Chapter 7
She was beautiful. She was so fucking beautiful it made my eyes hurt, and my heart pound, and my icy heart feel like it was on fire.
I leaned forward without thinking of it, my body like a puppet whose strings were controlled by Eva.
Every demon inside of me silenced itself so it could listen to the music as she moved.
“Wow,” I whispered. “She’s amazing.”
My fixed attention on the dancing wasn't respect for technique or appreciation for choreography, or whatever other words Nikolai kept using to compliment them.
No, it was sharper. Hungrier. Because I had found my snowflake in a storm, and part of me was worried that if I looked away, she would disappear.
And I would never let that happen again.
Unlike Nikolai, who considered himself a patron of the arts, I couldn’t care less about paintings and dancing and shit.
There was probably a wing with my cousin’s name on it at every museum in the city.
Our family was certainly wealthy enough to do it, though most of my charitable donations were made to the city police in return for their.
.. disinterest in my family's activities. Never something as silly as a ballet.
Yet watching Eva dancing, a white and silver skirt flowing around her rapidly moving legs, leaping and turning like it was second nature, I found myself unable to look away.
She was a natural, her feet moving at angles that were surely painful.
There was discipline in her body—years of it, etched into muscle and bone.
Suffering, sacrifice, and obedience. And I realized, then, that maybe the arts could be beautiful. I only needed a muse.
"Does it hurt her?" I asked Nikolai as she elevated to her toes once more.
"Certainly," he said, his expression unbearably smug, knowing that he pleased me.
"That sort of thing can't feel pleasant.
Their feet certainly reflect the toll. The redhead I fucked—she's the one on the far left—had disgusting feet, but it was kind of a turn on.
Sort of a reminder that she's trained her body to be able to handle it. "
I didn't like that. I didn't like the idea of Eva hurting herself for a show, of making herself bleed and bruise in the name of beauty. Yet I couldn't judge her for such a thing, because I could tell now, watching her on the stage, that this was her home.
But I wanted to be her home. I wanted every ache, every turn, every breath she drew to belong to me. If anyone dared to step between us, I would end them without mercy.
"And anyway, Eva can definitely stand these movements. I mean, look at her legs. They're fantastic. I bet—"
But he was cut off by my hand wrapping around his throat and squeezing until his lips turned a pale shade of blue.
Nikolai's eyes widened as I aimed a dark glare at him. "Don't you ever talk about my future wife's legs—or any other part of her fucking body—that way again. Or you’ll find out firsthand why they call me the Reaper."
He nodded quickly. "Got it, got it. What body? I'm so blind I can't see it."
"Smartass," I grumbled, shoving him away, but not before I saw the stupid, arrogant grin he flashed my way.
"Future wife, huh?"
"Do you have a problem with that, Nikolai?"
"No, no." He chuckled under his breath. "But does this bride of yours know she's engaged?"
"She'll figure it out."
Whether that was sooner, as I preferred it, or later, after some convincing, was a mere detail. When I wanted something, I got it.
And I wanted her. She was fucking mine.
I didn’t care if I had to be a monster to keep her.
"I think the scarier question is: does Maria know she'll be getting a daughter-in-law.
You can't tell her, Aleksandr. She'll suffocate the poor girl under a mountain of tiramisu and embarrassing stories of your family members!
" Though Nikolai wasn't related to my mother by blood, I had to give it to him: he knew the woman well.
She was overbearing, nosy, and sometimes completely unbearable.
Yet besides Eva and my sister, she was the only woman I'd ever truly cared for.
A detestable feeling, though I knew my father could protect her enough to let the attachment slide.
"Details, Niko. Details."
I rested my chin on my hand as I continued to watch Eva, enraptured by her grace and skill.
There was something almost sacred in the way she moved.
I found myself cataloging her movements with the same attention I gave to weapons and strategy, ready to build an altar and worship her as my goddess divine.
Because I would. I would worship Eva on my knees and sing my praises with my tongue.
"Speaking of details," he said, leaning forward as the snowflakes exited the stage. "Want to know how your brilliant cousin pulled this off?"
"No."
"Well, your curiosity need not worry, because I'll tell you.
So I was at the show two days ago—the fifth time I've seen it, and I must admit: they only get better—when I finally thought to myself, 'You know, I've never read the program before.
' I figured I should probably learn the redhead's name after all, but I wasn't sure I wanted to see her again at this point anyway.
Got a little boring for my tastes, but she was fun while it lasted.
So I opened up the little paper thing, which is full of way too many ads, and I read the bios for all the dancers, moving down the line alphabetically—"
"Are you capable of telling a story without an excessive amount of information?"
"No, and anyway, I get down to the V's, and I see..."
He slapped a program into my hands and opened the page he's referencing. There, the final dancer is listed:
Evangeline Vale.
My Eva.
Her headshot is next to a short biography, and I study the words over and over and over.
It says little about her—that she went to a small private school upstate for university, where she held honors for three years, and that The Nutcracker was her first full production for the Company.
It also said, to my amusement, that her greatest weakness was her sweet tooth.
I tucked the knowledge away for later and looked back at Nikolai, wishing I could smack the smirk off his face.
Yet I held myself back because I, unfortunately, owed him.
"I thought to myself," he continued, "that maybe Eva is short for something.
After all, we've been looking for an Eva with absolutely no success for weeks. And I hate to typecast someone, but you said she loves pink and was wearing ribbons, and that sounds like a ballerina to me. I figured this might be our girl.”
“My girl.”
“Details. So after the show, I followed her for a little bit yesterday.
She went to this dingy cafe, and when she came out in her uniform, BAM!
She was wearing a name-tag that said Eva.
I spent some time there—your girl is terrible at making coffee, by the way.
