Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
B ut a pang of guilt reminded me I was breaking an implied promise as I walked toward a public transit stop.
The responsible thing would be to return, inform Andrei firmly that I needed time alone, and then go for my walk.
Except Andrei wasn’t reasonable, and clear communication and boundary setting didn’t always work with strong-willed people, remember?
That’s when you smiled, said uh-huh, and waited until their back was turned, because they left you no choice.
He didn't completely recognize my autonomy. He tried, but I couldn’t always ignore the gaping chasm between effort and reality, and too frequently he weaponized a beguiling voice and coy eyes to gloss over said chasm.
He reminded me of me. One might almost think we actually were soulmates.
Not the kind who balanced each other out, but the kind who were so much alike, they drove each other to drink. Or murder.
Really, taking a walk was doing us both a favor. It was a perfectly healthy coping mechanism.
I could attempt to communicate that adults didn't require permission to come and go as desired. He’d laugh—inside—wield one of those slow, gentle smiles that didn’t quite hide his teeth, and usher me home where he’d triple my guard and ply me with more food and toys as a distraction. Maybe play dress up because he liked buying me clothes and putting me in them. Like a doll.
It would work, as long as he didn't try to prevent me from going to rehearsals.
I couldn’t keep letting him get away with that. It only encouraged the bad behavior.
As I rode the double decker to the Arts, I acknowledged that he knew more about the Courts and Cassanian culture than I did. I acknowledged the probability of some danger—these Fae were a bit more unbridled than Earth politicians. At least in public.
That didn't change the fact that I shouldn't be treated as a dependent.
And it didn't change the fact that I needed this time to myself to think.
Hasannah. Andrei’s voice, sharp and displeased. His real voice, not the light, languid tones he used to befuddle me into thinking he was sweet and harmless. Nothing adult with a cock was sweet and harmless. Where are you?
I ignored him.
Hasannah, this is not a game of chase. Not a lover’s spat. Where are you?
I pushed him out of my mind. I understood there was a methodology to constructing mental barriers, he'd already explained that much but hadn't got around to actually teaching me. Instinctively, I was able to construct a type of mental barrier. Like manifesting. Universe, make me a giant brick wall to keep my hissy boyfriend out of my head. And, voilà, giant brick wall.
Just ignore the very angry High Lord on the other side, shoving his fist through it one brick at a time.
I exited two blocks from the Arts and walked. Someone was always there; it wouldn't be the first time I'd returned late at night for extra rehearsal, drawn by the always increasing drug of dance like an addict needing a fix. There’d been periods of time I’d tried to wean myself away from the obsession, but not since I was twenty and the craving bloomed had I been able to go more than two days. Two days and I began to crawl out of my skin.
I’d wondered if I should see a therapist, but. . .I wasn’t hurting myself. So what would a therapist help me with? Lots of artists were hyper-focused on their calling. It was normal, on a scale of normal.
My darling. I only want to know that you are safe. Where are you?
I snorted. I knew that cajoling, throaty tone. He thought he could bamboozle me. Besides, he’d figure out where I was soon enough. Where else in the city would I go?
I need time alone. Go away.
When I entered the building and plundered my storage locker for the extra set of gear, the tightness in my chest eased. Especially once I entered the group practice room and selected one of the gems that somehow contained embedded music. Andrei had glossed over explanations, like he’d glossed over a lot of conversations. I’d allowed it.
Again, I should stop doing that one of these days.
I danced, letting the music and choreography ease my discomforts and uncertainties, the strain of working muscles offering a cleansing kind of pain. Hard work as therapy, and punishment.
Except this time, I wasn't so far gone that I didn't notice the prickle of eyes on me.
I turned. “Oh. What are you doing here?”
The ballet mistress stood by the door, posture perfect, watching me with an irritated expression.
“Your man is looking for you.”
Yes, I’d been warned. Well, all good things.
Vargas gave me a critical once over. “I'm going to hazard a guess you didn't seek permission before leaving the party.”
Not hardly. “Well. . .wait, how did you. . .?”
She also correctly interpreted my expression. “Yes, I followed you. I like to know what my doves get up to and it was clear you'd snuck out without your guard.”
“How much do you know about. . .?”
“I'm the trainer here, responsible for the welfare of the dancers, and you’re the new consort of a High Lord who happens to be our patron’s Heir.” I flinched. “How much do you think I know?”
“Andrei told you to watch me.”
“We came to an understanding. I will give you a second to guess how much choice I had.”
I didn’t need a second. Which was the point. “I’m sorry.”
She sighed and headed for the piano and sat on the bench, patting the seat next to her. “Come sit. We need to talk.”
I settled down, stretching out my legs and crossing my ankles. “I needed some fresh air and time to clear my head.”
“And you've likely been taught permission is oppression. Cassanian culture might seem misogynistic to you.”
“No, not as I spend more time with them. It’s a power thing, not a gender discrimination thing.” I shrugged. “And I have no power, so I get lots of pats on the head.”
“That's a concise but fairly accurate assessment of the situation. The point being, you aren't accustomed to asking permission.”
