The moment Keira walks into frame, I stop scanning.
She moves differently. All liquid confidence with none of the vigilant tension she carried before.
“Look at you,” I murmur, leaning closer to the screen.
Her dancers filter in, but my eyes never leave her. She demonstrates a sequence, her body articulating emotions I’ve never seen from her before. There’s a freedom in her movement that wasn’t there three days ago. Before Idaho. Before Henderson.
The power in her is undeniable now. No longer hidden beneath layers of trauma. She commands the room without effort.
I’ve watched her dance a hundred times, but this is different. Before, she danced like someone with something to prove. Now she dances like someone who knows exactly who she is.
My chest tightens as she executes a complex turn sequence, her body a perfect instrument under her complete command. I recognize the feeling immediately, though it rarely surfaces.
Pride.
On screen, Keira laughs at something Marco says, her head thrown back, unguarded. The sound doesn’t carry through the surveillance system, but I don’t need to hear it. I’ve memorized the cadence of her laughter.
“Stunning,” I whisper.
This is what freedom looks like on her. And it’s magnificent.
The dancers begin a new sequence, something with sharp, almost violent movements. Keira leads them through it, her body cutting through space with the same kind of movement I typically associate with a well-executed assassination. There’s no hesitation in her anymore. Each gesture lands with lethal intent.
Marco falters halfway through, unable to match her intensity. When the music stops, he approaches her, pulling her toward the corner of the studio. His face is pinched with concern, hands gesturing emphatically at her.
I lean forward, wishing Felix had installed audio. But I don’t need to hear the words to read this interaction.
Marco’s posture radiates anxiety—shoulders hunched, head tilted down as he speaks close to her ear, fingers twitching at his sides. Classic submission tells. He’s worried about her, maybe even afraid of whatever he’s seeing in her now.
But Keira...
The woman who left for Idaho would have softened. Would have placated him with reassurances, maybe even apologized for her intensity. Keira was always accommodating others’ discomfort.
This Keira stands with her spine ramrod straight, chin tilted up. Her hands remain relaxed at her sides, not fidgeting or apologetic. She doesn’t shrink herself to make him comfortable.
When Marco reaches for her arm, she steps back smoothly, establishing a boundary. Her lips form words I can’t hear, but her expression remains neutral, unbothered. She’s not defending herself. She’s simply stating facts.
Marco’s face flushes. He glances around at the other dancers, seeking allies, and finds none.
Keira turns from him without waiting for his response and walks back to the center position. She claps her hands once, gathering everyone’s attention, and resumes where they left off.
On screen, Marco’s face goes slack with shock. There’s been an elemental shift in her, and it radiates through her every movement.
I close the surveillance feed and check the time. She’ll be home soon.
The penthouse feels different with just me here. Cyrus left for a meeting with Knox two hours ago—something about Russian territory negotiations that couldn’t wait, but I didn’t feel like dealing with Knox’s antics today.
When the door opens, Keira breezes in glowing.
“How was rehearsal?” I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Amazing.” She drops her bag and approaches me with purposeful strides. “I’ve never felt so connected to the movements before. It’s like my body finally understands what I’ve been asking it to do for years.”
I watch her move around the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water. She talks about the new choreography, how her dancers couldn’t quite match her energy, how everything feels clearer now.
“Marco couldn’t keep up,” she laughs, “and he looked at me like I’d grown a second head when I wouldn’t let him corner me like he usually does.”
Watching her come into herself is intoxicating. The marks Cyrus and I branded into her skin have faded, but what replaced them runs deeper — a sense of herself that, somehow, only makes her harder to resist.
