His to Break (Claimed by Kings #3)

1. Artem

Artem

Intermission ends, and I settle in for the final act.

It's a good one.

I should know. I've seen every show over the last two months that featured Katya Popova, their newest principal dancer and the crown jewel of the company.

Anyone watching her on stage can see why. When she dances, it's almost like the entire auditorium holds its breath.

She's gorgeous. No one could argue that.

Her movements are fluid and perfect.

I watch as her body, displayed in a gossamer-thin tunic that leaves very little to the imagination, moves to the music.

Her feet arch and flex, and her back bends gracefully as she falls into the arms of her lover.

It's lovely and tragic, even to someone with a heart of stone.

Hell, if I can be moved, then anyone can.

It doesn't hurt that she plays the character so well. Even from my box, I can see her lovely face falling with emotion as she watches her lover die.

As I watch her, I contemplate what she would do if she experienced this kind of tragedy in real life. Would she fight or crumble?

I'm not sure which I prefer, not that it matters. Katya Popova will suffer. It's a shame, but it is what must happen. In this life, beautiful women often pay for the sins of the men in their lives, and she is no different.

I shake off those thoughts, denying myself the pleasure of that line of thinking. It's not time to wax poetic about the ways I will break Katya.

I'm here for revenge, and revenge requires action. Tonight, we will have our first meeting, and as I watch her float across the stage, I can't help but feel adrenaline course through me at the thought of beginning my plans.

"Lovely, isn't she?" Joseph Blanchette, the director of the company, says, interrupting my thoughts. "One of our finest."

I nod curtly, not taking my eyes off Katya's lithe form. Blanchette is a means to an end.

Her legs, long and muscular, flex, moving her body through the motions. She doesn't trip up. She never has in the multiple shows I've attended.

She's regimented. Controlled. Her body moves through the music as though she is one with it.

If she were anyone else, I would be impressed by her commitment. I would feel a sense of national pride, but she's not just anyone.

She is Viktor Popov's granddaughter.

I watch as she moves, taking in the way her lips part in a final gasp as she presses the blade to her ribs and falls. Dead.

There's silence, but only for a moment.

The place erupts in applause the moment the curtain closes. When it opens again, Katya is center stage, taking an elegant bow.

Her eyes are twinkling; I can see it even from here. Her hands shake slightly as she accepts several flowers from her co-performers. She's both thrilled by the praise and intimidated by it.

"I want an audience," I tell Blanchette.

He smiles, waving slightly as the spotlight turns in his direction. I move just out of sight. There's no need for my pretty little dove to know of my presence, not yet. After all, I am in control, and she will meet me soon enough.

"The show ends in a few weeks. There will be a party?—"

"Tonight," I say, "at the cocktail hour." The time when donors are meant to get their asses kissed by the directors of the theater and influence the upcoming season.

Despite the nearly one million dollars I've donated to this place, I don't give a fuck about it. The money was simply an investment to get here.

And I'll happily use it as intended.

Blanchette turns, his smile tight. He's about to deny my request, and he's loath to do it. "I'm afraid that the dancers are not allowed to attend?—"

"Make an exception."

Blanchette's smile doesn't falter, but I can see the way his face pales.

"Mr. Orlov, you've been a fantastic friend to the company, and to me.

I understand your fascination with Ms. Popova.

Who hasn't been captured by a beautiful ballerina?

" His tone annoys me. "But I'm afraid tonight's cocktail hour is only for donors.

" He places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing slightly.

"Her presence would raise a great deal of questions that are uncomfortable. "

I smile slightly, and I watch Blanchette catch a small breath. This isn't a smile born of mirth or happiness. It's all teeth. Predatory. Blanchette needs to remember who is in charge here.

I place my hand atop his. He's got a dancer's hand, delicate and soft. He's never worked a hard day in his life. I squeeze those fingers just enough to be painful without breaking his birdlike bones. "I want to meet Ms. Popova tonight, Jonathan. It wasn't a request."

He gasps, trying to pull away, but he doesn't give in, and I actually appreciate that, even if I find it annoying. "I can't?—"

I squeeze harder, hearing his knuckles crack.

"Then I suppose I'll have to let the board of trustees know about your little cocaine problem.

" He whimpers, and I think it's from the potential exposure as much as from the pain.

"And then, you'll have to hand over the five hundred thousand dollars you owe me. "

"I told you?—"

He's about to explain that he doesn't have the money, and that my predecessor allowed him to take out credit as long as he showed up every Friday ready and willing to sell his body to eager men at the club.

I'm not as magnanimous, and I'm no longer peddling flesh.

Unlike Alexei Morozov's, my goals for the Bratva are larger and loftier.

"You told me that you would work off your debt." I drop his hand. "The comped box seats are merely a drop in the bucket of what you owe. I want to meet Ms. Popova."

He stretches his hand, testing whether the fingers are broken. They aren't—not yet, anyway.

"Why are you so interested in her?"

I glance back down at the stage. The curtain has closed fully, and Katya has retreated to her dressing room.

She'll take off her costume and make-up, get into her athletic clothes, and head to her apartment six blocks away.

I know that because I've been following her for months, and every show is the same. Hell, every day is predictable.

Katya thrives on predictability. It's convenient for me and bad for her. She should know better.

"Do what I'm telling you," I say, "or you'll realize you should have found a way to pay me."

He swallows and nods. "Okay." He swallows again. "Okay. But I need to go now, before the dancers leave, or else she's going to be gone."

He cradles his injured hand to his chest. I watch him go. "Be quick."

He scurries away, and I look back at the stage, fixing my cufflinks. For months, I've been laying the groundwork, and tonight, all my plans truly begin.

For Irina, I will have my revenge.