Page 105 of The Pucking Wrong Man

I’d put on a happy face, not daring to show him any of my annoyance.

But it had just gotten worse after that.

“Are you even trying?” Dallon snapped as I fumbled a lift. His tone was sharp, slicing through my concentration. “You’re supposed to be light, not dead weight.”

I bit my lip and nodded, forcing myself to stay calm. “I’m sorry,” I murmured, not pointing out that it had been his wrong form that had messed me up to begin with.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes as we moved into the next sequence, where he had to lift me into an arabesque. I focused on my form, pointing my toes and elongating my limbs, but his grip was rough, and I nearly lost my balance.

“Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath. “Do you even know how to hold yourself?”

His words stung, but I kept silent, knowing that arguing would only make things worse. We continued, and every step seemed to bring another round of criticism. My pirouette wasn’t sharp enough, my extensions weren’t high enough, my landings weren’t soft enough.

“God, you’re hopeless,” he said during a brief break as we both gulped some water, sweat streaking down our faces. “I really thought you were better than this.”

I clenched my fists, fighting back tears. “I will get better,” I told him.

“‘Better’ isn’t good enough, Ana,” he shot back.

We went back to the dance, the music filling the studio. I tried to block out his voice, to focus on the rhythm and the movement. The grande jeté felt clumsy under his scrutinizing gaze, and the supported promenade seemed endless as he kept correcting me with a sneer.

“Arch your back. You’re a ghost, not a fucking hippo,” he growled, his grip tightening painfully on my waist during a lift.

I forced myself to hold my position, even as his words cut deeper than the physical strain on my leg that was pulsing with pain. He’d stepped on my foot at one point, and my leg hadn’t recovered from the rough twist.

We finished the run-through, and I was left feeling battered, both physically and emotionally.

Dallon turned off the music, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face before he put a hand on his hip and turned toward me. “Listen,” he said. “I’m doing this as a favor. I know you’ve been trying to get my attention, and you got it.”

I blinked, trying to think of a time that I’d tried to get his attention.

I couldn’t think of even one.

I felt gutted. Here I had been, thinking that I’d earned this…and he was just trying to get into my pants.

Dallon’s expression softened, and he stepped forward, sliding his hand to my waist...and then around to my ass, squeezing one of my cheeks tightly as he tried to pull me against him.

I immediately pulled away, and I watched as his face grew ugly, a sneer replacing the charming smile he’d had just seconds before.

He chased my retreating footsteps, and I shivered as my back hit a mirrored wall. “Remember, Ana, you wanted this. You owe me. Don’t waste my time.” His hand slid along my cheek, his gaze dripping down my form lecherously, leaving me feeling dirty and used.

I was so caught off guard, I was speechless.

A thumb slid along my lip before he pulled away, clapping me on the shoulder once like none of that had happened and we were just “bros,” and then he sauntered out of the room.

You owe me.

You owe me.

You owe me.

Those words were my kryptonite, chipping away at the fragile armor I wore, and ruining every good feeling in my body. A tear slid down my cheek, and I angrily wiped it away, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.

I couldn’t believe this.

I walked out of the practice room as if I were in a daze, my footsteps slow and heavy as I went back to the locker room to grab my bag. Glancing at my phone, I scoffed. We’d practiced for an hour out of the three hours we were supposed to have worked.

I didn’t want to slip into my usual class. The showcase list had been posted on the bulletin, and everyone had been talking about my role since it went up.

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