"Mind your toe, Ms. Cole. That turn, your right foot turned out two centimeters—that would step on the gentleman's shoes. Maintain distance, please." Patrick hadn't even messed up his hair, elegantly stepping back.
Whenever my frame collapsed or my wrist sagged, that damned black stick would materialize like a ghost and tap my wrist, elbow, or ankle with a pointed little "crack."
By the end of the afternoon, I'd been tapped countless times! Eventually, just hearing that stick slice through air made my muscles spasm reflexively.
Ballroom dancing already demands insane stamina and coordination—add constant vigilance against that damn baton, and when the six-thirty bell finally rang, my legs were completely shot. My heels burned where sweat soaked the blisters.
Two young maids practically carried me back to the dining room.
When I flopped into my seat like jelly—utterly disheveled, legs still trembling violently—I was barely alive.
At the other end of the long table, Nikolai already sat there.
Still in that crisp black suit, perfectly composed, holding a teacup with elegant precision like some deity. He lifted those gray eyes and slowly took in my pale, shaking, pathetic state.
The air froze for two seconds.
Then I clearly saw this usually cold, ruthless Bratva Pakhan—that sharp mouth—unmistakably curl into an arrogant smirk.
He laughed. A genuine, low laugh full of schadenfreude and wicked amusement.
All day's humiliation, rage, and physical agony ignited into pure fury the moment I saw that smile!
Screw the mob boss! Screw absolute authority!
"Nikolai Volkov! Don't you dare laugh!"
Rage consumed me completely. My brain shut down entirely. Despite my trembling legs, some primal force exploded from nowhere. I slammed the table and launched myself like a rabid wildcat straight at him from across the table!
My body hit with full force as I landed squarely straddling his designer-clad thighs. Before he could react, I lunged forward and clamped both hands over those sharp lips about to mock me!
The massive dining room plunged into deathly, pin-drop silence.
The four young maids, Sophia, and two bodyguards by the door all froze simultaneously—eyes wide with horror, petrified like they'd been hit with a freezing spell.
Chapter Eleven
Nikolai
Vivienne was panting hard, her soft breasts brushing against my suit jacket with every breath. Those blue eyes blazed, her cheeks flushed crimson.
Like a hissing kitten showing its claws.
I raised my left hand. Pressed my fingers lightly.
At the door, my guards' hands relaxed on their gun grips.
My gaze returned to Vivienne.
She had no idea how close she'd just come to death. She just glared at me, breathing hard.
"Don't you dare laugh!" She hissed through clenched teeth, trying to keep her voice down. "Make that sound again, and I swear I'll dump that goddamn salad on your head!"
Utterly harmless threat.
Her hands were shaking, but she kept them pressed firmly over my mouth.
I didn't pull them away. Instead, under her furious stare, I deliberately let my tongue slide out and dragged it slowly, maliciously, across the center of her damp palm.
