Page 150 of Dance of Ruin

Except that never really happens.

It’s impossible.

Instead, I just dance until I’m gasping from sheer exhaustion, and I slide to my knees, panting, my hair pasted against my temples.

From the wings, someone claps. Startled, I whirl.

Dove stands in the shadows, watching me with her arms folded. Her silver-pink hair falls in loose waves over one shoulder, the ends glowing in the low light like strands of silk. She’s wearing a cropped sweatshirt over leggings and scuffed sneakers, but somehow still looksso fucking cool, like she could walk onto the cover of a fashion magazine totally as-is.

Dove is the physical manifestation of my imposter syndrome—there, I said it. Maybe notout loud, but I can admit it to myself.

She’s gorgeous, a little mysterious, ridiculously cool, andwildlytalented. Like, “best dancer in the company” talented.

Her also being my understudy forSwan Lake, a role she got literally on the day she joined the company, has been aconstantsource of anxiety for me. Not because she’s gunning for my role, she isn’t, but it feels like if I so much as blink wrong, she’d ready to step in, and she’d beperfect.

She always is.

Dove only joined the company a few months ago, and no one really knows much about her except for the fact that her father is Cesare Marchetti, don of the Marchetti Mafia family, and that she’s recently back in New York after being overseas somewhere for the last few years.

Naturally, the rumor mill has been runningwildwith that limited information.

Some people claim she was dancing somewhere in Europe. Others say she was at a high end, ultra-discreet drug rehab facility in Switzerland.

I’m guessing it was neither.

But Dove doesn’t volunteer anything about herself, and no one ever dares to ask.

She’s nice enough, in a distant sort of way. Polite. Clearly incredibly smart. But she keeps to herself. We’re not close, but I like her.

…Even if she intimidates the shit out of me.

“You’re very talented,” she says, her voice calm and quiet as she tucks a strand of her silvery-pink hair behind her ear.

I blink. “Um…thanks.”

She doesn’t say it like a compliment. That’s not to say that she says it like a sarcastic barb; it’s not like that at all. It’s just that she says it like it’s an obvious statement of fact. Like gravity.

Dove steps a little closer to me, but notthatclose. She always keeps a little space around her—either to give other people space, or becausesheherself needs it.

It’s…hard to tell with her.

“Can I make an observation?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear.

She smiles wryly. “You don’t need more late-night rehearsals.”

I blink. “What?”

“You don’t need to keep running your solos. You don’t need more hours at the barre. And youdefinitelydon’t need more sessions with your overpriced physio.” Her lips twitch. “I mean, unless you’re into financial masochism.”

I let out a half-laugh, startled.

Dove arches a brow. “What youneedis to look in the mirror and see just how good you are.”

I open my mouth, but she cuts me off with an elegantly raised hand—polite but firm.

“I’m not blowing smoke up your ass. I’ve been here long enough to see that Madame Kuzmina’s not exactly known for her warm and fuzzy nature, and she’s not dumb or sentimental.”

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