“It’s a walk , not the overthrow of the High Court. How much permission do I need?”
She turned her body slightly and fixed me with a look. “This isn't simply a matter of a High Lord's possessiveness, or a man's ego.”
Jesus, those words sounded familiar. That tone sounded familiar. Almost like Andrei had been coaching her, or did everyone in Casakraine who rubbed elbows with the upper castes just think alike?
“I know there are safety concerns,” I said. “But I can't let him dominate me. He manages everything. I honestly don’t get how he has the mental energy.”
Her expression lacked sympathy. “That's what happens when you enter a relationship with a High Fae. And the security comes along with a High Fae who is also a Lord.”
I wanted to quibble over the voluntary nature of said entry into the relationship, but at the note in her voice I hesitated.
“You sound as if you know about this from experience.”
“My bonded is Iliweh.”
I blinked. “The High Fae Cassanian opera singer. The prima donna.”
Andrei had several of their performances embedded in gems, and I’d walked by hand painted posters downtown announcing their next concert. I’d wanted to go, but the date was after the showcase, so I hadn’t made any concrete plans.
“Yes. And to be called prima donna by Fae—I won’t bother with the Cassanian term right now—is an accomplishment. They’re from a prominent House in Casakraine, and their parents had vastly different ideas regarding their involvement in the political life of the House. Iliweh wanted to sing, however.”
I winced. I could imagine how that went.
She fixed me with a knowing look. “Iliweh’s Lord was unhappy when they bonded to a human dance instructor. Well, my great-grandmother is Everennesse Fae, but that didn’t matter one whit.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to know I understand. You’re not going to want to follow all the little rules that appear inconsequential in the normal course of your uneventful days. But, chica, the rules are so your days can remain uneventful.”
Her gaze weighed on me as I stared at the floor in contemplation. “I don’t want to be involved in that. You of all people should know why. What we do takes everything. I can’t make prima ballerina distracted.”
“You don’t have to be involved with the political part of his life, but you do need to understand basic safety protocols. Why are you here without your guards, Hasannah?”
I opened my mouth, closed it.
“Exactly. That kind of behavior can get you kidnapped or killed. He isn’t giving you guards because they’re pretty. They are, in fact, to keep you safe and him out of a blood feud.”
I said nothing. I hated arguing with people. It was so draining. I’d rather just. . .do what I wanted, and walk away from the relationship if they protested too much. But I didn’t ignore the good points she’d made.
The mistress rose. “Well, I already contacted him so he or one of your guards should be on their way. I indicated I would be meeting you here for a private coaching session.”
I blinked up at her. “That’s a lie.”
She gave me a thin smile. “I didn’t lie. I phrased my words in such a way that they were able to come to the desired conclusion. You’re going to have to learn to do that.”
Little did she know.
“The point being, I’m taking the fall for you just this once, so hopefully you won’t be in too much trouble. But you will be in trouble, Hasannah. Do you want my advice?”
I sighed. “Why not.”
“Grovel. Cry if you can, but not that ugly crying. Just a few pretty tears without the sniveling or painfully high-pitched whining you young girls do.”
“. . .noted.” Crying would work on Andrei and Mathen, but I had a feeling Con would just laugh if I tried that on him.
Vargas chuckled. “If you can, de-escalate by redirecting him into some small task for you.”
I straightened. “I figured that out the other day but thought I was imagining things.”
“Nope. The Fae men are like that. It’s their protector provider instinct. And if you ever want to feel sorry for yourself just remember my bonded is not only a High Lord, but a diva.”
Vargas laughed at the face I made. “But, in the interest of not wanting to be caught in a lie, why don’t we make use of this time, hmm?” She gestured. “Show me what you have for your solo so far.”
“Really?” I tried not to squeal, and gave up. It was just us women here. I didn’t have to pretend to be the baddest B.
Her lips twitched. “Yes, really.”
A private coaching session from her was worth more than—well, I’d say a week’s pay, but I wasn’t actually getting paid.
A bit giddy, I more or less skipped to the center of the room—aware some people might say I was too old for that behavior, but I was tired of being told what “age-appropriate” behavior was and was not for a woman.
When I danced, I was the Hasannah who was sixteen, and the Hasannah who, surrounded by dancers a decade younger, sometimes felt sixty. With Andrei, though. . .with him, I felt like a girl and a woman.
Cherished, protected, cosseted. Desired.
Also controlled and confined. There was always a dark side to the light.
I paused a moment to orient myself, and began to dance. Calling on the music in my head?—
“Stop.”
I halted immediately. Vargas strolled in front of me, hands clasped behind her back, the narrow-eyed look of concentration on her face we all feared.
“Twelve counts into the solo and I'm already bored.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not one of those sniveling little girls you mentioned.”
She pursed her lips. “You're not the best technical dancer, Hasannah. You haven't had the extensive training the others have.”
“No, Mistress. I dance from the heart.” That was kind of my thing, but it felt pretentious to say it aloud.
She lifted a brow, lowered it. “Then dance from the heart. From the first beat I should feel you. Begin again.”
