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But I’ll be damned if I let that happen.
I’ve dealt with nasty things being whispered behind my back, and this time is no different.
Pull yourself together, Willow.
I step closer to Alek until our chests almost touch, but my gaze doesn’t back down. “So what if I am? Aren’t you turned on by it?”
Konstantin chuckles beside us, but no one else dares to laugh. The tension in the room is electric.
“You have no idea what I’m into,” Alek warns.
“Oh, please. You wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like me.”
His eyes dip to my lips before settling back on my gaze. “I have some ideas.”
The door at the front of the room bursts open, and our calculus teacher walks in.
“Everyone, take a seat.”
Alek continues to stare, daring me to be the first to break eye contact. But I’d rather die before backing down.
“Miss Baker, Mr. Kurochkin, sit down.”
Raking his lips between his teeth, Alek steps around, leaving me the only one left standing. The scales have tipped in my favor, and it takes everything in me to keep from grinning.
“Miss Baker, I will not ask you again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 8
Willow
In Andarusia, preparations for graduation begin as early as the first day of April. Sure, in the United States we’re already ordering our caps and gowns, finalizing the yearbook, and writing valedictorian speeches.
But here, we have to rehearse a dance we’ll perform on graduation day. What the fuck is that about?
The graduating class is gathered in the auditorium—did I mention this used to be a throne room? The Aristocrats are sitting on the edge of the stage, and Johanna has her hands all over Alek for everyone to see. Barf.
The stage lights are on, so the rest of the auditorium is swathed in darkness, and I’ve found a seat in the back corner where no one will bother me. Not that they would, because to be seen with me would draw unwanted attention from Alek and his evil minions.
Since the incident with Alek last week, I’ve been leaving my Kindle at home, which makes these breaks between classes quite dull.
Two-and-a-half more months. That’s it, and then… I don’t know.
A door creaks open near the back of the auditorium, and an instructor I’ve never seen walks in. She’s dressed like a ballet teacher in black spandex from head to toe, and a sheer, black skirt is wrapped around her svelte waist.
Of course, this school would have a ballet program. Figures.
She claps her hands together once, and the chatter dies.
“For those of you who do not know me, I am your dance instructor. You may address me as Mrs. Orlova. All students on the stage. Now.”
Her voice leaves no room for argument, and judging by the stern expression on her face, this woman is accustomed to ordering teenagers around.
I’m the last person to arrive on the stage, and she narrows her gaze at me. I gulp.
“Each year, the graduating class performs a traditional Andarusian waltz. This dance goes back to eighteenth-century Prussia, and it has a mix of German and Russian influences. I will pass out the rehearsal schedule after class, and attendance is compulsory. Is that understood?”
