Page 73 of Teach Me to Fly

“It’s a fundraiser. Before every major production, my father hosts an event to get investors drunk while we perform a preview, wine them, flatter them, and then taketheir money.”

She frowns, curious now. “I thought you guys were self-funded.”

“We are, but investors are leverage. Their names carry weight, and their money comes with influence. It’s more than cash; it’s connections and prestige. It gets eyes on Imperium and gets big name dancers talking. They’ll want to come to us instead of the other way around.”

She nods slowly, then glances sideways. “What kind of preview?”

“We usually do a short number. Just a taste of the production. This year?” I pause. “Probably you and me.”

She stops walking. “What?”

I stop too, facing her. The morning is so quiet I can hear the wind pushing through the trees. “It won’t be anything crazy, just enough to show them what we’re building.”

“When is it?”

“Probably in a month. I’ll know more once my father is back,” I reply, reaching out for her hand and tugging her gently until she walks again. “Worried about getting stage fright?”

She huffs a nervous laugh. “Something like that.”

But I don’t miss the way her other hand creeps to her sleeve, tugging it down, or the way she bites her lip nervously. I wonder if this is what she was like in New York—on edge before every show—or if this is new.

When we reach the studio, the cold hits us first. I flick on the lights, flooding the space with sterile fluorescence, then head to the back wall to start the heater. The space hums to life, but it’ll take a while to chase the chill from the air.

We don’t talk. We just start stretching, side by side, both of us buried in our own heads. I watch the way her spine arches into each bend, the soft curve of her neckwhen she tilts her head back, the way her thighs tremble ever so slightly when she deepens a stretch. She’s so focused, so serious, so beautifully unaware of the chaos she wakes in me just by existing.

She’s wearing a black leotard and her ballet skirt, but it’s her bare legs that undo me—smooth skin exposed beneath slouched leg warmers and pointe shoes. I’m hard before I even realize it, strung tight with the need I’ve been trying to ignore.

When our warmup ends, we launch into the new choreography—Odile’s seduction of the prince. It’s the piece she’s been struggling with the most. Not because of the technique, Angelique is too well-trained for that. It’s the intimacy; the hunger written into the steps.

The performance requires her to reach into a darker part of herself, and I can see how it pulls something painful to the surface for her. Every time we run it, I see the same thing happen—goosebumps prickling down her arms, her breathing tightening, her body tensing against the implied desire in the movements.

We try it again, but she falters halfway through again. Her gaze drops, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too fast. She looks frustrated to the point of tears, so I step forward, not touching her yet.

“Let’s slow it down,” I murmur. “I want you to feel what Odile feels.”

Her eyes study mine, uncertain and vulnerable, but she nods. Carefully, I reach for her, sliding my hand across her stomach in a smooth, gliding motion. My fingertips barely press into her leotard, just enough for her to feel it. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t flinch or pull away.

Small victory.

“Again,” I say.

We move together, and something shifts. Slowly, like she’s unzipping a piece of herself that’s been locked inside, her body loosens, and her hips start to move with intention. Her gaze lifts to mine in the mirror—andfuck.

Her lashes lower slightly, framing those wide, dark eyes, and something hungry flickers behind them. A quiet, wicked promise only I’m meant to read. Her mouth softens, just enough to make me imagine how it would part if I touched her, kissed her, slipped my fingers behind the fabric of her leotard.

She pushes back on me during a turn, her ass grazing my hip with a heat that snaps the air between us. A low sound claws up my throat before I can stop it. I lean in, breath brushing her ear.

“If you’re going to press into me like that,” I murmur, “at least pretend it’s part of the choreography.”

Her arms shiver—tiny bumps rising along her skin like a wave. She closes her eyes and draws in a deep and steady breath, like she’s grounding herself. But I can feel her heart pounding against me, frantic and uneven, and it tells me everything. She wants this—wantsme—but she’s scared, too, and I know I’ve cracked open a place she’s kept locked away.

She pulls away, just slightly, and says, “From the top?”

Her voice is soft, almost fragile, but there’s a shift beneath it. Hunger tangled with hesitation. Like she’s standing at the edge of something dark and doesn’t know if it’ll swallow her whole or set her free. Either way, I’ll be right beside her, every step of the way.

We run it again, and again. Each time, she gives a little more. Her movements are deliberate now, like she’s embodying Odile’s danger and seduction.It's beautiful, and it’s killing me. But I know that it’s not just techniqueholding her back. It’s permission. She hasn’t given herself any. So, I decide to take a risk and see if she’ll give it to me.

As we pass the mirror again, I pivot her body to face it. She stumbles slightly but recovers, her wide eyes locking with mine in the glass.

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