I called on the slow simmer of satin in my blood and danced. . .she allowed me a full minute before calling another stop.
“What story are you trying to tell, what spell are you trying to weave? Beguile me.” She paused. “I've seen you dance with more soul on street corners.”
I suppressed the urge to pat myself down for stab wounds or ask when she’d seen me on street corners. “I wanted to create an arc, to build into a crescendo.”
“You are dancing for the High Lord. You have seven minutes. You don't have time to play those games. I know from experience that if you don't capture her attention in the first thirty seconds, you can kiss a soloist slot goodbye. This isn't the time to be clever, Hasannah.”
A small, unpleasant smile curved her lips. “Now begin again. Tell a story, spin a web, weave a spell.”
I inhaled, exhaled noisily, and glared at her. All right. No more nice ballerina.
Tell a story, spin a web, weave a spell.
I called the music in my mind. One. . .three. . .what was my story? A young girl who had everything. Not wealth, not fame, nothing fancy. But a loving home, a supportive community. Food and shelter and discipline. That girl had everything, but she wanted more.
As she grew, a chasm opened up inside her. An emptiness she constantly sought to fill, bewildering her parents, alienating parts of her community. And then the pain when the body she loved betrayed her.
Until finally one day, she understood. Her goal, her purpose. How pain could be transmuted into success.
And finally, she began to feed that gaping maw. Began to dance.
Four. . .seven. . .don’t strain on the jeté. . .
Spin a web. . .the girl would never be the best technical dancer. She didn't have the training, the years. Her body was shorter, thicker in the hip and chest, she lacked the natural grace and worked hard to make up for it with power and feeling. With determination and humility.
She understood her flaws and invited others to share in them with her.
She wasn't perfect. She wasn’t even kind. But what love was ever perfect, what pain single-edged? Who’s soul wasn't a patchwork of a million ragged pieces haphazardly sewn together. . .like this girl’s?
Four. . .five. . .ugh, that shoulder was flat. . .nine. . .ten. . .travel upstage and turn. . .
Weave a spell.
But you would adore her anyway. You would yearn to watch her dance, yearn to give her your heart and return for hers.
Love me.
Want me.
Feed me.
Let me eat your heart.
Two. . .four. . .pirouette pirouette pirouette, finish on the note.
I held the final position for a three count, then looked at Vargas. She stared at me, eyes wide and unblinking, face pale.
“Very good, Hasannah.” She took a small step towards me, then halted. “Excuse me.”
I watched her leave the rehearsal room, bewildered.
But maybe that was a good sign? Had my dance evoked some emotion, some distant memory?
If it had sucked, she would have said so.
I changed back into my evening attire and left the building to wait outside. Mathen would tell on me to Andrei. How could I spin it? It annoyed me I had to handle this melodrama when I needed to funnel that energy into building my career, not managing an emotional man.
Who had time for that? It was never worth it.
Which was why Andrei had me off balance.
One, I couldn’t walk away from him that easily, if at all.
Two. . .I struggled with wanting to despite knowing it would probably be better for me in the long run, even factoring in all he offered.
But wasn’t that why he dangled so many shiny carrots in front of me? Because he knew, in the end, I’d be the one giving up everything including my autonomy, my body, my soul?
He hoped I’d be dazzled enough not to see through the beta carotene bling.
Because those carrots? Gold plated and smothered in chocolate and more addictive than anything I’d ever tried in college.
Wealth, power, his body, sweet baby Jesus. And I’d seen good bodies in my time.
Sardonic Constin, sweet Mathen. Men who cooked for me, didn’t expect me to lift a finger and do an itty bitty thing other than what I wanted. Family. Philea, who was beginning to feel like the best friend I’d never had.
Not only that, but with Andrei. . .I wasn’t worried he couldn’t handle my not nice side. Please. He’d welcome it.
No, this situationship wasn’t easy to walk away from. Not this time. This time it was actually worth it. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t also kill me in the end.
Ten minutes into my internal struggle, a hissing steam-powered coach rolled around the corner where I waited. I’d figured making Andrei double back because I’d returned to the party would only exacerbate a foul mood.
The coach came to a stop, then rolled a few more feet.
It wasn't a public transport, it lacked the designated insignia. It could be a rideshare, or the pickup for a late-night employee.
It stopped again, the door opening, and a Fae male stepped out.
I watched idly, having nothing better to look at and the Cassanians didn't think staring was rude.
He turned and walked in my direction, hands in the pockets of plain black pants, his stride purposeful but unhurried.
I expected him to walk past but when he stopped and pivoted to face me only one arm-length away, I still wasn't alarmed.
He returned my stare, his curious.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“I’d be pleased to accept aid.” He looked down the street to either side of me then glanced over my shoulder, lifting his hands out of his pockets. “Is this the Sahakian Center for the Arts?”
I didn't point out the visible, well lit sign on the building. “It is. You’re very observant.”
He smiled, expression relaxing, still maintaining a casual but thorough scan of our surroundings. “Excellent. And you’re Lady Hasannah.”
Something was wrong.
Andrei!