Page 15 of Dance of Devils
The one on her elbow, in the clear shape of a handprint. The ugly greenish-purple mark on her stomach, near her ribs.
The bruising at her temple looks fresh, but not so fresh that it’s from tonight.
A lethal coldness seeps into my veins as I pull my gaze back up to her sleeping face, her eyes fluttering slightly behind closed lids.
Who the fuck hurts you.
I don’t know. But with a flash, I realize finding out has just become my single most important mission in life.
4
BROOKLYN
In my dream,Pearl is a rocket ship, and I’m hanging onto her ratty old steering wheel for dear life as her explosive thrusters at the back propel us forward.
Blasting through the streets of New York. Angling so that we can roar up beyond the buildings, higher and higher into the sky, until we leave everything behind, my eyes closed and arms wide open, the black abyss of night surrounding me.
Then I wake up with a gasp, feeling paineverywhere.
I wince, choking back a groan as my brain slowly returns to consciousness. My head feels like I got hit by a hammer. My knees ache. My shoulder and hip are on fire, and my hands…
I squeeze my eyes shut, then open then, trying to blink away the grogginess as I lift my hands up in front of my face.
How did they get wrapped in bandages?
I shift again in bed, feeling the silk sheets slide over?—
Wait.
What. Fucking. Bed.
“Who were the men attacking you?”
A scream curdles in my throat as I bolt upright. Pain explodes through every corner of my body, making me wince before my gaze snaps across the room and my heart drops.
A hundred questions roar through my head. But number one with a bullet iswhy the fuck is Kir Nikolayev here?
It’s quickly followed by “where the fuck, for that matter, ishere?”
The room goes quiet—so quiet that I can hear the dull thud of my pulse in my ears as I try to make sense of the fact that Kir Nikolayev, the owner of the Zakharova and essentially my boss, is sitting in a chair, looking at me with a slightly chilling, yet simultaneouslypulse-quickeningglint in his eyes.
Which is…not an unusual reaction to being looked at by him. Not for me, at least.
To characterize the man as “good-looking” is like calling one of Madame Kuzmina’s grueling rehearsals “a bit challenging”.
He’s like a fucking god. Almosttooattractive. Dark hair, sculpted cheekbones, a razor-sharp jawline and a square chin all make him look like a cross between legit royalty and a fucking Armani model.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and allegedly—Milena’s seen him lifting in the weightroom at the Mercury—hiding a physique that rivals most of the male dancers in the Zakharova half his age beneath those custom-tailored suits.
And hiseyes…
I swallow, feeling the sinful pierce of those dark eyes as they lock with mine.
Dark, black, devil eyes.
He clears his throat.
“In case you’re unaware…” His gaze flits briefly from my eyes to my chest, and his eyebrow cocks.
