AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Dropping my hands from my hips, I release all my anger on a breath. “I understand why you would be scared. And I get it if you don’t want to be my partner anymore.” My voice trembles and I fight the urge to cry. “I wish you would have told me sooner.”
“I’m sorry, Anya. I really do want to be your partner. I just… don’t want to end up in the hospital, you know?” Robbie’s lips twist into a conflicted expression.
“I know.” I give him a sad smile. “Not that I’m trying to change your mind–or even think I can–but just so you know, I don’t think Nicolo would hurt you. What happened to Fin… well, it was because I was being stubborn. I know that now, and I would never risk your safety like that.”
Robbie’s eyebrows press together in confusion, clearly baffled by my vague explanation as I try not to give away too much. Then his expression softens. “I really do love being your partner. I feel like I’ve grown so much these past few weeks working with you.”
A glimmer of hope flickers to life inside me. “I’ve really enjoyed being your partner as well. We make a good team.”
“You don’t think your mafia boyfriend is going to chop me up into little pieces or anything if I keep dancing with you?” he asks hopefully.
I laugh. “No, I don’t think so. I promise I won’t let that happen,” I add more passionately. I never want to see someone I care about get hurt again, not if I can help it. And with Nicolo, I find that the less I resist him, the more amenable he’s become.
“Well, then. If you’ll forgive me for being such a dick lately, what do you say we get in a few hours of practice today?”
A broad smile splits my face. “That sounds great.”
29
NICOLO
“Imiss you,” Silvia says, her tone melancholy as it crackles through the phone. “Will I get to see you again soon?”
“This weekend,” I promise. “Sunday, probably. And I miss you too. You’re sure you’re feeling better?”
“Yes, Nico. I’m fine. I just got home from school. Call you later?”
“Sounds good.” I remove my phone from my ear and end the call, releasing a heavy sigh as I walk across campus to my car now that my own school day is done.
I’ve been checking on my little sister regularly since she was attacked getting into her car. While she wasn’t physically harmed, I’ve never seen her that rattled. I can still hear the lingering anxiety in her voice, the slight wobble when she says anything about emotion. It’s taken a big toll on her. In truth, it’s taken a toll on me, too, because we haven’t been able to identify and find the bastards who attacked her.
I’ve been on edge all week, hardly able to bring myself to attend classes when someone targeted my sister, and they’re still out there. They could try again. Our family has so many enemies, so many potential suspects, I don’t know where to direct my gaze, who to punish, crush, destroy beyond repair. I’m trapped in a perpetual state of helplessness, and that infuriates me.
The only thing that seems to ease my restless discontent is Anya. I’ve spent every night with her since this weekend, called her every evening after spending as many hours as I can resisting the urge. It doesn’t suit a man of my position to need someone like her. Pets are meant to be beautiful playthings to show off and take to events that prove my wealth and power, a pussy to fuck when it amuses me. But this week, her presence has become something more therapeutic, our sex the only outlet I can find for my tension that seems to give me any sort of reprieve. Rather than taking her to the club or out to fancy dinners, I’ve had my driver bring her to my penthouse late each evening, where we’ve fucked. When I can’t bring myself to send her home right away, we talk.
I’ve never cared to listen to anyone but Silvia before, much less a charity case from the ghetto that I decided to fuck. Somehow, the hours I’ve spent with Anya this week have only heightened my interest in her. Where normally, I would have fucked my pet and moved on within a few dates, bored by the usual vanilla drivel about the supermodel lifestyle they always dream of living; I never know what to expect of Anya. She doesn’t tell me what she thinks I want to hear. She says what’s on her mind, and fuck if I don’t find that as sexy as it is infuriating sometimes.
My cock twitches in my jeans just thinking about Anya as I make my way across the tree-studded campus of Rosehill College. As if drawn by her presence, my gaze drifts toward the dance building up ahead to my left. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Anya dance. In truth, I haven’t watched her since the day she agreed to be mine. Perhaps I let the knowledge that she would do whatever I said whenever I said it get to my head. I’ve enjoyed knowing she is at my beck and call.
But today, I want to see her dance. Changing course, I head toward the turreted gray stone building and climb the steps. She’ll be out of class now, practicing in her after-hours session if I had to guess. From the sound of it, she’s been working relentlessly on her dance for the winter showcase, and anticipation bubbles to life inside my chest as I think about seeing her progress.
Heading up to the second floor and the now familiar studio where her professor teaches, I pull open the door and pause. It looks as though most students are wrapping up for the day, a few still on the dance mats, but most are collecting their bags as they say goodbye to their friends. Anya’s dance professor is nowhere in sight, his strict, no-nonsense tone notably absent.
More unexpected is that I don’t see Anya anywhere in the room. Did she go home already? That doesn’t seem like her. Just yesterday, she had mentioned she would need to practice late for the next few weeks since she had fallen behind.
My eyes land on Anya’s dancer friend, the tall, dark-haired girl with a pixie cut, who I stormed in on at Incognito when I found out Anya was at the club with her and Ilya Popov. Whitney, I think Anya called her. Whitney’s sharp gaze meets mine as she pulls on her street shoes, and her eyes narrow accusingly. Whether she’s pissed at me for barging in during the middle of their scene or for dragging Anya out of the room to punish her, I don’t know. Nor do I particularly care.
“You looking for Anya?” she asks, her tone bordering on accusatory.
She’s feisty. I can see why Ilya likes her–and why she and Anya get along.
“Yes. Where is she?”
“Professor Moriari wasn’t able to stay late today, so we all broke off into smaller groups to have more space. I think she’s in a studio down the hall.” Whitney jabs her thumb over her shoulder as she stands and slings her bag over her shoulder.
“Thanks,” I say, turning to leave.
“Hey,” she says, her tone cold and commanding.
