8. Dante
Chapter 8
Dante
Through the on-set training gym window, there she is, already lost in her stretching routine.
She leans forward, her arms arcing gracefully, extending to the side in a seated hamstring stretch. A sliver of skin flashes at her waist, teasing me before she pulls herself deeper into the stretch.
Fuuuck .
My cock hardens at the perfect sight.
Decidedly unprofessional. What would Reese think?
My phone vibrates insistently, notifications from the cabin party crowd demanding attention. I silence it.
Teaching Reese Sinclair to fence is exactly what I need.
It’s the perfect credential to present at my disciplinary review. Look, I’ve changed so much that America’s darling actually hangs out with me.
And maybe she intrigues me. There’s an intensity to her that those polished interviews miss completely. I want to discover what other surprises she’s keeping under wraps.
“Different look,” I say, pushing through the door, allowing myself one lingering glance at how her oversized workout sweats make her somehow magnetic.
“I was not going to keep wearing that costume.”
“This is better,” I admit, holding up my hand. “I brought you a proper blade.”
She arches one perfect eyebrow. “Thought those were under lock and key.”
“I can be very persuasive when motivated,” I say, letting the steel sword dance between my fingers before extending it to her. I can’t resist showing off a little. Old habits. “And I may have a key to the armory.”
Our hands brush as she takes the sword, sending an unexpected spark of awareness through my fingers. Her pupils dilate. No matter how much she tries to remain professional, her small tells give her away—the quick, nervous sweep of her tongue over her bottom lip, the way she blinks a fraction too fast before glancing down.
“Of course you do.”
I grin, not concealing how eager I am to be here. I have nothing to hide from her that I don’t already keep hidden from everyone else.
We circle each other on the exercise mats. “Let’s start with the scene you need to nail for tomorrow,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Show me where you’re getting stuck.”
“You saw me on set today. Every time I try to use this thing, it’s like I’ve forgotten how to think, let alone look like a real thief.”
“Show me,” I repeat.
She doesn’t hesitate, launching into her monologue.
“They’ve underestimated me my whole life. While—the king—our king—” She takes an unsteady step forward, the sword wobbling in an awkward arc. Then she moves the blade through the air in front of her, hesitant. She bites her lip, her brow furrowed, too in her head. “See what I mean? This is impossible.”
“Not impossible. Go through the entire scene from the top. Don’t stop even if you fumble.”
Her gaze sharpens, like she’s deciding whether to listen or not. But then she drops the sword at my feet and strides across the room. Frustration flickers across her face as she tucks her hair behind her ear.
She begins her advance, but her footwork is wrong—leading with the back foot instead of the front. Her recovery to pick up the blade shows poor form—back curved, no power from her legs.
The misbehaved part of me itches to show her exactly how it’s done, slide behind her, press close, and guide those tense muscles through every motion. But I hold back, keep my hands in my pockets. She needs to move through this on her own, even if watching her struggle is delicious torture.
“Hey, Sheriff.” She points the sword at me and stumbles with the choreography, hacking stiffly at the imaginary soldiers surrounding us.
Her stance is all wrong, her core disengaged.
“They’ve underestimated me my whole life. While our king eats his feasts—” She’s supposed to be moving, fighting off the sheriff’s soldiers.
Instead, she’s planted like a statue.
What the fuck has Nick been doing? Probably too busy ogling her.
My jaw clenches.
I can’t watch this anymore.
“Enough.” I step closer. “Your stance is killing me. That’s your foundation. Without it, you’ll never maintain that blade while delivering those eloquent speeches of yours.”
“This is the best I can do,” she sighs, her southern lilt emerging in her frustration.
“May I?” I gesture toward her, already anticipating how the perfectionist in her will bristle at correction. Surprisingly, she nods.
I’m about to touch Reese Sinclair. I bite my cheek and inhale deeply.
Then I’m standing behind her, my hands hovering above her hips. My body responds to the proximity. My blood rushes in strange patterns beneath my skin. I use my foot to nudge her feet apart. She yields without resistance.
“ Rasstav’ nogi ,” I command.
“Huh?” She turns, her lips pursed in confusion.
“Sorry—fucking habit from my fencing coach. He trains us in Russian half the time,” I explain, regaining my composure. “Spread your legs wider, weight back,” I instruct, keeping my voice low near the top of her head. “Relax. You’re too tense.” I brush my fingers along the back of her neck, and a shiver rolls down her spine.
A soft exhale escapes her lips before she swivels around, brown eyes flaring.
