Chapter Two
Damien
I shouldn’t be here.
All day, I told myself that I have more important things to do—meetings, contracts, anything to keep me away from this performance. I told myself staying away is the right thing.
But then the selfish bastard in me won.
She’s half my age. Too young. She has her whole life ahead of her, and deserves someone younger, brighter, kinder than me. That’s what I keep telling myself.
But it doesn’t matter. Because from the moment I saw her a year ago, bent over the barre in the Academy’s practice room, dark hair spilling over one shoulder, green eyes focused on her reflection, long legs stretching with perfect control…I knew I was fucked.
Lena Clarke.
Slender, graceful…with a quiet fire in her that most people here will never see. But I see it. I see her.
I tried to forget her. Tried to bury the memory under work and responsibility. And by the time I lost the war against reason, she was dating Logan, my son.
Even then, when she was more off-limits than ever, I couldn’t stop wanting her. Watching her.
My firefly.
She has no idea I call her that. She reminds me of a firefly when she dances…glowing, untouchable, lighting up the dark. I’ve had dreams about her, filthy dreams where those wings brush over my skin, where she bends for me, opens for me, where every inch of her is mine to claim and keep.
Now she’s here, on my stage.
The music swells, and she moves like she was born for this.
Every step, every line of her body, every turn pulls me deeper.
Her face is calm, but I’ve been watching her long enough to spot the small tells…
how her fingers twitch before she spins, how her chest rises just a fraction higher when she’s fighting for control.
I shouldn’t notice these things. But I do.
And as I sit here, in the dark, watching the girl I can’t have…all I can think about is how badly I want her anyway.
She moves across the stage like the music was written for her alone. Every extension is clean. Every turn lands sharp and precise. Her lines are textbook perfect, not stiff or mechanical, but alive.
I’ve seen hundreds of dancers in my life. Blackwell Academy doesn’t hand out scholarships to just anyone—they’re rare, and it’s even rarer for a student to hold on to it. We demand perfection, consistency, and the ability to perform under pressure without breaking. Lena has all of that.
Or she did.
Until recently.
Now there are whispers that follow her everywhere. I’ve heard them, and I know the root of it all. My jaw clenches as my gaze drifts away from Lena to the smirking bastard in the front row. My son.
Logan has always been a brat. Entitled. More interested in coasting on the family name than building anything of his own. He wants the world handed to him, and when it isn’t, he burns it down out of spite.
And this time, the thing he’s trying to burn is her.
My Lena. My firefly.
I know she didn’t do what they’re accusing her of. I can see it in her. Hell, I’ve been watching her long enough to know the kind of discipline and drive it takes to get where she is. She’s earned her place here, fought for it.
But my son’s poison spreads fast. And right now, all I can do is sit here in the dark and watch her fight through it alone.
She turns into an arabesque, hips square, back leg high, toes pointed like a blade—and I feel it like a punch to the chest. The strength in her legs, the curve of her spine, the way her chest lifts as she holds the position…
Christ.
She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me.
She lowers into a penché, folding forward until her fingertips almost brush the stage, that perfect ass high, muscles taut. My hands ache with the need to grip her hips, to hold her still while I take what’s already mine.
Dark thoughts, wrong thoughts, but they come easy when it’s her.
I’ve had enough. Enough watching from the shadows, enough pretending this is about respect or restraint.
She doesn’t belong to Logan. Not anymore.
She belongs to me now.
The thought is barely formed before it’s broken by a sharp, ugly voice from somewhere in the crowd.
“Nice act, sweetheart! Who’d you fuck for the part?”
Lena stumbles at a pivotal turn, her ankle wobbling and arms flailing before she drops to one knee.
My eyes snap toward the source of the voice, searching the rows, memorizing the shadows until I know exactly where it came from. My hands curl into fists. I want a name. A face. I want them to regret opening their mouth for the rest of their life.
Later.
First, her. Always her.
I’m on my feet before I’ve even thought about it.
The hall goes silent, the air stretching tight with tension. I hear whispers, feel every eye follow me as I stride down the aisle. I don’t care.
I stop right in front of her. She’s still kneeling, eyes wide, chest rising fast, the stage lights making her look delicate, like something too fragile for this world.
I hold out my hand. “Get up, firefly,” I say, keeping my voice low but authoritative.
Her gaze locks on mine, the green depths shimmering with embarrassment and something else…a sadness so raw it catches me off guard, punching straight through the armor I’ve worn for years.
And beneath it…trust.
Pure. Unquestioning.
It does something to me. Something I don’t want to name.
She slips her small hand into mine, warm and trembling. My fingers close around hers, swallowing her hand whole. I pull her gently to her feet, then turn toward the crowd, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
“Tonight’s event is over.”
A ripple of gasps, scattered murmurs. I don’t wait for them to settle.
“And if you think I won’t find out who thought it was acceptable to shout obscenities at one of my dancers, you’re wrong. Blackwell Academy does not tolerate behavior like that. You will be found. And you will be gone.”
My gaze sweeps over the audience, daring them to test me. No one does.
I keep my grip on Lena’s hand as I lead her offstage. My stride is long, purposeful, and she matches me in silence, her steps quick to keep up.
We exit the theater, and the moment we step into an empty backstage hallway, she wobbles. My instinct kicks in and I catch her before she falls, wrapping my arms tightly around her slender frame. She folds into me without hesitation, her cheek pressing into my chest.
It takes a second to realize she’s crying. Silent tears, her shoulders trembling against me.
It’s not her tears that make my blood boil…it’s the reason for them. I make another silent promise to crush the bastard who ruined the night for her. But more than anything, I’m pissed at myself. She’s falling apart in my arms and I don’t know what the hell to say to her.
I’m not used to this kind of situation. I don’t do soft.
Logan’s mother was harsh, sharp, and too focused on business, like me. At the time, I thought that made us a good match, but after she left me I realized it just meant that we had no one to round us out. No one to encourage softness or any kind of true feeling.
But Lena, she’s gentleness and peace and beauty, in a way I’ve never seen in anyone else. Everything about her…what she makes me feel, what she pulls from me…it’s foreign territory.
Before I can put words together, she pulls back, wiping her face quickly, her cheeks flushed with heat. She mumbles something, part apology, part thank-you, before turning around and taking to her heels.
I watch her march rapidly down the hall, her small frame rapidly swallowed by the shadows. My hand is still warm where I held hers. And all I can think is, I can’t let her get away from me. Again.
My jaw tightens. I pull my phone from my pocket and hit a number. It takes only a beat before the Academy’s director answers, his voice careful, deferential.
“Mr. Blackwell?”
“I want the name of the bastard who shouted at the show tonight,” I say, my tone icy. “And when you find him, I want him gone. Expelled. Permanently.”
There’s a pause, followed by a nervous cough. “Sir, with respect…the young man in question is the son of Senator Vale. His family—”
“I don’t give a damn if he’s the son of the President himself,” I snap, cutting him off. “No one humiliates a dancer in my Academy and gets away it.” Especially not my firefly. My voice drops lower, lethal. “If you can’t handle it, I’ll handle it myself, and you won’t like the way I do.”
Silence. “Y-yes, sir,” he stammers, clearing his throat. “It’ll be taken care of immediately.”
“Good,” I growl, ending the call without another word.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and head in the direction Lena fled.