Page 79 of Dance of Devils
I gasp sharply, my eyes going wide as Kir whirls and surges into me. The whimper withers and dies in my throat as he wraps a hand around it, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he looms over me, getting right in my face.
“Fine,” he snarls. “How aboutthisfor a reason: you don’t know meat all. You know the nice me, who’s been playing ballet instructor with you. Who stopped a bunch of lowlifes from assaulting you. Who bought you decent clothes, and checked in on you, and was concerned about your situation.”
His face grows even more menacing and dark, his eyes flashing like black fire as he narrows the distance between us.
“But the thing is,Ms. Ellis,” he snarls, “that isn’t the real me. Believe me, you want nothing to do with him.”
His hand squeezes my windpipe, sending warning lights and vicious heat shooting through my core.
“The real me wouldeat you alive.”
Suddenly, just as quickly as it was there, his hand drops from my throat. He steps away from me, taking with him the heat of his body, the timbre of his deep, sultry-accented voice, and his citrusy pine scent.
“This endsnow,” he growls. “Before I destroy you.”
Without another word, he turns and marches from the room.
I stand there numb and shaking, trying to tell myself he’s right. That I can take what he’s taught me so far and work on it to nail that callback.
All this was ever going to be, all itneededto be, was a bit of fun. All I wanted was mutual attraction and orgasms. No emotions. No feelings.
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat as the silence of the studio presses down around me.
…So why the fuck does it sting so much?
18
BROOKLYN
On the plus side,no more coachingalsomeans no more of Kir’s grueling, punishing repetition, coupled with his critiques which were the exact opposite of “sugar-coated”.
Poisonous? Toxic?
Or am I just describing this briefthingbetween us?
The downside, though, is that I think I’m slipping. For weeks, I’ve felt like I had this burst of energy propelling me forward. I could see theImperiya Koronaright there on the horizon. I couldtaste it.
Without Kir’s personal guidance, that's fading.
Part of me wonders if any influence Kir has with Ivan Yelchin has also gone away. But who knows if us no longer working together…in either sense…affects that.
The other thing that’s disappeared together with the private coaching is the anxious excitement I got toward the end of each day. Or, who am I kidding: even at thestartof each day. The knowledge that whatever else happened today—the copsharassing me for parking where I shouldn’t, or a crazy person at Fit World threatening me in the locker room—there was that delicious tingle waiting at the end of it.
Him.
Despite Kir's coldness and barked authoritarian orders, Ireallylooked forward to being alone in that room with him.
Breathing the same air. Smelling his scent. Feeling his hands guiding and positioning me, even if I was already where I was supposed to be.
The worst part is, I’m pretty sure I know why it—whatever "it" was—ended: I’m not good enough.
Not in terms of ballet. There, I might be good enough. That’s not what I mean.
I mean thatI, Brooklyn, am not good enough. Not for someone like Kir, with his wealth, power, sophistication and elegance. I’m too rough, unpolished and dirty for someone in his world.
That’s obviously why he ended this thing.
It’s late when I get back to Pearl after an especially grueling rehearsal. I groan and sag against her trunk, dropping my dance bag to the ground.
