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What does he mean?
How would that cure me?
“Please, no. No. Cure me of what? I’m not even sick. I’m just under strain.” I slide forward on the floor several feet, bringing me closer to the door. “I d-didn’t know you had a brother. Who is he? I don’t understand…”
“Let’s just say he’s not fit for polite society.”
To my horror, we have reached the door and the shadow on the other side has stopped moving. The floor creaks. Loudly. Oh God, whoever lies beyond this steel door is very large. A stranger. One that lives in an abandoned warehouse and isn’t fit for polite society. And my coach is going to leave me here with this individual? For the whole night?
This can’t be happening.
I mean, Baker has done some crazy things in the name of training. He once made me walk on a tightrope over broken glass for hours. Blindfolded. Once, he ordered me to remain in the plie position so long that my muscles locked up and I needed to be taken to the ER. Sometimes it seems like he’s enjoying my pain and confusion.
But this?
This is on another level. He has gone far beyond his usual antics.
I’ve always wondered if he is more willing to try these experimental methods on me because I’m an orphan. No parents to call. No one to intervene on my behalf. There is the strict, yet fair choreographer at the ballet company, but she seems intimidated by Baker, as well. Who would even believe me if I told them this was happening? Even if I did have someone to protect me from my coach, he took my phone. I have no way of calling anyone.
“Smith,” Baker calls through the steel door, rapping on it with his knuckles. “Open up.”
Several bolts and locks disengage on the other side of the door.
And then it opens slowly, creaking on its hinges.
Revealed is a very, very large man, indeed. One so tall that I have to tilt my head all the way back to see his face. When I do see it, my lungs seize and I renew my efforts to get away.
But not because he’s scary. Or hideous.
No. It’s the violent snarl on his face. It’s directed at me.
This man loathes me on sight.
If it wasn’t for the utter hatred contorting his features, he might almost be handsome. His black hair is shaved down to the quick, his eyes a piercing shade of light blue. There is a scar bisecting his upper lip, five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. Tattoos cover every available inch of his neck. There is no mistaking this man has been damaged somewhere along the line. It’s right there in his eyes—pain, rage, resentment.
“Posy, meet my brother, Smith. This is where he’s been living since they let him out of the institution. I bring him groceries once a week, because he doesn’t trust anyone else. Especially women. That’s how I know he hasn’t had one in years. Right, brother?”
Baker catches me off guard by pushing me into the dimly lit room, right in front of the Goliath-sized man whose chest begins to heave violently, his eyelids growing heavy.
“He’s too afraid to get burned again. Aren’t you, Smith?”
Smith says nothing, but there’s a haunted flicker in his eyes, followed by reluctant heat. It floods in and dilates his pupils, making his nostrils flare. The giant’s gaze travels down to my mouth and he chokes on a sound, then seems embarrassed by it…but that can’t be right, can it? I’m distracted from that thought when something brushes my belly and I look down to find his erection stretching his pants.
No. No way. It’s the size of my arm, wrist to elbow. Wider.
I turn to run, but Smith catches my wrist and tosses me up over his thick shoulder, evacuating the air from my chest. Oh my God. Is this a nightmare? Is Baker having a joke at my expense? He’s going to leave me here with a man who appears to be deranged? All so I can be cured of my non-existent interest in the opposite sex and focus harder on ballet?
“Based on his, uh…reaction to you, I’m guessing you won't remain untouched, Posy,” Baker comments, amused. “If this doesn’t cure you of your sudden vanity…your determination to become a fucking harlot and toss away both of our careers, nothing will.”
“Please…don’t leave me here,” I whisper, though I can’t see my coach in my current position, draped over the giant’s shoulder, high above the ground.
Baker ignores me. “Smith. Do me a favor. Make sure that when I pick her up in the morning for rehearsal, she no longer has sex on the brain. Whenever she thinks about it again, she should be disgusted. That should be easy enough for you, right?”
One more laugh from Baker.
And then the door slams, leaving me alone with Smith.
“Mine,” he growls.
