Chapter 63 Adrian
ADRIAN
Sonya’s eyes are big and dark as we get into my truck. “What I just did could burn me in so, so many ways.”
I reach over and grip her hand. Protective instincts rage through me. “I won’t let it. I’ll do anything to—”
She presses a finger to my mouth, softly halting me. “Guess what I’m also feeling?”
“Rage,” I murmur.
My answer makes her mouth twitch. “Yeah.” She exhales. “But also relief. I don’t regret it, Adrian. I was sick of it at that moment. They wanted me to be a puppet who does what I’m told. I’m not a puppet. I’m a person.”
“I’m so fucking proud of you, Sonya.”
And angry. It still fucking pisses me off, too. As soon as we walked into the ballroom, they tried to push her to the side as if she was better off not there.
Sonya didn’t let them.
Chest-pumping satisfaction rolls over me as I remember how she stood on that stage and stripped away all their disingenuousness. How she called out Madame Kozlova and exposed the whole company, calling to question their values and integrity.
Sonya stood up not only for herself, but also, for every dancer who needs support. She demanded institutional changes, so any other ballerina who experiences the yips, doesn’t get cast aside like she did.
Fuck, I’m so awestruck by her bravery.
She shined, ripping up that check.
My whole body aches with need. All I want to do is to pull her onto my lap and whisper how incredible she is.
So I do.
Her mouth twitches again as I push the driver’s seat back as far as it goes, and lift her by the waist, until she’s on my knee and her gown spills everywhere.
My body curves around her, making sure the gearshift digs into my side, not hers.
Not that I care about discomfort. Not when I’m nuzzling her neck.
“You inspire me, Sonya. I’m so lucky to have stood next to you tonight, darling. It was my fucking honor to be there.”
“If it wasn’t for your donation, they wouldn’t have brought me on stage.”
“Fools. Wasting their time with me when you’re there.”
“You gave out… What was it? A link to your custom playlist of me dancing?” She raises a brow at me. “Do I want to know why you had that so conveniently available?”
I tut, peppering kisses along her bare shoulder. “Baby, it’s no big deal that I believe in you so much, I want to shout it to the whole world.”
She lets out a soft breath, one that feels lighter than before.
“You know what?” she says, turning slightly to face me in the dark cabin of the car.
Her voice is quiet, but certain. “I believe in myself too.” She swallows, gaze fixed on the streetlights passing outside her window.
“Maybe what happened at the gala sabotaged my chances, but I want this. I want to go into that audition room in front of Bob Pepita and give it everything I have.”
My chest tightens. Pride doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“You probably want to go to the studio right now,” I say, sighing and grinning, “even though it’s late and your feet are killing you.”
“Maybe.” Her mouth twitches. “Yes.”
“Okay, then…I have something for you.”
She eyes me, suspicious. “What kind of something?”
“A surprise.”
Her mouth purses. “Should I be concerned?”
“Always,” I wink. “But this one’s good, I promise.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re at my place, standing outside the gym where she used to train with Team Nutcracker.
She eyes the door, then glances sideways at me, frowning. “Did you want to…work out together or something?”
I know why she’d think that. I had every known piece of equipment inside, the best home gym money can buy.
But not anymore.
“Go inside,” I say, my voice rough. “You’ll see.”
She pushes the door open without much ceremony. I trail behind her, my pulse kicking into a sprint.
She takes one step in. Two.
And then she jerks to a stop.
Completely still.
Her hand flies to her mouth.
Gone is the equipment. Every last weight, bench, and machine.
There’s nothing left but cushioned, sprung flooring and mirrors on every wall. A mounted barre runs the length of one side, installed at just the right height for her.
And then there are the black bows. The fancy ones you put on presents. In retrospect, a hundred of them hanging from the ceiling might’ve been a bit much. But I should distract her from them, if they are too much, right?
Is it too much?
Fuck!
I scrub a hard hand down my face as my pulse skyrockets.
She hasn’t said anything. Her hand’s still at her mouth, eyes wide.
“Wait—Sonya—just before you say anything, you should know, the floor…it’s customized to absorb impact,” I blurt out, “so it reduces the stress on joints.” I spin halfway around and gesture at the sleek white unit on the wall.
“And there’s full temperature control. Too hot, you can cool down with air-conditioning.
But if your muscles are sore, you can crank up the heat.
Nice, right? And—there’s a kitchen—in the corner—”
More gesturing.
All while Sonya has kept quiet.
Her silence is absolute hell.
I jog across the studio, practically skidding to a stop in front of the fridge.
“Look! Homemade snacks. Made by me! Way better than any sad, crappy vending machine snacks. You know, the options other studios offer.” I fumble around and grab one of the granola bars, holding it up like a trophy.
“This is packed with five kinds of protein! And chocolate!”
My other hand opens another drawer. “And look! Cookies! There’s only one bag. Because you’ll want them fresh. Obviously. So, I’ll bake them often, and, and—”
I’m babbling and—
Clenching my fists, bracing myself. “Okay, yeah, it’s a lot. Probably too much. But don’t worry, if you don’t want to use it all the time.” My shoulders drop. “Or sometimes. Or not yet.” I clear my throat, freaking out because have I gone overboard? Fuck.
“Why?” Finally she speaks, barely moving her mouth, asking, “Why did you build this for me, Adrian?”
I jam my hands into my pockets. “You spend a lot of time at the studio. And so you can spend it here…if you…want?”
Please want to.
