Page 69 of Dance of Devils
I swallow, lifting my fists, my pulse thudding heavily in my ears. My muscles coil, my teeth clamp down on my lower lip, and I look him right in the eye, over our raised fists.
For a second, I wonder if this is some sick punishment for me kissing him the other week. It's possible. I think he could be a sadist like that. But there’s no time to dwell on it now.
“Hit me, Brooklyn,” he growls. “If you can. You might be too scared.” He shrugs. “I forget sometimes that you’re just a scared, weak little girl.”
My eyes pull to slits as he looks at me, unblinking.
“I know what you’re doing.”
He lifts a brow. “Oh? What might that be?”
“Goading me.”
“Maybe.”
“You want me to hit you and play this stupid fucking game.”
“Language. I won’t say it again,” he hisses icily. “Yes, I want you to hit me. And yes, youwillbe playing this game.”
I bristle, trying to ignore the throb inside me when he said “language” in that disturbingly hot authoritative way of his.
“And if I refuse?”
Kir looks right at me. “Then I’ll know that this whole show about you wanting to get into theImperiya Koronais just a front, and that, like I assumed, you’re actually just a scared, weak…” His eyes glint. “Pooryoung woman living a life of regret and missed opportunities.”
Viciousness snarls and stretches awake inside me.
“That was uncalled for,” I spit.
He shrugs. “Do something about it.”
My teeth grind. “I don’t want to, okay?! I don’t want to hit you, I don’t want to play these mind games. You’re just trying to be an asshole?—”
“Not playing the game doesn’t mean you don’t lose, Brooklyn,” he snaps, stepping closer.
My breath catches as he puts his gloved hands behind his back and leans down, his lips brushing my cheek in a way that sends my heart rate soaring. His breath, scent, and heat tease against the sensitive skin of my neck, making me tremble in spite of myself.
“I’ve read your file, Ms. Ellis,” he whispers quietly. “No parents. In and out of foster care. A product ofthe system. Afailure,some might say.”
Anger flares in my veins.
“Screw—”
“A girl with no money, coming here every day and trying to pretend that she fits in with all the other girls—like Milena, the daughter of a Bratvapakhan. Or Lyra, married to an Italian don. Or Evelina, born a privileged princess.” He sighs. “And you, Brooklyn, come here every day with a chip on your shoulder and pointe shoes that need replacing. With thrifted clothes and ambitions you know deep down you'll never realize, given the circumstances into which you were born.”
I know what he’s doing. It doesn’t mean I’m not shaking with fury and blinking back hot tears as I grit my teeth.
“You don’t knowshitabout me.”
“Language. I know everythingabout you,” he snarls. “You’re no mystery, Brooklyn. You think I don’t see how you look at your friends? See the jealousy you loathe having? Youknowyou’re not really like them, and never will be. You think I don’t see thejaded desperation, a poor artist spending her evenings serving drinks to men and flaunting her body to get better tips?”
“Fuck. You,” I choke, a tear trickling down my cheek. “And fuck this, I’m done?—”
“Why don’t you just get up on the pole next time you’re at work? Then maybe you'll finally get the scraps of attention and love you’re so desperate for?—”
Kir's words cut off with a grunt when I wind up and slam my gloved fist into the side of his jaw with a satisfyingthunk.
Instantly, the whole studio goes silent. My eyes widen, my gloved hands flying to my face and pure, unadulterated horror dripping through me like ice water.
