Dance of Deception
Thank you so much for reading Dance of Devils ! If you enjoyed the book, I’d be incredibly grateful if you could leave a review!
As mentioned, the Darkest Dance series continues with Roman and Val’s story in Dance of Defiance , a dark MM mafia romance.
Fair warning: bring your running shoes…
Scroll on for a sneak peek of Dance of Deception .
Chapter 1
Lyra
Ballet isn’t art. It’s war disguised as grace.
“Again.”
Every muscle in my body is on the point of collapse, but Madame Kuzmina doesn’t care. She sits in her seat, dead center, four rows back from the stage, watching us like a hawk from the shadows beyond the lights, her fingers steepled under her chin.
Vaughn exhales sharply beside me, his jaw clenched. Brooklyn doesn’t bother holding back her groan. She collapses forward, hands on her knees, sucking in air like we’ve just run a marathon.
“We’ve done it four fucking times already,” she mutters under her breath.
Madame Kuzmina raises a single hand, glittering with rings, in a regal motion. She doesn’t need to raise her voice. Her stare alone is enough to suffocate.
“And now you will do it a fifth,” she says quietly in her Russian-tinged accent, “because the fourth was fucking garbage .”
Vaughn and I exchange a glance. His crystal blue eyes flicker with amusement, but I don’t return the smile. I'm too exhausted.
There’s no crying in baseball. And there sure as shit isn’t any smiling in ballet.
Brooklyn straightens with a sigh, smoothing a hand over her leotard. “Fifth time’s the charm?” she mutters.
We begin again, running through the pas de trois . My mind goes blank the way it always does when I dance—nothing but the music and the movement. Vaughn’s hands on my waist, firm but controlled, lifting me effortlessly. Brooklyn spinning into position beside us.
We run through the entire thing again before hitting our end position perfectly, Brooklyn and I on either side of Vaughn, and for the first time tonight, Madame Kuzmina doesn’t tell us to do it again.
Instead, she nods.
Once.
“That will do. For now.”
I hide the relief washing over me in a wave. Vaughn lets go of our hands with a dramatic groan, then flops onto his back at center stage, staring up at the ornate ceiling.
“Ballet is a fucking disease,” he announces to the air.
Brooklyn rolls her eyes and nudges his leg with her foot. “At least you get to wear flats.”
“Trust me, princess, you do not want to see me on pointe.”
Despite my exhaustion, I smile. Vaughn is chaos wrapped in infuriatingly incredible talent. When he's dancing, he moves with an effortless grace. Off stage he’s all sharp edges and wild energy, a stray dog that’s never been fully domesticated.
Madame Kuzmina rises to her feet, rearranging the silk draped over her arms. “We begin again at nine tomorrow. Arrive warmed up and ready to go.”
With that, she wraps her shawl around herself like Maleficent’s robes and melts up the darkened aisle of the Mercury Opera House, disappearing into the shadows. There’s a brief flicker of light as the door to the lobby opens and then closes again.
Naomi appears at the edge of the stage, twirling her water bottle in one hand and nodding in the direction Madame Kuzmina has gone. “Such a ray of fucking sunshine,” she deadpans.
Vaughn rolls onto his stomach. “And yet she loves me.”
Brooklyn snorts. “She tolerates you.”
Vaughn winks, pushing himself up. “Tolerates, loves, same difference.”
I shake my head and turn toward the wings, heading for the dressing room. My legs ache, and even my skin feels tired. I need a hot shower and about fourteen hours of sleep.
The dressing room is empty, since the rehearsal day was done long ago. But Madame decided to focus her keen eye on Brooklyn, Vaughn, and I and had us stay late, since we’re the ones performing the pas de trois in Swan Lake , which the Zakharova will be performing in a few months' time.
Naomi follows me in, already undoing her bun. She’s our Odette/Odile, aka, Swan Queen, for the upcoming performance. And her reason for staying late has nothing to do with Madame Kuzmina and everything to do with herself .
No matter how many times you tell Naomi she’s amazing, she refuses to listen. I swear, the girl drinks imposter syndrome smoothies for breakfast.
“Tell me you’re coming out with us this weekend,” she coaxes, leaning against her locker. “Or are you going to pretend you have an exciting social life when we both know you don’t?”
I smirk. “Tempting, but I need sleep more than overpriced cocktails.”
As if I could afford overpriced cocktails. Or reasonably priced ones. Actually, even happy hour pricing might be off the table given my current financial situation.
Naomi groans. “You’re such a grandma.”
Brooklyn drops onto the bench beside me. “I might actually be dead by the weekend,” she mutters. “Kuzmina is a fucking sadist.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is Russian. ” Naomi grins.
