by Skye Warren
“Maybe,” I whisper, hating myself and hating him.
“Get this straight.” A finger points at me, and I flinch back. I hate myself for it. “I’m the director. You’re just moving parts. Keep your opinions to yourself and get your ass in order before you ruin another run-through. Got it?”
“Got it,” I whisper. My throat closes up, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. I will not let them fall. I will. Not. Let. Them. Fall. He could break my legs in front of everyone. Better that than this.
The dead silence in the studio has taken on a character of its own. It feels like poison ivy. It feels like shame. The same searing shame as when the woman at the food bank in the church basement pursed her lips and told me that I’d overfilled my bag. I’d taken too fucking much. Gotten too big for my food bank britches, even while my stomach ate itself for survival. She made me put the box of noodles back.
I want to melt into a puddle on the floor, but somehow I make it through the rest of practice. Landon’s words echo in my head. Just moving parts. I’m a puppet on a string. I’m as good as a prostitute. It’s a sick sort of validation. I’ve been right all along. They only want me for the meat on my bones. Everybody, from Mamere on down, thinks this is it for me. Twirl and dance, little doll. There’s nothing else for you. Who needs a brain when you can let your arms hang in first position and the master will make the moves?
Failure. I’m a failure. I’ve kept myself off the street through literal blood and sweat, and the world still wants to slap me into line.
Wrenching open my locker with all my strength feels good. Right. Like I could rip it off its hinges, and the locker would deserve it.
And then I see the letter.
I actually feel the blood drain from my face. My first instinct is to squeeze my eyes shut and see if it goes away. No. It’s still there. My hand trembles on the metal lip of the locker door. The others came in envelopes, through the mail. This came hand delivered. Under any other circumstance, I might find it almost adorable. The letter is rolled into a small scroll. It’s attached to a flower.
A dead flower.
A flower that’s been dead for some time. It’s the dried-out husk of what once was a tulip. The brittle edge of the petal feels sharp enough to cut my finger, but of course it doesn’t. Wait, what am I doing? I shouldn’t be touching it. But I already did. I’ve already made one mistake. One mistake in a long series of mistakes, beginning back in childhood, when I got the stupid idea that I matter for more than my body.
Since I’ve already touched the flower, I shove the whole nasty bundle into my backpack.
Out at the curb, Noah waits in one of North Security’s black SUVs. He scrambles from the front seat to open the back door when he sees me coming. “Class let out early?” His eyes hold a cautious curiosity.
“Yes. I need to go home.”
This is not the whole truth. What I need to do is go to a real home. A home that doesn’t smell like Joshua North. A home that doesn’t tie knots into my muscles and keep me awake at night. But I can’t do that, can I? It was one thing to be reckless when I thought the letters were idle threats. An unwell individual having twisted fun. A letter in my locker feels dangerous on a deep, awful level. Someone had to stand in the hall while I was in class. Someone had to look at my things. Someone had to carefully place the flower on my backpack so it would be at eye level when I opened the locker door. And all this—all the guarding, all the sleepless nights—has done exactly nothing to prevent it.
Back at the pink mansion, of which every inch belongs to Joshua North and no part belongs to me, I stalk into his office. Anger has overtaken the fear, bubbling in my veins like poison champagne. I wrestle the flower out of my bag. Josh heard me coming. He always does. He sits behind his desk in an attitude of casual waiting. It’s bullshit, and I know it.
I let the flower fall from my fingertips.
“What the hell is that?” He’s on his feet, leaning over the desk, emerald eyes boring into mine. “Was this in the mail?”
“No. In my locker.” It’s his fault. I want to blame it on him so badly.
Naked fear flashes through his eyes like heat lightning. “Fuck, Bethany. Did you say anything to Noah?” His voice is a boom of thunder. The storm is directly above us. No time to take cover. “Did you tell him about this on the way?”
“No.” I sound petulant. Small. I don’t care.
Josh’s phone looks like a fragile sheet of glass in his hand. Actually, that’s what it is. The fact that he hasn’t shattered it by the force of his grip is astonishing. He presses it to his ear. “I need you back at the studio. He left something in her locker. Yes. A flower, and another one of the fucking letters. Search the whole place. Shut it down.” The phone falls to the table next to the flower with a clatter. Josh doesn’t even flinch. “That’s not a regular tulip. What kind of flower is it?”
