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Watching her leave makes me feel twitchy and anxious, as if my skin is too tight for my body. It took everything in me not to touch her in front of everyone, to behave as if we’re nothing but acquaintances, and it only adds to how agitated I feel.
No woman has ever made me feel like this. No one has ever stretched my self-control to its limits, or consumed my thoughts like this. It feels almost unbearable.
I want to go after her, and it takes everything in me to stop myself from doing exactly that.
The afterparty passes in a blur. At some point, Dante finds me and tells me that he and Emma are going to leave early, his arm around her waist and hand splayed over her hip in a way that tells me exactly why they’re not sticking around. It only serves to highlight how the woman I want is very far away from being on my arm.
I can barely keep sight of Mila. She flits from guest to guest like a dragonfly in white gauze, her delicate form disappearing in and out of the crowd. I have a slight buzz from champagne and cognac, both of them burning warmly in my blood and only slightly softened by the few appetizers I’ve managed to snag. Some of the ballerinas try to make conversation, small talk that I know is meant to keep me around long enough to notice their charms, but I can’t focus on anything for very long. All I can think about is Mila, and whether or not I’ll be able to speak with her again before the night is over. Every time I see another man talking with her, every time I see her head tip back with laughter, jealousy burns in my veins. I want to wrap my hand in her hair, run my fingers down the slim, pale column of her throat, and kiss her until there’s no thought in her head except for me.
It feels like madness, and I’m fully caught in its grip.
I go to the bar to get another glass of cognac, jealousy and frustration churning within me, and turn back with a glass in hand just in time to catch a glimpse of her at a table only a few feet away. She’s standing next to a man—one I recognize.
The man is tall, dark blond, broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that fits him well but not well enough to be bespoke. Even before he turns enough for me to see his profile, I know it’s Egor Vilyov.
I grit my teeth so hard I can hear the sound of them grinding together. It’s been bad enough watching her talk to every other man here, but the sight of that Bratva bastard carrying on a conversation with her is almost enough to make me lose what little sense of self-control I still have. It would be the height of stupidity to stride across the room and smash my fist into his face, worse still because it would be over a woman to whom I have absolutely no claim. Even worse, because she works for me, and it would encourage the Bratva to look more deeply into my family’s dealings. It would make our lives more difficult and endanger Mila.
But still, as I watch her smile and laugh at something he’s said, my self-control frays a little more.
It doesn’t matter that I’m certain she’s putting on a show. That she has been with every person here that I’ve seen her talking to. My thoughts are echoing with one bright, burning word, searing a path through my veins as I watch her.
Mine.
The party is starting to thin out as it gets late, the guests drifting off in pairs and groups. Mila says something to Egor quietly, touches his hand with a smile, and I grit my teeth as she turns and leaves, moving through the crowd toward the double doors at the far end of the room.
Before I can stop myself, I start to follow her. I drain the last of my cognac, setting the glass on a table as I pass by it; my only thought is that I need to see her. I need to speak to her. I need?—
I need her.
And not even my better judgment can stop me now.
Mila
Iwant to protect you. I want you to feel safe with me.
The moment those words came out of Lorenzo’s mouth, I didn’t know if I wanted to slap him or burst into tears. Now, in the safety of my dressing room, I press my hand over my mouth and try not to cry.
I could, if I wanted to. As the ballerina with the lead role, I have my own private dressing room, and the state of my makeup doesn’t matter anymore tonight. The performance is finished; the party is over. There’s nothing for me to do except go home, where Darcy will be waiting for me after having put Niki to bed, to tell me how much he enjoyed the performance.
But I don’t want to cry.
I’m tired of it. Tired of crying over everything in my life that feels uncontrollable. Tired of wanting what I can’t have. Tired of being told that what I do want, I want in the wrong way.
Lorenzo isn’t wrong that our relationship couldn’t be an equal one, if my security depended on it. But it would be better than what we have now—stolen, guilty moments that he always seems on the verge of calling a mistake, while I do a dangerous and illegal job for him that I feel wholly unequipped to manage.
We’ve been on a collision course towards each other since the moment he caught me in Alfio’s mansion, and it feels inevitable now. Like we’re just fighting something that we’d be better off giving in to.
And making each other miserable in the process.
I look at my tired reflection in the mirror. I did well tonight. Annalise will never praise me, but her lack of complaints told me what I needed to know. So long as I can keep my life from crashing and burning around me, I’m well on my way to securing the position of prima with the ballet. I’ll continue to get the lead roles, to have the career I’ve always dreamed of. And yet, standing here, I can’t seem to find the exultant joy that I know I should feel.
I spent the entire party thinking of Lorenzo. Talking to men who might want to be my patron, who could ease my path forward, and knowing that I’ll inevitably turn anyone down who makes an attempt—because I don’t want anyone other than Lorenzo. The night at my apartment just made it all the more clear to me that there’s a man under that cold, businesslike exterior that is everything I want. That I could love him, if he would let himself be that person, and not this man who overthinks everything.
The sound of the door to my dressing room slamming open jolts me out of my thoughts. I nearly leap out of my skin, letting out an undignified squeak as my fingers grip the edge of my vanity table—and then my heart stops as I see Lorenzo behind me, reflected in the mirror.
As if my thoughts summoned him. As if he heard everything I was thinking, and came here for me.
I turn, my heart pounding in my chest, just in time to see him shut the door hard, turning the lock. He moves towards me, long, quick strides that eat up the distance between us, and then both of his hands are on my face, dragging me up towards him as his mouth covers mine in a searing, devouring kiss.
