Chapter 31 Sebastian
Marfil tried her best to make our lives a living hell.
Knowing now that there were several cameras watching her at home, she refused to spend time there, choosing instead to sleep over at Tami’s, and then packed up to go stay with that asshole Liam.
This meant that I had to remain posted outside their apartments, night after night, in the company of those two muscle-heads.
The little time we were in the apartment, I watched her through the cameras more than anything because she refused to say a word to me.
Her rebelliousness only seemed to increase with every day that passed: She stuck her middle finger up at the cameras on a daily basis after discovering the location of each and every one of them, and when she danced in her studio, she alternated between pirouettes, obscene gestures, and erotic dance moves that drove me crazy.
She seemed to know that I watched her from the moment she went in to the moment she came out, and she enjoyed slowly torturing me. It was the only time we were ever alone, even if there was a camera between us, and she had a single objective: to piss me off.
That day, for example, we’d just come back from Liam’s house.
Marfil was seated in the back seat, and Egor and Jakov followed in their car.
Not only was I exhausted from having spent the night in the car, but knowing that she’d slept over at Liam’s drove me crazy.
Marfil knew it, and when she got out of the car, she made sure I saw the bright red hickey on her porcelain neck.
I slammed the door so hard it almost fell off.
I needed to control my jealousy before it gave us both away.
Marcus Kozel could observe us whenever he wanted, and for all I knew, he was glued to the cameras twenty-four hours a day.
Marfil entered the apartment, totally indifferent to my mood, and shortly thereafter, sauntered past my door, wearing another one of those black leotards that left so little to the imagination. She looked me directly in the eye before entering her dance studio, closing the door behind her.
I scrolled to camera number ten and observed her.
She no longer danced facing the mirror, instead looking fixedly at the camera.
She began to move, and I knew it would be no classical ballet routine today.
I watched as she opened and closed her legs, tracing impossible figures on the floor.
Her body was a work of art, something that could’ve caused a riot if she’d ever been allowed to dance on stage.
My breathing started coming fast as I caught another glimpse of that hickey on her neck.
She’d pulled her hair back to leave her bare skin exposed, telling me to go fuck myself for being such an idiot.
She did a few more impossible pirouettes and then stopped, leaned against the barre in front of the camera, and, panting, stared into it.
I turned off all the cameras and entered her studio.