“I wouldn’t be tense if you weren’t hovering over me like some…” She searches for the right word.
“Like?”
“Like some, I don’t know, know-it-all!”
“I’ve been called worse.” The corner of my mouth quirks up as she bristles. “Usually by much scarier people than America’s sweetheart.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
“You know your accent slips when you’re frustrated,” I note. “It’s charming.”
“It does not.” She scowls. “Let’s try again. Please.”
The transformation is fascinating—one moment she’s all controlled poise, the next she’s barely contained.
“Fine, but you’re not going to like my advice.” She waits for me to continue. I don’t break her stare. “You’re fighting yourself. I see how hard you’re trying, but that’s what’s holding you back. Trust your instincts. Square your shoulders. Loosen your arms and put a soft bend in your knees.”
“I am doing all of that, I promise. But trying to remember the lines, the footwork, where the camera is going to be, and making sure I don’t block my face, on top of your—” She cuts herself off, flustered.
“Okay.” I want to make her see what I see. “Let’s simplify. Just the movement first.”
She exhales sharply and centers herself.
“When you move, engage your core first, your obliques, then your back.” I give her lats a playful pinch. “Here.”
She groans again, not a pretty one, but something bordering on a vexed cry. Maybe I should stop fucking around. “I’ve never struggled this much with a role before.” She collapses onto the mats.
I sink down next to her. There’s that determined look in her eyes, the same one from set and the table read.
“I know what it’s like when everyone else makes it look effortless and you’re grinding twice as hard.” Then, because I can’t help myself—and because she’s too damn serious for her own good—I lay on the thickest cowboy drawl I can manage. “ But sugar, you gotta get back on your horse and ride. Cowgirls don’t cry .”
She blinks, a genuine smile tugging at her lips despite her obvious attempt to maintain distance. “Did you just quote Heartland Heritage to me?”
I shrug. “When I said my sisters were big fans, I should’ve admitted that I was too. For a year straight, they couldn’t stop saying that line.” Neither could I.
“I’m flattered,” she says carefully, her professional mask slipping back into place. “I’d be happy to sign something for them like you mentioned. Just not during training.”
“Noted.” She stares at the ground, and I don’t want her to close up. A second passes, and another, until I say, “My favorite of yours was Strings of Time , actually.”
“Are you messing with me right now?” She squints at me, like she’s waiting for the punchline. “You’re seriously telling me you liked a romance where a physicist discovers time travel, tries to stop the apocalypse, and somehow finds time to fall for a time refugee?”
“Would you rather I lie?”
She cracks a little with a laugh, shaking her head. “Not a lot of people have seen that one, but I loved playing Aria. It was the first time I wasn’t cast as the ditzy girl.”
“That scene where you’re talking about being the oldest, carrying all that weight but wanting to make a name for yourself?” I lean in. “Hits close to home. Middle child here—always trying to prove myself against my siblings.” I catch myself getting too honest.
Her brow lifts. “I’m impressed you remember so much of it.”
“My sisters were all rooting for her and Julian to get together, but I thought the romance kind of undercut her story. She didn’t need him to save her—realistically, she would’ve figured out that time machine mess on her own.” I smirk. “Just like you’re going to figure out how to do this choreography.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“Not trying to flatter you. If I were, I’d tell you I had your poster up in my room, the one where you’re lying in all those magnolias.”
“Are you serious?” Her pupils dilate.
I shrug. “What can I say? You’re my generation’s it girl.”
“Not the worst thing I’ve been told by a fan.” She emphasizes the word fan with that frost I’m getting used to, but there’s a warmth underneath. “I once had a man tell me he got a life-size doll made of me.”
“That would be very interesting.” I hold back the cringe.
“Don’t get any ideas.” When she gives me her real smile—not the Hollywood one—I want nothing more than to see it again.
“How did you prepare for your role as Aria?”
“I was twenty years old and had no clue what I was doing. It was all awkward line readings and praying I wouldn’t trip over my own feet. I did learn the Charleston, though, for when we traveled back to the twenties and had to dance. It was really fun.”
Dance .
“Sounds like you weren’t trying so hard at being perfect. Unlike now.”
“This is different. I have to nail tomorrow’s scene. And then there’s the one next week, with the bandits, and the one after that with the king, and—” She catches herself. “A leading lady doesn’t get out of her head during a scene. She stays focused.”
A leading lady? It catches me by surprise. She’s one of the most famous actresses of our time. “Come on, how many movies have you been in?”
“None like this,” she whispers, and then I see it.