I’ll do anything to have you here more often.
Sonya doesn’t answer. Her gaze drifts down, lashes low, breathing shallow like she’s holding something back.
I walk back to her, with my heart in my throat.
“It was too much,” I roughly breathe out, “wasn’t it?”
I feel stark panic spread across my expression. Sonya doesn’t see it though, because she’s dropped her head against the center of my chest. Her hair brushes my chin.
“You’re the worst,” she mumbles.
I flinch.
Here it comes.
Agony rips up my soul, even as I soothe my hands down her back. “I am the worst, aren’t I, Sonya darling? A moron who overwhelmed you with all this, when you need to be focusing on your audition.”
Her grip on my jacket tightens. “How long will it stay like this?” she asks, voice muffled against me. “When does your gym equipment go back?”
Okay, here’s an opportunity. I should allude to something vague, say maybe later this year. That’ll take the pressure off this giant gesture while I still can.
A bow dangling above our heads jostles to the side, as if agreeing with the obvious backtracking.
“It’s staying like this forever, baby.”
I’m a fool. A desperate, pathetic fool who’ll keep his gym this way, in case a day ever comes that she wants to use it for her ballet.
“Stop, Adrian! I can’t take it.”
The tendons on my neck stand out. “I know, I shouldn’t have—”
Sonya lifts her head up.
Air punches out of my lungs.
I thought I was in agony before? That’s absolutely nothing compared to how I suffer seeing Sonya’s eyes brimming with tears.
My fingers shake as I ghost them along her cheeks. “Hey, what’s this? Baby, no. Wait.” She never cries. I’ve not seen it happen once. “Please don’t, baby. I’ll fix it. If you want this studio gone—fuck, you’re killing me—it’s gone. I’ll do anything—”
“You made me a h-home?” she stammers, voice breaking. “W-Where I can dance? I-I can’t believe it. How do I stop myself from wanting it?” She scrubs at a tear, outraged. “I’m already falling apart. You’re always under my skin, never letting go, and now this?”
“Why do you think I did it?” I rasp, brushing my thumb along her jaw, desperate to make her see it. “Any excuse. Any excuse at all to have you closer to me—”
“But this studio is a dream. Her voice breaks again, a whisper of disbelief. “You’re giving me a dream, and if it’s taken away…”
My heart shatters.
All at once, I understand. What any kind of home means to Sonya.
The way her foster guardians treated her, what she never had growing up, how she’d never invited anyone to her apartment before I was there because her space is so privately guarded, and why Madame Kozlova kicking her out was such a stab of betrayal…
Because when nothing stays, you have to keep vigilant to survive things when they’re gone. That’s what she’s afraid of.
“I’m calling my lawyer,” I say.
She leans back, startled. “Why?”
“This house will be yours, and this studio is yours—and—“
“That’s—” Sonya balks, throwing her hands into the air. “That’s—ludicrous. You can’t be serious. Why would you say that?“
I look at her, my mouth softening even as my heart beats hard in my chest. “You already know, darling.”
Sonya gulps, her throat moving like the sound physically hurts.
“Remember in Oslo,” I say quietly, “when I went down on my knees. Remember the questions I wanted you to ask me…”
“Right now?” she whispers.
“Right now.”
She shakes her head slightly, as if trying to hold on. “Adrian.”
“Sonya, darling.” I run my hands up and down her arms. “Be brave. Find out.”
Using the back of her palm, she’s rubbing at her eyes, sniffing. “When was…? When was…the last time you had sex?”
“Before all the fun I’ve had with you, darling? Over two years ago.”
Her arm stalls, mid-air. “That can’t be—”
“There’s a second question, Sonya. Ask me that one, too.”
Her breath hitches. “…who do you think about when you touch yourself?”
“The only person I think about is you.” My voice is low, rough. “Now, one more.”
“I don’t know which—”
“It’s a new question,” I whisper, my heart on the floor at her feet, clenching uncontrollably.
“…okay.”
“Ask me who I love.”
Her whole body jerks. More tears spill over. She shakes her head, lost. “I…I don’t know what to say. I want to give you the words, but—”
Carefully, I reach for her face, my thumbs brushing the tears she can’t seem to stop. Her skin is hot beneath my fingers, flushed from crying. “I don’t need words. Because the fact that you’re not running for the exit… Are you kidding me? I’ve won.”
“No, but you deserve the words, Adrian. All of them.”
“Not if they come with more tears,” I whisper. “Because I swear, I just lost ten years of my life seeing you cry.”
She presses a watery kiss on my mouth, then turns around.
“I need you to unzip my dress.” She looks over her shoulder at me, explaining, “I said I’m not good with words, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel them.
Maybe I’ll show you in another way? But I can’t move in this dress, so I need you to help me. ”
There’s a prolonged moment of silence.
“Did you hear me?” she wonders.
No. I didn’t.
My mind has wiped out, and there’s no hope of ever resuscitating me.
“Adrian,” she chides.
One of the best puck-handlers in the world, able to bank the puck off the back of the net after an end-to-end rush, and it takes me three tries to get the zipper down.
I barely hear the crinkling sound above the pounding of my thundering heart. I’m losing my mind.
And then I swallow my tongue.
Because she moves away and starts peeling velvet off her skin. Underneath it are lacy scraps and dainty, criss-crossing straps barely covering anything.
A coarse, tortured noise tears out of my chest.
Sonya turns around.
I whimper out a broken groan.
“I’m going to dance for you,” she tells me.