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Annalise frowns. “If you do your steps correctly, there should be no soreness.” That’s bullshit, and she knows it; pain is part and parcel of a ballerina’s life. Sore muscles, strained nerves, toes with nails blackened or missing, feet cramped and twisted. But Annalise has proclaimed, as long as I’ve danced for her, that perfection comes without pain. That if our bodies hurt, it just means we need to make them work harder, to accept it rather than feel it.
It’s a load of shit, but none of us have the courage to argue.
“Of course.” I nod, biting my lip. “I’ll do better.”
“See that you do. Your understudy would be happy to take your place, if it’s too much. Wouldn’t you, Rachelle?”
Rachelle nods, but she gives me an apologetic look under her lashes, when Annalise turns away to castigate someone else. She can’t say no—Annalise would have her hide for that, if she suggested she would be anything but ecstatic to take the lead role for herself.
Ambition is also something Annalise finds appealing in a prima—or a future prima. Although we’re a corps, she believes that the best fight for themselves, not for others.
Maybe that’s the thread of weakness she always sees in me, because I’ve always fought for everyone other than myself. Niki, most of all.
I force myself through the practice, trying to soften my limbs, to move with grace, to not think about the catastrophe possibly about to play out outside of these walls. And when the music finally stops, slowing to a halt as I execute the final steps and move away from my partner, I turn to see Lorenzo leaning against the doorway.
My heart stops, for a brief second, in my chest. He looks impossibly handsome, backlit there in the light coming from the window in the hall, his sleeves rolled up to show muscled and, surprisingly, tattooed forearms. I’ve never seen him without his shirtsleeves down before, and for some reason, I hadn’t expected him to have tattoos. He seemed too reserved, too calculated for that.
His dark suit trousers are impeccably fitted, the shirt equally well-tailored, and his green gaze is fixed on me as he watches, his dark hair falling forward slightly. He’s gorgeous, and dangerous, and the look on his face is so heated that it takes my breath away as I stop and sink down from my toes.
I can feel every woman, and some of the men in the room, too, looking at him. I feel a mixture of jealousy and pride. Pride, because I know he wants me, and jealousy, because he refuses to make me his.
He could have anyone in this room for free. He might, even, and I would never know about it. But our circumstances are different.
Slowly, carefully, he inclines his head towards the hall, indicating that he’ll wait for me there. And then he turns, slipping out of the doorway.
My heart is still beating wildly in my throat. I sink down, undoing my pointe shoes, ignoring the looks and whispers all around me. Rachelle is at my elbow, sinking down onto the floor next to me.
“Mila? Is that?—”
“I can’t talk about it.” I give her an apologetic, pleading look, and she hesitates, but after a moment, she nods. I can see that she’s full of questions—probably dying to ask them all—but to my relief, she respects my need to not talk about it.
It’s not even just that I can’t. I don’t want to. I don’t want to try to explain any of this to someone else, when I can barely come to terms with it myself.
I slip on the soft leather flats, wincing at the usual pain in my feet, and slip out to find Lorenzo.
He’s waiting for me at the far end of the hall, his hands in his pockets. I can see the crease of worry between his brows when he looks at me, and I pick up my pace despite the soreness in my feet, the anxiety welling up again. I have the sudden, desperate feeling that I need to tell him everything, and that frightens me almost as much as the situation itself.
I absolutely, unequivocally, cannot begin to need this man. Not for anything more than I already do.
“Are you sure?” He asks the question abruptly, in a low voice, the moment I’m close enough to hear.
I don’t need to ask what he means. “Absolutely.” It comes out as a hoarse whisper, and the worry in Lorenzo’s face deepens. It sparks something in me, solidifying my panic, and it spills over in a rush.
“I can’t go to jail. Lorenzo—” The words come out in a torrent, low and hushed, but still frantic. “My brother would have no one. They’ll put him in foster care, he’ll be taken away from me—I can’t let this happen. There has to be a way to fix this, to get him to leave me alone?—”
“Mila.” His voice is calm, calmer than it feels like it should be, under the circumstances. “I won’t let him hurt you. I won’t let anything hurt you. I promised you that, remember?”
“How can you be sure? You said sometimes someone has to take the fall, that there has to be a scapegoat, that?—”
“I won’t let it be you.”
“What if they insist? What if the money isn’t enough?—”
“Mila.” The sound of my name, soft on his tongue, echoes faintly in my ears, but it’s not enough. Now that the panic has overflowed, I can’t seem to stop it.
“He knows something. He’s not going to leave me alone until he figures it out. If he follows me home?—”
The sudden, soft press of Lorenzo’s mouth against mine stops the tide.
