Page 5 of Nemesis

Adrenaline warps into desperation. Each jump lands harder. My left leg is shaking by the fifth eighth of music, deep in the muscle where no one can see. Puffs of air escape my lips as I run across the room.

Through the gleam of the mirror, I notice three things in rapid succession.

Irina, shaking her head in silent disappointment and turning back to the CD player.

My alternate, already warmed up in the back and moving through the same choreography with the eager grin of someone about to get their big break.

And the finger-fouetté section, which is rapidly approaching despite the missed counts in the choreography. Before Irina can click off the tape, I step into the fouettés, grabbing Connor’s tired grip above my head.

My final stand.

But his hold collapses, loosening from my waist. He gazes into the mirror, watching Irina shut off the music. He’s already given up.

I need this.

I fucking need this. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t.

The grip dissolves around my fingers. He steps back, determination already dissipating from his eyes. I feel the exact moment I snap. My arms extend in slow motion, winding up for the turn he’s not prepared to assist with. My leg whips just a touch too slow. I twist.

The collision is deafening.

My knee cracks into his nutsack with a satisfying clap, and he falls to his knees in a chorus of groans. Gasps echo through the room, and the music cuts out.

Eyes burn the back of my neck as the whole room waits for an apology that never leaves my lips. I’m not sorry. None of this is my fault. He’s still rolling on the ground in a pitiful heap, and I have the strangest impulse to kick him harder. I practiced my side of this duet already, and even at six in the morning, I hit every single beat. My lip pulls up, baring a snarl.

“You bitch,” he groans, settling on his back. His expression shifts from agony to accusation.

I glare back, consuming his pain. It satiates me better than any meal could.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snarls. “Aside from the obvious, of course.”

I squat down, letting him meet my crazed eyes. “You’re weak and stupid. Pick one, get the fuck up, and run it again.”

His jaw falls open. “How dare you speak to me tha⁠—”

I blink, trying to figure out what cut off the vitriol pouring from his lips. He scrambles to his feet so fast that I have to step back to avoid the near collision. The hairs on my neck rise. My righteous smile falters before I even turn to meet the pair of soulless eyes in the doorway.

Mr. Marlins is dressed in that three-piece suit he always dons at the studio. The additional layers of dark fabric give his form a predatory air. Similar to Irina, the company’s director had his own illustrious career within these studio halls. A renowned choreographer, he only spends half the year working in-house with our company. I wish he’d come back even less than he does.

Ice floods my body, hissing against the hot anger that always lingers in my chest.

Backtrack, Octavia. Apologize.

“M-Mr. Marlins,” Irina stammers, rushing over. Her cane cracks against the marley. “I didn’t know you’d be coming by so⁠—”

“Did you think that was funny?” His cold words cut through the air like a harpoon, landing in my exposed flesh. I shudder through the invisible injury.

“No, sir.”

I try to pull the defiance from my tone, but it clings on like a relentless weed. Eat your pride, Octavia. You know he loves it when you plead.

The director’s head tilts, an animal playing with its prey. His hands fold into loose fists, and I hate myself for the tiny step back I take. I should apologize. I should…

But I don’t.

I might as well have spit on his shiny leather shoe.

“You’ll dance corps tomorrow night.”