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“And who areyou?” she hisses, hands bolted to her hips. “This is a closed practice room. If you're with the administration, you're going to have to come back later to investigate the sabotage incident. We're trying to work!”
My ears perk up. Sabotage incident? I decide not to ask further questions. It doesn't concern me.
The director general steps forward and quickly whispers something in the woman's ear. I hear him mention something aboutone million, but that's all I hear. Whatever he says to her results in a quick change of tune. Her entire demeanor suddenly shifts. She smiles, lips curling up with fake enthusiasm.
“Oh, I see! A sponsor. Why didn't you start with that?” She sticks out her bony hand. “I'm Inessa Belova.”
My jaw ticks. Belova? Like Erik Belov? Surely it must be a coincidence. After all, Belov is a common name in Moscow.
I shake her hand, if only to keep up appearances. “Leo Nicolaevich.”
Inessa grips the dancer by the shoulders and pulls her in. I don't miss the way her nails dig into the poor girl's shoulders. “And this is Nikita, our season's debut soloist. She is also my daughter.”
Nikita offers me her hand and I'm far more inclined to take it, carefully grasping her fingers to bring up to my lips. I press a gentle kiss to her knuckles without thinking. My mind is no longer my own. Her presence has entranced me, her beauty hypnotizing as always. The softness of her skin and the faint scent of her floral perfume makes my chest tight. I breathed her in so many times that night, yet her presence still slams into me like a tidal wave.
I'm not a particularly religious man, but the seductive blue of her eyes is nothing short of a holy experience. Otherworldly.
And nothing short of my own personal hell.
My fingers twitch. I bite down on my tongue. I don't know what to say. This woman has me tongue-tied, and that doesn’t happen to me.Ever. I don't like this feeling. This strange, out-of-control sensation where all I want to do is stare at her pretty face and forget that the rest of the world exists. When I first picked her off the road, we were strangers. I had a feeling I’d never see her again, so I operated with a different sort of confidence. Now that our paths seem intent on crossing again, something has happened. A shift within me that I cannot control.
“I didn't mean to interrupt your practice,” I say gruffly. I don't trust my voice right now. Not when she smells so tantalizingly good.
Nikita takes a breath and opens her mouth to speak. “Oh, that's really okay. I was just—”
“She needed a break anyway,” Inessa interrupts. I don't like this woman. Something about her rubs me the wrong way.
“Would you like to take a seat and watch?” the director asks me, gesturing to the rows of elevated seats at the back of the practice room. There's space for at least twenty observers. Some of the chairs are taken up by dancers' belongings—bags and jackets strewn about—but I spot a pair of seats in the very back, hidden beneath the cover of the shadow cast by the angled ceiling above.
My first instinct is to say no. I only came here to make an opportunity for myself and the Bratva. This is supposed to be a financial sleight of hand, nothing more. But one glance at Nikita… The moment her eyes find mine, I'm a goner. Again. Damn, the effect she has on me is undeniable and dangerously powerful.
“I'd love to watch,” I murmur.
Inessa turns to the other dancers. “Let's pick up where we left off earlier—”
“No.”
She frowns at me. “I beg your pardon?”
I tilt my chin in Nikita's direction. “I want to watchher.”
Chapter 5
Nikita
Idon't get stage fright. A very long time ago, maybe, when I was four or five at my first recital, but not anymore. That is, until Leo Nicolaevich showed up.
I had to pinch myself on the thigh when he first walked into the room because I thought for sure I was hallucinating. What is he doing here? As delighted as I am to see him, the world isn'tthatsmall. How did he end up here? I told myself we’d never see each other again, yet as soon as our eyes met mere moments ago, my whole body came alive with the memories of our steamy night together. I can almost see the condensation on the inside of his cabin’s windows, our legs tangled on the sofa, my skin soft and creamy against his.Focus, Nikita. He’s here, but so are you.
Moving in time with the music, I try to block the rest of the world out. This dance is an expression of joy, of playfulness and wonder. I must embody the character, turn myself into an actor whilst quite literally keeping on my toes. In theory, I know all the steps—but actually putting everything into practice? Let's just say I'm rustier than I thought.
I've spent the last few months watching Vanya perform this exact routine, but my movements are stiff with lack of practice. I tell myself it'll get easier. It isn't fair to compare myself to Vanya, who's had triple the amount of time to prepare. I have big shoes to fill, and I'm determined to prove to everyone how worthy I am of this role.
The glissade is easy enough, followed by a strong piqué first arabesque. I'll confess my back is tighter than I want it to be, making it difficult to arch. I can tell in the reflection of the practice room's mirrors that I'm not creating the right shapes with the length of my body, nor am I fast enough when it comes to my turns. I've been at it all morning, which explains the sharp pain in my toes and the building cramp in my calves, but I smile through it. Nobody truly understands that beneath all the effortlessness, ballerinas are under constant and arduous stress.
It's our job to look as light as a feather. It's our job to look beautiful, to follow through with elegant lines and hypnotizing flow. A loud minority of people out there think ballet is girly, that it isn't a real sport, but they couldn't be more wrong.I'd love to see a soccer player or a mixed martial artist jumping around on the tips of their toes all day, doing mid-air splits and bending over backwards just to keep coming back for more.
“Sloppy!” Inessa grumbles, snapping her fingers. “Tighter, Nikita. Your timing is off. Smile more, for God's sake. You're made of magic, remember? The Sugar Plum Fairy isn't trying to cast a curse.”
