Page 42 of Dance of Devils
KIR
She staresat me like terrified, cornered prey.
The strange thing, much like my inability to shake her from my thoughts, is that usually, Irelishthis sort of look when I step into a room.
Not because I’m a bully, but because I realize that when I step into a room, power comes with me. And power has a way of making people feel threatened.
But when I see that look onBrooklyn’sface, not a single part of me enjoys it.
Quite the opposite. I don’t want to intimidate this woman. Instead, there’s a burning need to be the shield between her and whateverdoesscare her.
That said… I’d like some answers about the lies she keeps feeding me.
“Why did you have me drop you off at a random building the other night, claiming it was your workplace?”
She twists like a fish on a line, her sharp blue eyes avoiding mine. Her lip catches between her teeth, and I watch her roll it gently, a mix of jealousy and frustration at her lack of answers growing within me.
“Brooklyn.”
“I—” Her throat bobs heavily. “I was embarrassed. I…” She shrugs and looks at the floor. “I’m kind of in between side gigs right now, so money’s a little tight.” She swallows again. “And you’re…you know.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “I’m what?”
“Rich…?”
I shake my head. “First of all?—”
“Please, don’t give me a lecture on how I shouldn’t be embarrassed by poverty,” she says quietly. “I’ve heard it before and it’s…”
“Stupid?” I finish for her. “Unhelpful? Patronizing? Generally coming from a position of privilege?”
A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. Her bright blue eyes slowly drag up to meet my gaze, and a fire ignites within me.
“Pretty much,” she says quietly.
“I’m not here to lecture you, Brooklyn. And I’m quite aware how poverty tastes, for what it's worth.”
“It’s just…” She frowns and looks down again. “I mean, I fuckingloveballet. It’s why I get up in the morning. It’s what I breathe. But…” She lifts a shoulder. “It’s not exactly a path to wealth.”
I shake my head. “Art rarely is.” I frown. “Are you having trouble living off what you make here?”
She looks away. “It’s not that. I mean, I didn’t become a dancer for money. It’s just…” She trails off and shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“No, keep going.”
Her lip retreats between her teeth again.
“Pretend I don't own the company.”
She snorts quietly, as if to illustrate how ridiculous an ask that is with me standing here wearing a ten thousand-dollar suit and a watch worth a cool quarter of a mill.
“I want to help you if you’re in trouble, Ms. Ellis,” I growl. “I think I’ve made that fairly obvious by now.”
Color floods into her cheeks as her eyes dart to mine.
“Thank you again for?—”
“Don’t keep thanking me. Just tell me what’s going on, and why money is so tight right now.”
