Chapter 51 Just Breathe
JUST brEATHE
brIAR
Now
The backpack Koen asked me to pack sits ominously by the door of the studio. Taunting me.
He gave me a ride to the studio this morning on the back of his bike, dropping me off before leaving to take care of other business.
For a guy so concerned about me being cold, he sure has a funny way of showing it.
The chilly morning air nips at me, but I’m better prepared than I was the other night. I dressed warmer, and Koen lent me a thick pair of motorcycle gloves.
Despite the unexpected company last night, I actually slept okay. I can’t remember having any nightmares last night, which is good, considering that would’ve been fucking embarrassing to have Koen witness.
Mr. Carr has it out for me today. Or all of us, rather. He spends all morning barking at dancers, terrorizing the tech crew, and his stage manager absolutely went and cried in a closet during lunch break, because when she came back, her cheeks were all red and splotchy.
“Man. Who pissed in his Cheerios?” Mia grumbles to me in between numbers.
I just shake my head, trying to focus while feeling more and more distracted. I’m trying to keep track of all of the quick changes and stage blocking, but my mind keeps circling back to Koen.
He slept in my bed last night. Koen O’Rourke.
With his arms wrapped around me. Why the hell did he come to my apartment after he got shot anyway?
Sure, he made his disdain for hospitals known last night, but surely his brothers or any of his men would have been better equipped to deal with that type of injury rather than me.
As the day wears on, Mr. Carr starts to call me out more and more.
I’m doing better today, but I’m still struggling with one small section of the choreography. Albeit, it’s a critical part of the choreography, but it’s only because I need more practice with it. It’s tricky, the footwork incredibly tedious. I’ll get it.
“Miss Ralston, either do it correctly or get off my stage!” Mr. Carr shouts, throwing his hands up in exasperation where he sits third row, center stage when I fumble the footwork on that section again.
I stop. “I—” I start, but he waves me off, motioning to cut the music.
“I don’t want to hear it. I can’t watch this again today, you’re done—off.” He points offstage and I obey, tears burning in my eyes.
“Can I have everyone in the Giselle excerpt to the stage?” He barks, yelling more when the dancers don’t get to their starting positions quick enough.
I move to push through the small crowd of dancers waiting backstage, halting when Mia catches my arm as I pass. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You look really good. He’s just being an ass today.”
If I open my mouth, I know I’m going to start crying, so I press my lips together and give her a stilted nod, hating the pity I see in her eyes.
She lets me go and I walk quickly through the busy backstage, striding down the hall until I find an empty dressing room to dive into before letting out a choked sob.
I feel the panic attack coming on and curl into a ball. My arms wrap tightly around my knees, and I press my head into them, eyes shut tight. My heart is pounding so hard I hear it in my ears.
You don’t have time for this.
The lights in the dressing room I’ve taken refuge in are off, and that helps. My chest feels tight, like there’s a pressing weight on it and I can’t get enough air.
“You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine,” I whisper now to myself, slightly rocking back and forth as I count—“One, two, three”—attempting to breathe in deep through my nose, but it comes out shaky, more like a sob.
Three weeks ago, I was drugged, thrown in the back of a van, and almost trafficked.
The scars on my back from the whip are still healing, but the mental ones…
I haven’t even begun to unpack that. I miss my daughter; I miss her laugh, I miss her tantrums over brushing her teeth, and how she turns up her nose at the mere sight of anything green.
I miss my best friend, and I miss when dance used to be fun and not my only means of survival.
And I hate Koen. I hate him. I hate him so fucking much.
He’s so cold, arrogant, manipulative. The way he bosses me around… He’s cruel and he’s controlling, yet his touch is light and gentle. The way he kissed me the other night… the way he claimed me in front of everyone, right before I was drugged… and what did my tattooed nightmare do?
He kept me safe, brought me home to his bed.
And last night he slept in my bed.
When I woke up this morning, warm, snuggled into his side with his arm wrapped around me… I didn’t hate it.
“Fuck!” I don’t realize I’ve actually screamed it, until I feel my throat burning.
I dig my nails into my thigh, and the world slowly starts to come back into focus. It reminds me of Koen’s hand around my throat.
Stop thinking about him.
Stop.