Vaughn appears in the doorway, shoving his fingers through his shaggy dark hair. “Personally, I like my women with a touch of organized crime.”
Brooklyn makes a face. “You would. And get out , dude. Guys' dressing room is down the hall, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“But I get so lonely all by myself.” He grins smugly before he peels off his t-shirt and slings it over his shoulder.
Vaughn has the sort of body that can only be described as “sinful”.
The motherfucker has like zero percent body fat, is freaking ripped , and is covered in strategically placed tattoos.
Coupled with his Mediterranean skin tone and vaguely Italian looks, it’s easy to see why his social calendar is perpetually filled—with dates with both sexes, I should add.
Vaughn strolls over to a locker and opens it before he turns to wink at Brooklyn. “You know I keep a second locker with my shit in here. And relax, it’s not like any of you are my type.”
He starts to take off his tights. Yeah, that’s my cue to turn around and avert my eyes. Sinful body or not, Vaughn's and my relationship—pretty much his relationship with any of the girls in the company—is more sibling-like than anything else.
Brooklyn snorts as she peels off her own tights and leotard and replaces them with underwear and yoga pants.
“I thought that your ‘type’ was ‘has a pulse and at least one willing hole’.”
“Pulses are overrated,” he grins.
“ Dude ,” Brooklyn makes sour face and shakes her head.
Vaughn laughs as he turns around, now at least wearing boxers. “Like you’d ever let me near you, baby girl.”
Brooklyn wrinkles her nose as she tosses on a hoodie. “Gross?”
Vaughn shrugs. “The feeling is mutual, and I say that with love. No, what I mean is, I don’t play hard to get. If someone doesn’t want me, I’m already gone. You want this…?”
The three of us collectively roll our eyes as he runs a finger down his ludicrously defined abs and cups his dick through his boxers.
“You have to show me you want it.”
“Yeah, hard pass, friendo ,” Brooklyn says dryly.
“Again, the feeling is entirely mutual, baby girl.”
I giggle, turning to haul my dance bag out of my locker. I wriggle out of my leotard and wrap a towel around myself getting ready to shower, then dig through the bag, fingers searching for my MetroCard. But all I find are a few loose quarters and a crumpled one-dollar bill.
Shit. Not enough for the subway home.
I press my lips together and force the knot of frustration down.
I reach for my water bottle, catching my reflection in the mirror hanging on the inside of the locker door. My brow furrows, my gaze lingering on the way my collarbones are more prominent than they were a few months ago.
“Here.”
I jolt, turning at the sound of Naomi’s voice. She doesn’t make a big deal out of it, but passes me a granola bar.
“I’m good.”
My friend cocks one brow. “I don’t want it,” she says evenly. “So—take it.” Her eyes stay on mine. “And eat it ,” she adds quietly.
I smile wryly as I peel open the wrapper, taking a small nibble. Naomi doesn’t know everything about my life, but she knows enough to see when things are…slipping.
Like me, Naomi is making it work by herself on her dancer's salary, somehow. The difference is, she’s got a safety net if she really needs it. You’d have to stick a gun to her head before she'd call her congressman father to ask for help. But the option is there.
For me, it's not. My safety net was gone long before the monster who was my father bled out in a prison cell.
Brooklyn and Vaughn are talking loudly about Kir Nikolayev, the very enigmatic Bratva kingpin who owns and bankrolls the Zakharova Ballet…specifically, how “fuckable” he is…when Naomi and I leave them and trudge to the showers.
The ache of the extra-long day melts just a little as the hot water pours down over me.
“Hey… You’re good, right?”
I turn to glance over at Naomi, who’s rinsing off at the next showerhead.
I know what she means.
“Yeah, I’m…fine.”
She pushes her long, dark hair out of her face and gives me a piercing look. “For real?”
I exhale. “Yeah, it’s just…” I shake my head. “I’m starting to wonder if school on top of this is too much.”
Between the credits I got for advanced classes in high school, and the college courses I took a few years ago, I’m about two-thirds of the way to a degree in human psychology.
The lofty goal is that when ballet eventually ends—whenever that is—I’ll try my luck at the MCATs and med school, and try to become a clinical psychiatrist.
Hey, I did say “lofty”.
Naomi exhales as she turns to rinse off her back. “Yeah, pre-med does sound like a lot on top of this, even part time.” She glances at me, her brow still cocked. “Is that all?”
Goddammit, this girl always sees right through me.
“Vera’s been gambling again.”
She groans. “Are you fucking serious? I thought your mom was banned from every casino and racetrack in the state.”