes over. My body responds before conscious thought can catch up. Like I’m dancing, I twist, drop my shoulder, and strike his nose with the heel of my palm.
The impact reverberates up my arm as bone and cartilage crunch beneath my hand.
Blood sprays in a hot arc across my face and chest. The man howls, a primal sound of shock and pain, staggering backward with both hands clutching his ruined face.
Dark crimson streams between his fingers, dripping onto the floor in fat droplets.
“Bitch!” he sputters through the blood. Hatred burns in his watering eyes as he struggles to regain his balance.
The broader man immediately circles left while the third advances from the right, their movements coordinated and practiced. They’ve done this before—worked as a unit to corner prey. My pulse thunders in my ears, so loud I can barely hear my own ragged breathing.
“You’ll regret that,” the broad-shouldered one says, his voice carrying a thick accent that turns the words harsh and guttural. Russian.
Kozlov’s men. Just as Ace and Cyrus feared. Just as they warned me about.
I feint right, selling the movement with my shoulders and eyes, then dive left toward where my phone landed, trying to reach the shattered device.
A heavy boot stomps down with brutal force, crushing it beneath steel-toed treads.
The screen splinters with a sickening crack.
Terror claws up my throat, sharp and suffocating, as I roll away across the hardwood.
My hands find purchase, and I scramble to my feet, putting the barre between us.
The man with the broken nose has recovered enough to rejoin, though his movements are less steady now. Blood streams down his chin and neck, soaking into his dark shirt collar as he grins at me with teeth stained red.
“She fights well,” he says to his companions, the words slurred but understandable. His gaze rakes over me with predatory appreciation that makes my skin crawl. “Maybe we have fun before delivery, da?”
These men don’t just intend to take me—they intend to break me first. I back toward the wall of mirrors, my reflection multiplying my fear across the glass.
My mind races through escape scenarios with desperate speed.
The front door is locked, the back entrance is blocked, the windows are too high, and three trained men are against one dancer.
The math doesn’t work. The math has never worked.
But I won’t go down without fighting.
I grab a nearby chair, one of the folding ones I keep for students during theory lessons, and swing it in a wide, desperate arc to create space.
The metal leg catches one man across the jaw with a solid crack.
He grunts, stumbling sideways. But the scarred one has already anticipated my move, ducking below the chair’s trajectory.
He drives forward low and fast, tackling me at the knees with the force of a linebacker.
My legs buckle. The chair flies from my grip, clattering uselessly across the floor as I go down hard.
My head slams against the hardwood floor. Stars explode across my vision as I thrash beneath his weight, clawing, kicking, fighting with desperate strength.
Something sharp pricks my neck.
“No!”
Cold spreads from the injection site, a numbing wave that races through my veins like ice water. My limbs grow heavy, movements slowing despite my mind’s frantic commands.
Helplessness washes over me as my body betrays me. The ceiling spins above as darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision.
I should have told Ace where I was going. Should have listened when they warned me about Kozlov.
My last coherent thought forms as consciousness slips away.
Ace. Cyrus. I’m sorry.