3. Anastasia
ANASTASIA
Despite the lights blinding me, Jakob Nowak’s intense gaze emits from the front row, exactly where Papa mentioned he’d sit.
He watches me as intently as everyone else, and though I can’t see through the spotlights, when I have a moment to breathe or pause in the set, I’m certain to glance his way, dropping the subtle hints of attention that men like him eat up.
By the end of the first act, the twenty-minute intermission is a welcome reprieve. Through these, Papa never harasses me, usually mingling with whoever’s in attendance or scoping out potential future issues. So it’s valuable time that’s all mine.
A few stagehands glance over as I skitter towards the door that leads to the service hallway and the space the building manager assigned as my dressing room. As I throw open the metal door, expecting the usual clang of it hitting the adjacent wall, I’m instead met with a muttered curse.
Only staff should be back here, and I doubt any of them would stupidly hover behind the door.
I move slowly, fingers linking together to appear powerless. If there’s one positive about Papa, it’s that he’s trained me to fight. Sending me unarmed into grown men’s orbits is a slaughter waiting to happen—his words. I’m not as good as Lev is, but it’s enough to escape.
Whoever’s here doesn’t know that, so feigning defenceless could prevent a fight before it begins.
As I peek around the corner, the shadows move until a shape—a man—is visible. He’s rubbing his cheek, which is now red, and glaring at the door before the boldest blue eyes slide to me and adrenaline hammers through my veins.
“Watch it.” An irritated tone, tinged with an unfamiliar accent. Not angry like my father gets, and it doesn’t make me want to bolt. Rather, it makes me stay, curious why a guest is here—despite instincts sending my heart racing.
“No one should be here, so why are you?”
He steps farther from the shadows, giving me the chance to make him out.
He’s younger than expected, probably around my age, with dark hair swept to the side and framing his sapphire-bold eyes.
His skin is suntanned, and his nose a little crooked like it’s been broken before. He’s beautiful in an intense way.
“Hiding from the chaos out there.” He jerks his thumb at the door. His accent is familiar… Where have I heard it before? The logical answer is Polish, given where we are, but he sounds different than the few people I’ve spoken to this morning.
A dangerous aura I can’t help but breathe in exudes from him, reminding me a bit of the Bratva’s soldiers.
I suspect there’s more to him. It’s in the hidden details—the rigidity of his body and how his eyes sharpen at my slightest shift.
The way his hand twitches to his waist, where a weapon is probably stored.
I swallow, quickly scanning for possible escape routes. If he has a weapon, I don’t. Hidden knives don’t match well with my ballet costumes, so running might be my best bet, since even hand-to-hand may not end well.
“It’s intermission. You could always hide outside instead of the staff hall.”
His head tilts again, an intriguing sparkle to his eyes. A person’s eyes state a lot about them, and I suddenly find myself longing for his story. “The show is good. You’re very good.”
“Thanks,” I reply slowly, remaining cordial just in case my worries are all in my head. “You should probably return since you’ll get in trouble being here.” I pace backwards, hinting at leaving as well. “And I need to go rest before my second act.”
He doesn’t move. So I walk backwards a few more steps before turning around. I pretend finding a stranger in the dark is normal, even as alarms flash through my head. It seems silly, but Papa’s training encourages wariness of everyone and everything.
A cool hand wraps around my arm, yanking me to a stop. His steps were quiet—too quiet—trained, which tells me everything.
“Anastasia.” My name is like melted butter in his mouth, dripping through every syllable. For a second, I devour the sound, enjoying it way too much for someone trying to escape.
“Italian?”
“Sì. I’ve travelled far for you.”
Suddenly, my back is against the wall, and he’s in front of me, large and imposing but nothing I can’t escape from either. Still, playing weak is smart for now, so I tip my head and dare to look the stranger in the eye. “I’m honoured.”
That’s when I notice the dimple on his chin, which is ridiculously chiseled for someone so young. He’s exactly the kind of man I’d find myself attracted to…in a less strange scenario, place, and time.
