Chapter Seven
Aurora
The guilt comes in quiet waves. I shouldn’t have wanted it. I shouldn’t have wanted him.
My breath is still uneven when he gathers me up, carrying me toward the couch. The movement is too gentle for the man everyone fears.
As soon as he sets me down, I pull away. My fingers tremble as I fix my dress, straighten my hair—anything to erase the proof of what I just allowed.
“You okay?” he asks, reaching for a water bottle and pressing it against my lips, but I turn my head.
“No.”
He tries again, this time his hand sliding into my hair, thumb grazing my scalp, but I catch his wrist and push it away.
“What I want,” I say, forcing the words out, “is for you to leave me alone.”
His jaw tightens, eyes darkening in that dangerous, unreadable way of his—but beneath it, something flickers. Something I never expected to see from him.
Hurt.
Lucian Morelli actually looks hurt.
It knocks the breath out of me.
Then the phone on his desk buzzes, breaking the tension in half. He exhales, running a hand down his face before saying, “I have a guest coming here. You can leave.”
That’s what I wanted.
It is.
So why does it feel like something inside me cracks at the sound of those words?
I stand, pulling my dress down. My throat burns. I’m seconds away from walking out when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he says without looking at me.
I want him to look at me again, especially when I see who the guest is. A woman walks in, wearing next to nothing—a silk blouse that could slip off her shoulder with one careless move, a skirt that wouldn’t pass dress code anywhere respectable. And she’s absolutely beautiful.
Her eyes flick toward me first, narrowing as the scent of sex lingers in the air. Her nose scrunches. Then she looks right past me, smiling at him.
“Lucian,” she purrs, stepping closer. “You didn’t tell me you were busy.”
He hums, leaning back against the edge of his desk. “I wasn’t. You’re early.”
She laughs. “You know I can never wait when it comes to you.”
I wait for him to tell her to leave, to show her the same sharp edge he uses on everyone that isn’t me—but he doesn’t.
Instead, he lets her manicured nails trace the edge of his sleeve like she has every right to.
My chest tightens as I grab my bag, forcing my legs to move even though they feel like lead. The last thing I see before I step out is her whispering something in his ear—and him not stopping her.
By the time I reach my rehearsal room, I can barely breathe. I shove the door open and collapse onto the nearest bench, pressing my palms hard against my face.
What the hell was that?
I was supposed to hate him. I do hate him. This arrangement, this whole performance, was meant to be a means to an end. A contract. A cage I couldn’t wait to escape.
So why am I mourning like I just lost something?
I shouldn’t care that he’s up there with another woman. I don’t have the right to care, and yet, the jealousy burns hot enough to make me shake.
I stand abruptly, yanking open the small locker and changing into my ballet clothes.
The satin straps bite into my shoulders as I pull them into place. He doesn’t get to make me feel this small.
I step out of the studio, scanning the long hallway. Dancers rush between rooms—some heading home, others staying late to rehearse. My eyes lock on one man leaning against the wall, talking too close to one of the newer girls.
Ethan.
Everyone hates him here. He touches when he shouldn’t. He lies. He takes what isn’t his. He’s a creep. The kind of man I can risk getting fired over this stunt I’m pulling.
I approach him before I can think better of it. He notices immediately, his gaze dragging down my frame with hunger in his eyes.
“Well, well. The boss’s favorite ballerina.” His smile is all teeth. “What brings you to the slums of the damned?”
“I need a dance partner for rehearsal,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that, sweetheart? Pretty sure the boss would have my head if he knew you even looked my way.”
“Then don’t tell him.”
That makes him grin wider. “You’re a dangerous little thing, aren’t you?”
“Are you coming or not?”
He follows. Of course he does. His lust always wins.
Inside my studio, the door clicks shut behind us. I move toward the center. Ethan circles me slowly, his hand moving to squeeze my ass. I shove his hands away.
“Just dance,” I grumble.
He does this to all the dancers, always too touchy during practice. I really am not going to miss him when Morelli gets rid of him after this.
When his hand touches my waist, revulsion crawls up my spine. I hate the way his skin feels on mine, the way he smirks like he’s won something. Won the boss’s favorite toy.
But I don’t stop him.
I let the music start, and we move. His grip tightens as he spins me, and then he pulls me back against him, rough enough to feel his hard-on. His breath brushes my neck when he leans in, whispering, “You’re shaking.”
“Focus on the steps.”
“You don’t really want that.”
He’s wrong.
He’s right.
I don’t even know anymore.
Our bodies move in a rhythm that feels wrong in every possible way. His hands linger too long, his hips press too close, and disgust coils in my gut—but the anger doesn’t fade. Every sin of this moment is meant for someone else to feel.
I imagine Lucian watching. Watching me break one of his sacred rules.
By the end of the song, I can barely look at Ethan. He tries to touch me again, but I step back.
“That’s enough.”
Before I can say anything else, the door explodes—wood splinters, and the handle smashes against the mirror.
Lucian stands there, his aura black.
Ethan’s hands fall away from me instantly. His throat bobs, his lips part as if to speak, but nothing comes out.
Lucian’s gaze flicks from me to Ethan. It’s like being dissected by something that doesn’t bleed.
Ethan stammers, “Mr. Morelli, I—”
Lucian lifts his hand, and the sound dies. That’s all it takes. A flick of his wrist. “You,” Lucian hisses, terrifyingly calm, “in my office.”
It isn’t a suggestion, and I just know that he won’t be coming out of that office alive.
Ethan hesitates—idiot—his eyes dart toward me for help. I can’t even help myself.
Lucian’s tone darkens. “Now.”
Ethan bolts.
The door slams behind him, leaving me alone with the storm.
Lucian’s eyes shift to me. Not one muscle in his body moves for several seconds.
I swallow, my throat dry. “He—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in. “Don’t say his name.”
“You wanted to see what would happen,” he hisses. “You wanted to test how far you could push.”
He’s right. I wanted to know what line I could cross before he broke. I meet his eyes because not meeting them would be worse, and I’m not backing down. He let that other woman touch him, so I let another man touch me. It’s that simple. “You said I belong to you. Isn’t this proof you don’t own me?”
Rage flashes across his face. “He won’t touch you again.”
“Lucian—”
His gaze hardens, cutting off my words. “Go home, Aurora.”
He turns, walking toward the door, and I realize this is somehow worse than him shouting. Worse than punishment.