I think they only hired her because she's much more attractive than anyone else there, and the other customers certainly think so by the way they tip her and try to get her attention. "
"That will stop," I hissed under my breath, my fists already tightening with the need to kill someone.
The thought of men looking at her—smiling at her, lingering too long, daring to believe she might want them—lit something vicious in my chest. The world had a way of tearing through things like Eva—gentle things, bright things—and I had spent my life being the thing that tore back.
Anyone who touched her would pay. Blood. Bone. Pain. And I would savor it.
I would rip them to fucking shreds.
"Oh, definitely," Nikolai said. "I tried to scare off as many as I could. Can't have my future cousin-in-law treated like that. But if it makes you feel better, I don't think she notices. Just continues making her shitty coffee and sneaking stale pastries from the case."
That didn't make me feel better.
“Is ballet not her job?”
He shrugged. “Honestly, I doubt the corps members get paid much. Maybe she works there to get a little extra money.”
I nodded. That was fixable. One little raise and she would never need to work at the cafe again. Besides, she was probably exhausted from doing two jobs. I would have to find a way to increase her salary, even if it meant sneaking money into her bank myself.
The curtains pulled shut as Act One ended, sending the theater into a short intermission.
I motioned for our private server to come forward.
It was a teenage boy, a nervous one who clearly tried his hardest to comb back his hair and look presentable.
"I want flowers sent to that dancer," I said, pointing at Eva's picture in the program.
"But, sir, that's not my job—"
I shoved a wad of bills into his chest, more than he was probably making that night. "Now, it is. I want them delivered to the dressing room by the end of the show."
He looked as if he were going to argue once more before clutching the cash to his chest and nodding. "Any requests for the flowers, sir?"
"Pink."
"Oh! You should get her those flowers that look like roses mixed with clouds!" Nikolai interjected. "They'd look like her costume in Act Two."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Erm, peonies, sir?" the boy asked.
I waved my hand. "Yes, yes. Something big with lots of pink. Nothing is too much."
He scampered off, and a few minutes later, he came back, red-faced, saying that they'd be on her dresser by the show's end. I tore off a piece of the program, hastily scrawled a note to include with them, and handed it back to the boy with another thing of cash.
The strings rising again while the flutes began to trill were a hint that the intermission was ending. That and Nikolai squealing like an infant pig, leaning forward and exclaiming, "This is the best act! The Sugar Plum Fairy's pas de deux is stunning."
"Pas de deux?"
"Technically, it's just French for 'a dance of two,'" he explained. "But, really, it's the most intimate part of the entire ballet. The whole stage narrows to two dancers who trust completely and complement each other well. The man might be strong with his legs, while the woman is graceful with arms, or something like that. One leads, one follows, but both are a part of the dance. One dancer is all lightness. She’s ethereal, she’s weightless, she’s unbound by gravity. And then there’s the anchor. He’s the force of nature that keeps her from flying away or falling apart. It requires a whole lot of trust because if that anchor falters, the whole thing collapses. It’s a thing of instinct, of passion. It's all very romantic."
"Yes," I murmured as the curtains opened, revealing Eva and the other dancers once more, this time dressed as members of some fairytale world that the main character and Nutcracker passed through.
She held her position so still, I briefly worried she wasn't breathing.
But then her eyes flicked to the audience, and I relaxed back into my seat.
A pas de deux.
Yes, I thought, smiling to myself as I watched my Eva. A dance of two, indeed.
I realized suddenly that watching wasn't enough.
The distance between us—rows of velvet seats, gold railings, a grand stage—felt like an insult to our connection.
I didn't like barriers between us, didn't like that I couldn't go to her whenever I wanted to taste her vanilla lip gloss again.
And I especially didn't like the idea of her walking off that stage, potentially disappearing into a world I couldn't be present in.
The final notes of a song rang out, and one piece of candy—God, this ballet made no sense to me—was replaced by another. I leaned back, folding my arms across my chest, and said, “I’m buying the ballet.”
The thought settled into me with frightening ease.
Right now, when she stepped off that stage, she belonged to the world.
Sharing dressing rooms with a dozen other dancers, meandering her way through crowds, visiting with strangers who somehow thought they had a right to her attention.
The idea of anyone being able to access her—anyone but me—curdled into something sharp and territorial.
If Eva was going to be surrounded, it would be by walls I built. Doors I could close. People who would bleed and die for her. She would not belong to the world, but to the one I created. Every move, every action, would revolve around mine.
Like a pas de deux.
Nikolai blinked once. Then twice. "You're joking."
"Have I ever joked?"
He studied me for a long moment, something like awe creeping into his expression. "You know," he said slowly, leaning back into his seat, arms crossing his chest, "most men would start with a first date. Flowers and a nice dinner."
"I've already sent her flowers. And we will have several dinners together. This moves much quicker.”
He laughed loudly, drawing the ire of many other patrons near us. "My, my. You are a sucker for this girl. You know, in an asshole-y way, it’s kind of sweet—"
I ignored him, too busy pulling my phone from my pocket, dialing a number I had memorized. He answered on the second ring, his thickly accented voice gruff. "Reaper."
"How quickly can you purchase a majority stakeholder position in the City Ballet?"
He considered my demand for a moment, probably scratching his beard and leaving his wife at the dinner table.
Tzotzi was an... interesting man. He'd worked for my father and my grandfather, and while none of us knew much about him, we knew he did a damn good job.
He was discreet in everything he did and more efficient than a hundred men.
Which is why I trusted him to make me the theater's new owner by the end of the night.
"I'd say... about thirty minutes. Perhaps less."
"I'll be awaiting your text."
Tzotzi hung up, and I sat back in my chair while Nikolai stared at me, mouth agape. "You're really fucking buying the damn ballet."
“I’m not buying just the ballet,” I said, my voice sharp. “I’m buying her.”