He shakes his head, a desperate, panicked look crossing his face. “I can’t. Just—let me go, Alex, please.”
The “please” nearly undoes me. I’ve never heard Vincent beg for anything, not in all the years I’ve known him. But the need to know wars with the desire coursing through my veins.
Our bodies move together in an unconscious rhythm, creating a friction that sends sparks shooting up my spine. This is wrong. This is forbidden. He’s my stepbrother, for fuck’s sake. But I can’t bring myself to care, not with him warm and solid in my lap.
Vincent’s struggling weakens, his body betraying him as it responds to mine. His hands, which were pushing at my chest, now clutch at my shoulders. I don’t know if he’s trying to push me away or pull me closer.
For a wild, disorienting moment, I think about what it would be like to press my lips to his neck, to taste the salt of hisskin, to leave marks that can’t be washed away like glitter. The thought is so unexpected that it startles me into loosening my grip.
Vincent seizes the opportunity, shoving against my chest and stumbling backward off my lap. He nearly falls, catching himself against the wall, chest heaving. His eyes are wild, unfocused.
“What the fuck was that?” he gasps.
I stand, moving toward him, my body operating on instinct rather than reason. “Vincent—”
He throws up a hand, stopping me in my tracks. “Stay back.” He fumbles behind him for the door handle.
“Vincent, wait,” I reach for him again. “Don’t—”
He dodges my grasp, wrenching the door open. I follow, nearly colliding with him as he freezes in the doorway. For a moment, I think I’ve gotten through to him. But then his shoulders square, his spine straightening as he pulls the tattered remains of his professional persona back around himself like armor.
“Your time’s up,” he says, voice flat and controlled once more. Without looking back, he steps through the doorway, pulling his shirt closed as he goes.
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone, the music still pulsing around me like a heartbeat. I drop back onto the couch, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My hands are covered in gold glitter, my clothes smeared with it. Even when I drag my palm across my face, I feel it against my skin.
Evidence. Proof that what just happened was real and not some fever dream.
I don’t know what the hell just happened in this room. I don’t understand why seeing Vincent in that lace harness mademy blood burn or why having him in my lap felt so right when it should have felt so wrong.
I stand, adjusting my pants, trying to compose myself before I have to walk back through the club. The memory of Vincent dancing in the middle of the night at the Orlov’s ballet studio haunted me for years. For a long time, I thought that would be the last memory I’d ever have of him. Now, I have a new memory, of him in my lap, breathless and wanting. And I suspect will haunt me for much longer.
9
Vincent
Five Years Ago
THE MOONLIGHT FLITERS THROUGH the wall of windows, casting my shadow across the polished wooden floor of the ballet studio. My body moves of its own accord, muscle memory taking over as I lose myself in the familiar rhythm. I’m not dancing to music—not the kind that comes from speakers or instruments. I’m dancing to the beating of my heart, to the whisper of my breath, to the knowledge that Alex is watching me from behind the glass door.
I can feel his eyes on me, sense the intensity of his gaze even without looking. It’s been like this for weeks now—me dancing late at night, him finding reasons to be near the studio, pretending it’s coincidence when we both know it’s not.
I rise to my toes, arms extending in a perfect line as I executea pirouette. The world blurs around me, but when I complete the turn, my eyes instinctively find Alex’s silhouette through the glass. His forehead is pressed against the door, breath fogging a small circle that expands and contracts with each exhale. In this isolated space, with only moonlight and a single lamp to illuminate me, I feel more myself than anywhere else in this mansion that’s never felt like home, despite my mother’s insistence that it is.
Another turn, another glance. Alex is still there. My only ally in this cold, sterile world of wealth and power. Three years of living under the same roof, and he’s the only one who’s ever bothered to see me as more than an unwelcome addition—the son who came attached to his father’s new wife.
I move into a series of fouettés, each whipping turn building energy that courses through me. Each revolution brings a flash of Alex’s face. There’s something intoxicating about having his attention, knowing that someone values what I can do. Something about the way he watches me makes my skin feel too tight for my body, makes my heart beat with a rhythm that has nothing to do with exertion.
The next time I turn to the door, I freeze mid-position. Alex isn’t alone anymore. Behind him, a taller figure looms, broad-shouldered and imposing. Yuri Orlov. Even through the glass, I can feel the chill of his presence, see the stiffening of Alex’s posture as his father places a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Their lips move in a muted conversation I can’t hear. Alex’s face falls, regret flashing across his features as he turns to look at me one last time. Then he’s gone, shoulders hunched as he disappears down the path that leads back to the main house. My stomach drops. The joy of the dance evaporates, leaving me cold.
The door opens with a soft click. Yuri Orlov steps inside, his massive frame silhouetted against the night sky behind him. He closes the door with care, the gentle sound somehow more menacing than if he’d slammed it.
I grab my towel from the barre, wiping sweat from my forehead, using the motion to hide the tremor in my hands. “I didn’t expect anyone to be up this late,” I say, aiming for casual.
Yuri doesn’t respond immediately. His expensive shoes make soft tapping sounds against the floor as he moves further into the studio, his reflection multiplying in the mirrored walls until it feels like I’m surrounded by a dozen Yuri Orlovs, each watching me with the same calculating stare.
“You dance well,” he finally says, his deep voice carrying a hint of the Russian accent he usually keeps controlled. “Your mother’s talent seems to have passed to you.”