There’s a need here. A desire to assert herself on this set.
Damn . Her vulnerability gets under my skin, seeing someone else wearing a mask like that. Because I know exactly what it’s like, keeping up appearances while something wilder claws to get out. It makes me want to show her just how good it feels when you finally stop fighting it.
For a split second, the moment burns too hot, too fast, and I want to do what I do best, to show her how much I see her, to enjoy whatever the tightrope of tension is between us, but I keep the reins on myself.
This is important to her.
I’m going to do my best to get her to where she wants to go, because where else am I going to do that this year?
“Right then, time to shake things up.” I say, standing. “You’ll never nail this if you keep overthinking everything. We gotta adapt, improvise, and own it.”
Before she can protest, I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through my playlist until I find what I’m looking for. French electropop fills the room, and I turn up the volume to full blast, slide the phone onto the bench, and stand up, shaking out my legs and arms. Bass thrums through the mats beneath our feet as I roll my shoulders, letting the infectious rhythm take over.
“What exactly are you doing?”
“You need to get out of your skin,” I say, extending my hands palm-up in invitation. When she hesitates, I wiggle my fingers playfully. “Come on, Reese. Dance with me.”
Her look could freeze hell. “Absolutely not.”
“Your form is too rigid.” I move closer without quite touching her. “Let go a little.” Before she can retreat, I capture her hands in mine and pull her up.
“The whole point is to have control,” she argues, but her fingers curl into mine despite her protests.
“Sometimes control comes from surrender.” I guide her into a gentle spin, keeping my touch light.
“This is ridiculous!” She stumbles, colliding with my chest. I fight the urge to pull her closer. “I’m supposed to be learning choreography!”
“And I’m helping you.” I place a hand on her waist to steady her, the thin fabric of her shirt doing nothing to mask the heat radiating off her. “My coach, Lev, scariest Russian bastard you’ll ever meet, made us take ballet and ballroom when we got sloppy in training. Seemed ridiculous, but it worked.”
Reese looks skeptical, but she starts to sway, her body unconsciously leaning into mine. “ Tantsuy so mnoy ,” I murmur, my lips barely brushing her ear. “Come on, dance with me.”
“I don’t know about this.” She hesitates but doesn’t pull away.
I let the music guide us. It pulses through the speaker on my phone as I lead her across the floor. I tower over her rigid frame and hum along to the song with an easy smile.
“Relax. This isn’t the Charleston.” Her face remains carefully neutral. “Like this—it’s like advancing and retreating with your sword.” She follows my lead, still too formal, still thinking too hard. My hand finds her waist, steadying her before gliding to the small of her back and guiding her through a turn. “Swordplay is its own kind of dance,” I tell her. “Let it flow through you. Light. Fluid.”
“This isn’t helping.”
“Let me worry about that,” I say, twirling her out of my arms and giving in to my wilder impulses. I drop to the floor with theatrical flair, belting the wrong lyrics out as I go. She stares at me with equal parts exasperation and fascination.
Then it happens. A laugh bursts out of her, and slowly, deliciously, she starts moving to the music. All unconscious sensuality.
“There we go. You’re loosening up,” I say, standing back up. “Now. Say your lines.”
“I feel ridiculous,” she mutters. Her fingers brush against mine as she moves—definitely not an accident, though we’ll both pretend it is for the sake of her carefully constructed boundaries.
“Humor me.”
And she does.
Not only does she humor me, but she nails every single line, the words rolling off her tongue. There’s this new fire in her voice I haven’t heard before—the rhythm’s unlocked something feral and real inside her. When she finishes, those brown eyes go wide, like she can’t quite believe what just happened.
“Keep moving,” I encourage. She’s all hips and strong arms, moving with a sway that’s impossible to ignore. When she catches me staring—oh, and I’m definitely staring—I don’t look away.
I grab her sword, bringing it over. “Keep listening to the music and watch me in the mirror,” I say, retrieving my own blade. I stand beside her, getting into position. “Ready to dance, fighter?”
“What do you want me to do?” She laughs.
“Repeat after me.”
We flow through her sequence, and fuck, it’s mesmerizing. Every step of hers lands exactly where it needs to. My chest tightens with a rush of pride because I knew she had this in her, she just needed the right push to unleash it.
“Again,” I call out, “but this time, I want to hear those lines. Loud and clear!”
Her words cut through the music.
“Yes, Reese! That’s exactly it!”
Her face lights up with pure victory as she twists around. We’re both on a high. There’s a flash in her eyes, a split second where she realizes we’re crossing lines we can’t uncross.
