Page 64 of Dance of Devils
My whole body stiffens. I shiver as I look at him, my lip catching in my teeth.
“Thank you,” I finally say quietly.
Kir nods. “Again, your thanks can be made via hard work.” He glances at the heavy watch on his wrist. “Be changed and in the studio in three minutes. Bring the new Repettos. You should break them in.”
Kir does indeed spendthe next hour and a half breaking in the Repettos.
Unluckily for my feet, they’re inside the slippers while he does it.
When I finally get a break, whatever “preening” I was doing before our coaching session is a moot point. I’m panting raggedly. Stray strands of blonde are pasted to my forehead and the back of my neck. And I’mdrenchedin sweat.
But I will admit, it feelsgoodto be pushed even further than Madame Kuzmina does.
“You got into the final arabesque much better that last time.”
I gulp from my water bottle before turning to him and nodding.
“Moving from thepas de bourrée?—”
“Into theballonnés, yes,” Kir agrees. “That’s the way to attack the arabesque at that point. You did well there.”
I feel my chest swell with pride as my face heats a little.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
He looks at me impassively. “What I want you to remember, though, is never to back off. Don’t second guess yourself, don’t hesitate. There iszeroroom for that at this level, Brooklyn.”
I nod. “Got it.”
He shakes his head. “No. Don’t justgetit.Feelit. Inject it into your veins?—”
“Yeah,I got it,” I mutter, sucking in another gulp of air before following it with more water.
Kir cocks a stern, reproachful eyebrow at me. Holywow, it’s a physical manifestation of that authoritative tone he gets sometimes.
The problem is, same as the vocal tone, if it’ meant to intimidate me, it’s not really working. It’s just…thrilling.
“I will inject it into my veins,” I say solemnly, grinning a little.
He sighs, giving me a half-smile.
“How do you know so much about ballet?”
Kir frowns. “We covered this.”
“No, you artfully dodged it the last time I asked. And don’t tell me it’s because you own a ballet company. Your knowledge iswayabove that, and you know it.”
An almost imperceptible smile tugs the corners of his lips for a second.
“I…may have danced when I was younger.”
My brows fly up. “Wait, what?Ballet?”
He nods. “All the boys did at the boarding school I attended. Ballet, boxing, gymnastics. Welcome to newly post-Soviet Russia,” he says dryly.
“Youreallyknow your shit.” I wince. “Sorry,” I mumble. “Language, I know.”
He smirks. “I kept dancing when I attended Oxford.”
