Page 30 of Teach Me to Fly

“We have prima ballerina who does not like to be touched. How you dance pas de deux like this? With force field?” He throws a glance toward the pianist. “Fine. Princess needs more time. Five minutes. Then we try again.”

He stalks off, muttering curses in Russian, but I stay exactly where I am and glance toward Angelique. She’s still clinging to the barre like she might collapse, but she’s breathing slower now, just barely. And I know—whatever this is, whatever made her panic like that—it’s not something a five-minute break will fix.

Her hands are still wrapped tight around the barre, knuckles white against the wood, as I approach, careful not to get too close.

“I didn’t mean to ruin rehearsal,” she whispers.

“You didn’t,” I reply, leaning my hip against the barre.

She glances at me, and I watch as her eyes search mine for judgment. I see shame in her eyes, or fear of being seen too clearly, but I see enough, and what I feel in response is something akin to a shield pulling tight around her.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I don’t think I can do the lift today.”

I glance toward Volkov, who’s now striding away fromthe pianist and toward the studio doors, ranting to someone in Russian on his cellphone.

I turn back to her, voice low. “Is it because you don’t trust me?”

She freezes. “I…” Her throat works, but the words get stuck, and she meets my gaze, her eyes apologetic.

“You were scared,” I say, trying to prompt her to share something.Anything.

The silence that follows is thick enough to drown in, but I don’t give up.

“Does this have anything to do with why you left New York?” The second the words leave my lips, I know I guessed right. Her face blanches, shoulders stiffening.

Got it.

“Alright. We’ll go at your pace.” I say quietly, holding my hands up.

She exhales, barely audible. “Thank you.”

I nod and step back, giving her more space than she needs. “Let’s run our solos again, then.”

She nods without looking at me, and we separate like magnets, losing their pull, drifting to our own sides of the studio without another word.

But I watch her while I warm up, aware of every shift in her weight, every time she stumbles and corrects herself before anyone can notice. She’s trying so hard to bury whatever feelings or memories are coming up for her, but her eyes find mine sometimes, like she knows I’m still there, watching.

The studio door creaks open moments later, and the bitter stench of cigarette smoke rolls in before Volkov does.

He clears his throat loudly. “Enough lovers drama for today. Odette is weak and sentimental. We try Odile now. Thirty-two fouettés.”

Angelique blinks, still catching her breath from everything that just happened. “Already?”

He waves a dismissive hand through the air. “You fall like Odette, maybe you rise like Odile.”

My eyes jump to Angelique, who looks taken aback. Her expression shutters, then hardens as she lifts her chin. I raise a brow at her, trying to gauge how far she’ll let herself be pushed today before she breaks.

Volkov’s finger slices the air in her direction. “Odile is seduction and trickery. Black swan in white feathers. Can you do this, or do I send you back to Zumba class?”

Her throat works as she swallows. “I can do it.”

But I hear the lie in her voice, the way her words shake with doubt as she says them. If she could only turn that fear into anger, turn it into something dangerous instead of something that keeps her small, she’d make a lethal Odile, and I want to be the one that helps her find that edge.

Volkov doesn’t understand. He wants art born from cruelty, but I know hers will come from survival, and if she learns how to wield that… God help anyone who stands in her way.

Volkov smirks, turning to signal the pianist. “Good. Impress me.”

The piano kicks in again, fast and electric and she moves immediately, throwing herself into the role. Her arms cut cleanly through the air, surprising me, her movements unrelenting. This is what she needs to channel when she’s Odile, because power suits her.

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