And yeah, maybe I’m looking at her like she’s everything I want wrapped up in one stunning package. Maybe that’s exactly what’s got her spooked.
Can’t bring myself to care, though. Not when she’s in front of me like this, her whole being illuminated beautifully.
As a fencer, I’m trained to pick up the most subtle shifts in movement. It’s a sixth sense, honed over a decade. Walking with Reese at midnight is no different.
Our breaths have synced, as well as our strides. She notices but remains quiet.
The forest feels alive around us, darker than city nights, even with crew lights throwing shadows on the path. Everything’s sharper out here, pine needles crunching underfoot, August air biting like early San Francisco training mornings, the wild darkness calling to my restless soul.
Her cabin appears too soon.
“Thank you for walking me back tonight.” The first porch step creaks as she steps on it. “You don’t need to go out of your way next time.”
“You never know what’s hiding in these woods, Reese.” I finally hand over her bag that I’d been carrying during our stroll.
“Well, good night.”
I should leave, find something to shake this feeling. Probably indulge in one of the late-night distractions waiting at my cabin. But my feet feel like vines have wrapped around them, attaching me to the earth.
She pauses, fingers trailing along the weathered wooden railings. “Wait,” she says, and my pulse kicks up. “I need your number.” She digs in her bag and holds out her phone. It’s in a simple case, white, no frills or extras.
“For training purposes only, of course,” I say, reaching for it.
“To confirm our training schedule and the scene recordings I promised.” Her eyes don’t meet mine.
I input each digit deliberately. “Purely professional.”
“Exactly.”
“I had fun tonight,” I admit and return her phone.
When she looks up, there’s a quirk to her lips, her curated mask slipping. “Yeah? Me too. Thanks for helping me…you know. Get out of my head a bit. I have to admit, I didn’t have much faith in you, but you’re not a bad teacher.”
“Oh, don’t flatter me,” I laugh. “You’re pretty good at having fun, even if I didn’t have much faith in you .”
“Hopefully it’ll help me succeed tomorrow, Mr. Hastings.”
“You don’t have to do that, you know.” The words escape before I can stop them.
“Do what?” She shrugs, playing coy. My eyes flicker down to her wrist, lingering on a freckle I noticed tonight. The way she swayed her hips earlier, how the scent of her thick blonde hair lingered, how it brushed against my biceps every time she turned…it’s all there, clear in my mind.
I take a breath and decide that if I want to break down these walls, my usual charm won’t work. I’ll have to be direct. “Since you love rules so much and we’ll be training together…how about we make some? Starting with dropping the professional act. At least with me.”
“What act?”
“I see right through all your sugarcoating.”
“To what?”
“Something that burns.”
On cue, she finds the end of her hair and spins it between her pointer and thumb. That nervous tic again. “Fine. Then here’s my rule: no distractions.”
“Distractions happen naturally,” I say, thinking of midnight swims and impromptu adventures. “The trick is learning to dance with them.”
She rolls her eyes, jutting her hip out. “Just…keep it professional. No flirting, no jokes, no distracting comments.”
“ Kak skazhesh’, milaya. ” My Russian is barely proficient, but it’s enough to make her brows furrow.
“What does that mean?”
“Where’s the fun in telling?” I grin, enjoying how she fights her curiosity.
“Not fair.”
“Life rarely is.”
She steps back, all playfulness fading. “I’m serious. The nonfraternization clause might be a joke to most people, but it matters to me. I’ve worked too hard to be seen as another actress sleeping with her costar. I understand the benefit of our new…engagement. But that’s all it is. A temporary engagement.”
“Well, you’re in luck, because I take my training partners very seriously,” I say. “Everything else…that’s life’s way of making things interesting.”
Something in my voice must convince her. “Good. Set tomorrow, then training after?”
“Can’t tomorrow. Heading to San Francisco after the morning shoot. My coach wants to see me, something I can’t miss. Saturday?”
“Premiere. Back Sunday.”
“Sunday then.”
“Fine. After that, we can train most nights. If shooting wraps on time.”
The space between us shrinks with each word. Every instinct screams at me to move, to chase this spark wherever it leads, but for once I hold myself in check.
I force myself back. “Night, fighter.”
The air crackles. Her eyes lock with mine, and I think maybe…
She breaks first, clearing her throat. “Right. Good night.”
The entire walk to my cabin, I fight the urge to look over my shoulder. Some habits die hard. But then again, the best pleasures in life are worth waiting for.