Page 1 of Natasha
Prologue
Natasha grimaced and squinted into the overly harsh light, her skin perspiring from the heat of the too bright lights overhead; it was nothing new. But that was life as a prima ballerina for one of New York's premier dance companies. The stage lights only seemed to increase in wattage with each performance, of which she was certain there would be many more before she hung up her pointe shoes.
At twenty years old, Natasha was in the prime of her career. The product of a legacy built on grace and strength. Both her mother and grandmother had been celebrated ballerinas, which meant that anything less for Natasha was unthinkable. Further sealing her fate was the fact that she was named after her grandmother—Natasha Lleyna Ochenko, the light of the Soviet Union, or at least until she fled, during the Bolshoi Ballet's only performance stateside.
It had caused quite a scandal.
Even now, the memory of her grandmother regaling her with the tale of her midnight sprint to freedom through Grand Central Station set Natasha's blood singing. Or was the sensation merely the adrenaline rush from the prospect of taking the stage?
Blowing out a calming breath, Natasha smoothed her hands over her costume, her sweaty fingers catching at the silk. She frowned, looking down at the twisted material. She needed to control her heart rate. There was no room for error, and a nervous heart made for nervous feet.
"Be still," Natasha murmured to herself as the orchestra music swelled around her, announcing her entrance. She turned to her partner, Alexi, who was a few years older than she was, a proud Russian who still sneered at her when he thought she didn't notice. He knew all about her grandmother's flight to freedom; everyone did. Natasha relished that it bothered him. It had been a small victory for her when they had announced her as the company's female principal dancer.
"Russians all around then, eh?" Alexi had said, regaining his composure after his handsome face had fallen at hearing her name announced.
"No," Natasha had said with a tilt of her head and a smile that had barely pulled up at the corners of her lips. "I'm a New Yorker."
Alexi had rolled his eyes at her and snorted, his attempt at camaraderie spent. "And I never forget it."
Natasha had flashed a smile that far more resembled the baring of teeth than a friendly overture. "See that you don't."
Allowing herself one last shaky breath, she pressed her lips into a thin smile at Alexi, her spine rigid, and took his hand as the couple stepped out from behind the curtain. Once they were on stage, Natasha's expression immediately softened to something resembling a lover's beseeching gaze. Skimming her palm along Alexi's, Natasha sprang forward, her free hand fluttering at her side, feet moving so fast, so light, that she appeared to be floating to the audience. Natasha closed her eyes, letting the music reverberate through her, feeling the steps in her bones. She knew the routine so well, she could have performed it in her sleep, but for some reason, she wasn't able let go like she normally did during her performances.
Something wasn't right tonight.
She felt off; her heart moving too fast for her breath to keep time with. The effect had her gasping, and Natasha let out a little pant as she tried to take in enough air to stop the burning feeling spreading through her from her fingers to her lips. It was like liquid fire pulsing in her veins with each too quick beat of her heart.
Alexi frowned at her when she was half a second too late for a lift, but they managed through it. Her sweaty fingers slipped down his arm and glanced off his wrist, which she scrambled to hold, trying to stay steady on her feet. It wasn't easy, but Natasha forced her legs to move, to hit the jumps that would look ever-so-elegant when they perfectly matched Alexi's movements. Or rather, the movements should have been elegant if she had stayed in time with Alexi.
Instead, Natasha landed with a hollow thud beside Alexi, who found his feet soundlessly. There was no grace, no finesse that spoke of her skill and strength. Tilting his head to the side, Alexi gave her a sidelong look that to the audience was imperceptible but to Natasha's trained eyes spoke a thousand words. He knew that she was off, and he was concerned, not for her but for his overall performance.
"Everything okay?" Alexi asked her under his breath, and Natasha bit back her initial response of rolling her eyes.
"Yes," she grumbled, turning her face into his shoulder in a pantomime of a lover's embrace. Exhaling deeply, she closed her eyes and took a moment to collect herself as Alexi moved them effortlessly across the floor, but even as she leaned into his strength more than usual, she felt her legs begin to tremble.
With a frown, she shook her head and looked up at Alexi. "No, something's wrong."
"Fuck," Alexi breathed, his eyes moving to stage left. She knew what he was trying to do—attempting to attract their director's attention without giving away too much to the audience. She was grateful for his discretion even if she knew it was only afforded to her out of Alexi's own self-preservation. Natasha turned with as much grace as she could muster, which amounted to her nearly pinwheeling into one of the prima ballerina hopefuls sweeping by her to take her place along the stage.
"Goddammit," Natasha whispered. She forced her hands above her head, willed her fingers to do anything but splay formlessly in the air above her as she turned shakily through the flood of silk and feathers passing her by in a cloud of perfume and too much-pressed powder.
She turned her face to the side, lips pressed into a thin line as she took in another labored breath. Why was she falling apart like this? In all her years performing, she had never experienced anything on this level of nervousness. Natasha excelled at keeping her heart still and her feet steady, a skill passed on by the women in her family; but tonight, it seemed that all of her careful practice, all of her discipline and self-control, had seemingly left her to fend for herself on the suddenly too large stage.
Natasha, losing control of her grand jeté, stumbled toward the audience with a startled cry. Her feet felt like they had a mind of their own, like they were demon possessed and bent on destroying whatever sense of balance she had managed to salvage.
"God." She knew the audience had seen her misstep, not to mention the director whom she could see furiously flapping on stage left. He was livid. She could tell by the distinct snap of his frock coat, which reminded her of birds in flight. Spinning again, this time with some semblance of the prima ballerina she was, Natasha glimpsed her understudy standing anxiously—no, excitedly—near the director. A frown pulled at the corners of Natasha's lips, but she was only able to stare in disgust at the other ballerina for a split second before her foot slipped out from under her.
In a swirl of silk, the prima ballerina of New York's premier company slipped and tumbled to the floor in a whirlwind of hands, locked knees, and gasps. A pair of arms hooked under her arms and the bright lights of the stage dimmed as she was yanked off stage.
She could hear the crowd moving, murmuring and rustling their programs to see if her fall was all part of the act, some sort of creative decision they had not been made aware of. Natasha swallowed hard, eyes sliding to the side, and watched the director usher out her replacement, the wide-eyed girl who had only just arrived from whatever cornfield from which cream-skinned naive girls popped out, fully grown and masters of dancing en pointe.
Natasha moved to push herself up to her feet, but her hands slipped out from under her, and she fell back onto herself with a small whimper. A sympathetic sound from a backup dancer made Natasha duck her head, a blush coloring her fair skin. What had happened out there? How was this real life? Only a few minutes earlier, she had been the star of the show, but now she was on her hands and knees, forgotten like yesterday's garbage.
"Here," the soft-eyed backup dancer whispered, giving Natasha a hand up.
"Thank you." Natasha allowed herself to be pulled to her feet before she shakily made her way away from the stage. She turned when she heard the familiar flapping of a frock coat and managed to deliver as scathing a glare as she could summon while wrapping her arms around her shaking frame.
"What happened to you?" the director demanded, his eyes—small beady things that Natasha had never liked to feel—on her. They were like cold fingers, Natasha had decided one day during practice, knowing the small man had been staring at her with a focus beyond that of artistic direction.