I can’t sit here anymore. I have to move. My brain needs something else to do other than obsess over the one man I can’t have.
Throwing open the dressing room door, I don’t stop until I find an empty studio room and once I’m there…
I don’t stop.
I’ve been at it for hours by the time I clock Koen in the ballet studio’s mirrors, watching me intently from the shadows in the hall.
It’s late. The sky outside is dark. Everyone else has long since gone home. I wonder how long he waited out there before coming to find me.
I don’t react to his presence, though I feel his proximity throughout every inch of my body.
He knows I’ve seen him. I don’t miss the disapproving stare on his face when I finish another run-through and drag myself back up to go again.
“You’re going to hurt yourself.”
I don’t bother turning around. “Mind. Your. Own. Business,” I seethe between my teeth.
The following scoff is answer enough.
I go again. I landed wrong on my ankle a few run-throughs ago. The pain keeps increasing the further I get into the routine.
I feel Koen’s eyes on my back but I refuse to look in his direction.
“Briar.” His voice holds a warning as I get closer to the last leap.
I can’t let up.
I won’t.
Not when the showcase in two weeks is my only way out.
I can’t let Mr. Carr cut me. It’s Friday. I have the weekend to get that combination right. I just have to stay focused and lock the fuck in.
I run the routine again, coming down a little too hard on my already screaming ankle on the last leap. I breathe hard through my nose to hide the wince. Rolling my shoulders, I walk with a straight face to grab a drink of water from my bottle in the corner.
Over the plastic rim, I chance a glimpse as inconspicuously as I can at Koen.
He’s leaning on his good shoulder against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles, and I’m relieved to find him scrolling on his phone, not paying me any attention.
His pants are tactical—black, military cut, fitted through the thighs, with a plethora of pockets, and I can see at least one gun strapped to a holster on his waist. His shirt is tight, black and short-sleeved, revealing the dark ink he has snaking up one arm, and the bandage wrapped around his bicep on the other.
He’s changed the dressing. No more unicorn Band-Aids.
My nose twitches and I shake my head, taking one last gulp of water from the bottle before dropping it back to the floor. I roll my ankle beneath me. It doesn’t feel that bad.
One more run-through.
Mistake.
I know it the moment the music starts and I begin dancing. I can feel Koen’s eyes on me now; my own toxic stubbornness takes over and I can’t do anything else other than finish the routine. It hurts, but it’s fine. I’ll ice it when I get home, and it’ll be fine.
That is, until I get to the same jump that gave me trouble last time.
I land and let out a strangled gasp when my ankle buckles, my feet slipping out from under me. I’m going down, and I’m going down hard.
Except… I’m not.
Koen catches me before I hit the ground. Lowering me down as I let out hollow breaths, struggling to keep in the sudden rush of tears set loose by the sharp pain searing through my ankle every time I move my foot.
“Easy, just sit for a second.”
Despite the pain, I try twisting out of his arms, growing irritated when he holds firm.
“You don’t understand!” I’m yelling now, my heart pounding, and I’m having trouble catching my breath. “It has to be perfect—I have to be perfect!”
I shove him, and he takes it. His mouth tightens and his eyes let loose a warning but he doesn’t look angry, letting me go as he falls back a step, watching me with those unsettling dark eyes of his.
I point a shaky finger in his face but he doesn’t even flinch. His eyes don’t leave mine as I unleash all of the anger, the frustration, the pain on him.
“You don’t get to tell me when it’s enough.
I decide. Because it’s my life.” I pause to glare at him while my breathing further dysregulates.
“I decide when it’s enough, and it will never be enough!
” My shouts crack on a sob, and I whirl away from him before he can see me cry.
My chest collapses, my lungs constricting, until my breaths are coming in short, shallow bursts.
There’s no air. I can’t get enough air. It’s not enough—I can’t breathe—I can’t…
The pain in my ankle forces me still; Remi, Giovanni, Mr. Carr, the showcase, Koen — all at once it’s too much, and I’m spiraling.
No matter how quickly I draw my breaths, I can’t get enough—there’s not enough oxygen.
The edges of my vision darken right before the world starts to tilt, which only makes me panic more.
I trip when my knees buckle, throwing my hands out, about to crash down onto my knees, but large, strong hands wrap around me before I hit the floor, holding me up. Slowly, they lower me to the ground when my knees give way, and I crumble.
