Page 45 of Dance of Devils
I tap the play button on the iPad and turn to lean casually against the piano, watching as Brooklyn begins the variation.
She was fantastic from the back of the auditorium, when I observed her through the windows of Magda’s office.
Up close, she’smagnificent.
Her phrasing, her musicality, her fluid arm movements. She nails every pirouette, every jump, every single step in the variation.
And yet…
There’s something missing.
There’s no question that she’s insanely talented—I’m talking best of the best, most likely top one percent in the world. But even so, as I watch, there’s something lurking there in her every step.
Is it fear? Darkness surges in my chest as I think about the bruises I saw on her body. Not from those fucking hyenas the other night. The older ones.
The fury in me roars louder and louder the longer I watch this magical creature comingso fucking closeto perfection, only to be dogged by the shadows haunting her steps.
Ihatethe fact that somebody stole the freeness from her dancing.
Brooklyn is launching into the diagonal piqué turns when I abruptly stop the music. She whirls on me with a fury in her face I wasn’t expecting. Then it hits me.
She’s the kind of artist who loses herself so deeply in her art that to disrupt that process before it finishes is like shoving a painter aside and spray-painting a cock across their masterpiece.
“What thefuck?!” she snaps.
My brow furrows deeply as I draw in a long breath.
Don’t do this.
But I’m already walking closer, my gaze critical as I slowly circle her.
“What are you doing?”
“Lift your arm, like this.”
I try to ignore the explosion that ripples through my body the second I touch her skin. But it’s like trying to ignore being electrocuted. Still, I grit my teeth and continue with my corrections, lifting her wrist to where I want it, moving my hands to her upper arm and repositioning her shoulder.
“What are you?—”
“Stop talking and pay attention.”
Her eyes blaze. But her mouth snaps shut.
Good girl.
“Cheat the right leg out a bit, point the toe.” I sigh. “Pointthe toe, Brooklyn.”
“Iampointing it,” she mutters testily.
“I know you can point it more. I’ve seen you do it. Now, the other hand…here.”
I know this is wrong. I’m crossing several lines. But I can’t stop.
I keep one hand on her right hip as I move around to her left. My arm circles her small waist, feeling the muscles expand and contract as she breathes against my touch. I lift her left hand, checking the line in the mirror before my fingers trace back down her forearm to the elbow.
The position has me right against her back, her tight ass against my thigh, my arm mirroring her raised one and touching her elbow, the other hand wrapped around her waist and hip.
“Like that,” I breathe, almost directly into her ear. “Now, take it from right before the piqués.”
