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Not Semenov.
Not Razor.
This little corner of my world is mine and my mother’s. Rivers was her surname and I reclaimed it for myself when I opened the studio.Why?Because everything I do here flows back to her.I teach this new generation the same way she taught me: with no expectation of perfection, and the sweetest twist on convention. It’s not just ballet. My classes are a step kaleidoscope of every type of movement.
“Did you dance too much when you were younger?”
I pause, caught off guard by her question.
“Is that why you have a limp?”
“Lily!” This time, her name sounds more like a gallic curse.
“It’s okay,” I reassure the blushing au pair, trying not to laugh. This is what I love most about children. They have no filter. They ask all the questions that adults are too shackled by the rules of society to say. “Do you know the story of Swan Lake, Lily?”
She nods.
“Remind me.”
“Odette was cursed, which meant she could only be herself at night.”
“Good. Well, think of me as a little like Odette. I may not be able to move or dance as much as I’d like during the day, but in my dreams—”
I’m back in my mother’s front room, spinning and twirling.
I’m back in his arms.
Her eyes widen in shock. “Does that mean you were cursed? But who cursed you?”
“Lily, enough!” The au pair springs into the room, grabs the little girl by the hand and hauls her off toward the changing rooms, gabbling out apologies to me in French.
“Really, it’s fine. I’ll see you next week.”
Shaking my head in amusement, I make my way over to the iDock to select the music for the next lesson, and then I freeze, my skin stippling in fear.
“It is a good question,meelaya,” comes a voice suddenly, his accent as thick as toxic treacle, even after all these years. “Who really cursed you? The man with the baseball bat, or you for daring to defy him?”
All the clean air is sucked out of my studio, replaced by a dirty scent from my past.
In a way, I’ve been expecting him ever since Frankie’s books stopped arriving.
I spin around as Kirill emerges from the fire exit door. “What the hell are you doing here?” My eyes dart to the changing room door. “I have another class in thirty minutes.”
I need to send him away. He’s a predatory shark amongst delicate fishes. His sickness means he won’t be able to help himself. His predilection for young girls is the worst kind of secret, closely followed by the repulsion of sharing his bed. I was forced to endure it until he made sure I was pregnant, but the parts he shattered in that time hurt me more than my scars. When Frankie comes for me.If he ever comes for me.He’ll find a wreck behind my walls.
“Why’s that,meelaya? Do you not want your precious students to know you are more of a black swan than a white one?” He saunters towards me, mocking me with his words and his presence.
He hasn’t changed much in fourteen years. He’s a little thicker around the middle, which is more spread than muscle, but his eyes are still cold and callous.
“At least at thirty years old I’m not a minor.”
His expression darkens as he closes the gap between us. Wrapping his huge fingers around my throat, he walks me backwards and slams me against the mirrored wall.
“This would be a good place to fuck,” he surmises, licking his lips and glancing at his reflection above me. “I will be quick. For old time’s sake.”
My stomach heaves as I whip my head to the side to block out the repulsive sight of him—tensing as he thrusts his hand between my legs—feeling nothing buthate and shame. I’m dead inside to anything else, and he’s the man who made me this way.
“Get off me, Kirill.” I try to pull away but get my head slammed back against the mirrored wall in punishment.