Koen’s deep voice echoes somewhere in the distance, but I can’t reach it; it’s so far away, and I can’t—I can’t let him see me like this.
“Look at me.”
I don’t. Dropping my eyes to the ground as the darkness grows, my vision tunnels even further, my heart rate skyrockets and I start to hyperventilate, fighting for breath. My panic only escalates as I start to freak out that he’s about to see me like this.
“Briar!”
My name, shouted from the distance. But it’s too late. He’s too far away. I can’t reach him.
“Breathe, little Rose, breathe.”
Hands cup my face, bringing my chin up. Deep, rich evergreen is all I can see before lips crush down onto mine, stealing my breath, halting the shadows and freezing my racing heart.
My fingers cling onto him, surrendering entirely to the sheer dominance of his kiss. I don’t have it in me to fight it. I don’t know that I want to. My heart stops when he pulls me closer.
The world shrinks down until it’s just the two of us, he invades every single one of my senses, the feel of his lips against mine.
I inhale deep, finding comfort in the familiar dark citrus scent of him.
I breathe it in, my hands moving up to the back of his head, my fingers running through his hair.
It’s softer than I thought it would be. A wave of calm settles over me.
The warmth from his body leeches into mine, his tight grip on my hair—on my body—grounding me.
When my breathing evens out, he pulls away, and I release a long steadying breath, peering up at him.
“That’s it, breathe. Just like that. Good.”
The realization of what just happened hits me and I spin away from him. We’re both on the ground, he’s on his knees in front of me, but I can’t look at him.
I need to cry, I need to let it out. My throat is tight, a sob just wanting to escape, but I don’t want to. Not in front of him.
My back is to Koen now and I know he can see me struggling. I feel him shift and then he’s pulling me back—pulling me into him.
I try to fight his hold on me, try to pull away, but his arms lock around me, caging me in. Frustration at not being able to escape finally tips me over the edge, and I release a small sob. I can’t hold it now that it’s out, and more follow.
Strong arms tighten around my middle and he leans in, resting his chin down on my shoulder.
His hold on me is tight, but I no longer feel trapped—I feel safe.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any questions.
He just sits there, holding me. He keeps holding me until the tears stop, and my breathing slows down to match the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back.
I don’t know how long we sit like that. I’m emotionally strung out. I feel numb and I nearly jump at the sound of his voice when he finally speaks, though his tone is soft.
“You ready to go?”
“Yeah,” I sniff, raising my hands and wiping my cheeks. “I just gotta get my bag.”
“I’ll get it.” Koen lets me go. Getting to his feet, he crosses the studio, picking up my phone and putting it into my bag, before zipping it shut and swinging it over his shoulder.
I rise awkwardly, trying to avoid putting too much weight on my ankle.
I use the ballet barre above me for assistance, wincing slightly at the shooting pain when I accidentally lean too far on it.
I go to take one step but my foot never lands.
My world tilts sideways as my legs are swept out from under me, and I let out a cry of surprise as I fall back.
My hands scramble for purchase, and I cling tightly to Koen’s t-shirt. He’s scooped me up.
I kick out with my feet, attempting to twist out of his hold.
“It’s not that serious. I can walk!”
But he’s already carrying me toward the entrance, tightening his grip.
“Maybe, but you’re not going to.”
“You were just shot!” I protest, looking around frantically to make sure I’m not leaning against his injured shoulder, feeling no relief despite discovering I’m not. “You’re going to make it worse. ”
“Then maybe you should stop wiggling.”
I do. I stop struggling. Not wanting to hurt him any more than I probably already am.
“You can just take me home,” I hedge, as he sets me down in the passenger seat of the SUV. Hoping maybe he forgot about the whole not having heat thing in all of the excitement.
“Not a chance, Ballerina. Buckle up. You’re staying with me tonight. I’m not fucking arguing with you about it.” He snaps when he sees me opening my mouth, “Your heat will be fixed in the morning.”
I blink up at him. “Wait, it will? Uh, how?” I’ve spent most of this fall, and much of last winter, berating the landlord to fix the damn heat, but he couldn’t care less.
Koen slides into the driver’s seat, shooting me a dark smile.
“Don’t worry about it.”