“Tell me about yourself.” He steps closer, only the slightest space between my breasts and his chest. He’s in my orbit—a place no one is allowed to be for both my safety and his.
My breath stalls, mind slinking through every reason he’d want to know anything about me. An intense fan without boundaries?
Instead, I reply, “I’m a ballerina,” momentarily playing his game to figure out what he’s doing here.
The stranger fingers the edge of my tutu, the lace seeming so fragile in his touch before tracing a ribbon up my side, pausing on my hip. The sensation deep in my stomach explodes into heat that fills my chest. Fear tenses my nerves while desire melts them. It’s a strange combination.
“Bellissima.”
“Beautiful.” I translate the common enough word. At least, I think I’m correct.
“Sì. But that wasn’t my question. Tell me something about you that no one else knows.”
Tell a stranger my secrets? Everything about this feels like a bad, bad, bad idea. Like something Papa would beat me for falling for. Maybe he’s correct that I’m too weak and innocent because I ignore the negative thought, even when the old wound festers with stinging tears not shed in years.
“I started ballet because of my mother. She gifted me a music box with a ballerina and believed I had the determination to be as graceful as the figurine. So I did it to prove to her, then fell in love with the sport when I was ten.”
The stranger lifts his head slightly, something I don’t comprehend flashing across his expression. “What about now? Do you do it for yourself?”
“Da.” And for my papa, unfortunately. He took something that was a sign of her and twisted it for his sick needs.
“Where’s your madre now?”
Presuming that to mean mom, I reply, “Gone.” Since I was six and woke up to her absence the morning after being gifted with the music box.
These days, her face is a blur in my mind since Papa burned every picture of her without explaining what happened.
Lev and I have our theories, but nothing definitive.
“Mine too.” He offers no further explanation. Instead, his touch continues up my side, following the outfit’s edge over my bare shoulders and back, stopping where the tutu begins. “How’s it possible to be this fuckin’ soft?”
He brushes hair off my shoulder before moving up to my face, where, with the back of his hand, he strokes my cheek.
The red flags are still present, waving insanely in the breeze, yet I don’t push him away.
Maybe it’s nice to be touched by someone my own age for once.
Someone who isn’t a disgusting villain or instructed by my father.
This stranger in the night seems normal…which is pathetic, all things considered.
I don’t look up at the weight of his intense gaze in case I find something tempting. Given that intermission is ticking away, this—whatever this is—must end.
“Volto di un angelo.” A compliment without the heaviness of lust that I’m so used to from Papa’s assignments. “Face of an angel.” He fingers strands of my hair that have come loose from my bun over the course of the performance. “Hair the colour of one. You sparkle like one too.”
Body glitter coats my chest and arms to reflect on the stage lights, though no one could probably tell from a distance. “You’re full of compliments for a stranger who’s yet to give me his name.”
Instead of handing that over or laughing the comment off, his jaw ticks. Ice drips over his features, freezing them. Interesting.
“It’s best if you don’t know my name. But perhaps I’ll tell you if you meet me here after the show?” Flirty hope attempts to mask over the prior ice, but it doesn’t do the greatest job at hiding it either.
I want to. Even without knowing his name and the fact I could be walking into something worse, I want to. I’d rather be with this Italian guest than be forced into Jakob Nowak’s bed by Papa’s command.
He shakes his head, brows drawing together. “Then again, maybe it’s best if you don’t. After the show, you’ll need to go home and rest.”
Before responding, a loud bang carries down the hallway. For a moment, my stomach jumps at the interruption—and the saviour who’ll scare the stranger away so I can pretend the alluring yet bad idea of this moment never happened.
Then, whoever’s down the hallway laughs. A chuckle more chilling than the stranger, who’s still trapping me against the wall, making me vulnerable at every angle.
The stranger mutters something in Italian, then in English. “Fuck.”
I realize he’s no longer the most dangerous person back here.