“What does it matter?” I roll my eyes. I’m going back in time. I’m sixteen again, only worse than when I was sixteen. So much worse. When I was sixteen, Joshua North couldn’t help but kiss me in the alley outside the dance club. Now he’s got his knuckles pressed down on his desk. So much restraint. What a good guy. He glares at me. “It’s a tulip. Don’t you recognize tulips?”
“Can’t say that identifying flowers has been a big part of my job description. I’ve been too busy putting down threats to our national security.”
“Oh, wow.” My voice sounds tight with tears and rage. I hate that too. “Is that why you thought you could take over my entire life? Because you’re so good at killing people? You’re not exactly acing this job, I hope you know.”
He draws himself to his full height. Josh towers over me, his shirt straining over his muscles. “You need to go into the bedroom until I have a handle on this situation. That’s the most secure place. I’ll post someone outside the door.”
“Fuck you,” I spit. “I’m not hiding in your bedroom any longer. It hasn’t done any good. Clearly.”
He brings a hand down hard on the surface of his desk, the impact vibrating the room. “Damn it, Bethany, I wasn’t the one at the studio today. If it was me—”
“If it was you what?” My voice breaches the last boundary. I try so damn hard not to fly off the handle. I try so hard to look like the woman I have to be in order to claw my way up the ranks in my career. Docile. Agreeable. But this stress feels like it could shatter my bones. “You wouldn’t have seen him drop off the letter, either. You’d be too busy staring at my ass while I danced like I’m a piece of meat. Just admit it.”
“No,” he growls.
“Just admit it,” I hiss between gritted teeth. My backpack falls to the floor. I’m leaning over his desk, a bare inch between us. “You like the way I look in a leotard. You get off on keeping me locked up in your bedroom, where no other man can touch me. You’re just like Caleb. All you ever wanted is to keep everybody else’s greedy fingers off me, like you own me—”
Who reaches first? Him or me? The next words out of my mouth are cut off by Josh’s fist digging into the front of my leotard. Yanking me toward him. My hip bumps the front of the desk. The fabric holds. It’s stronger than it looks. His breath is hot on my lips. Jaw set. The gold ring around his pupils is a tiny flame at the center of cut emeralds. Somehow my own hands are fisted in his shirt. Which of us is pushing? Which of us is pulling?
“You.” He forces the word through the hard set of his jaw.
And then he snaps.
His mouth crashes into mine the moment he hauls me over the desk. One knee knocks an agate paperweight to the floor. I’ll have a bruise there later. Good. Let there be evidence of his need. His lips demand everything from me. He kisses the corner of my mouth and scrapes his teeth over my bottom lip. He has me in an iron grip. Like he might not ever let go. I’m molten beneath kisses so rough and so tender that they steal the air from my lungs. My thighs tremble from the position, from the fear, from the fact that I practiced hard. I’m dying for him to touch me
there. Dying. A deafening heartbeat fills the room—his or mine, I don’t know.
We’re almost matched in height this way, with me kneeling on the desk. I’m tall enough to clutch at his shirt. I can use my weight as a counterbalance. But I’m still the one on my knees.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake premiered in Moscow in 1877. Critics dismissed it as too noisy and too symphonic. Only after a revival and re-choreography in 1895 did the ballet become a widespread success.
Josh, present time
Give in, give in, give in. The only thing I’ve ever wanted is to give in.
What is the purpose of denial?
Bethany claws frantically at the front of my shirt, her fingernails digging in hard beneath the fabric. She tastes so fucking sweet. Her lips are puffy and red almost immediately, and I lick her bottom lip to taste her again. She tips her head back and welcomes my tongue into her mouth. Her entire body is a taut line. It can’t be easy to balance herself on her knees on the slick surface of my desk. Her muscles hold her in place. Her toes dig in. What I wouldn’t fucking give to see those toes curl in a real release. But I’ll take the battle for now. Of course I’ll fucking take it.
Years. Years are pent up in this kiss. Years of wanting and waiting and a twisted desire to make her do the filthiest things. That pure, graceful body in those pure, graceful clothes. I’m hard as a rock. Harder than a rock. I’m hard as rough diamonds hewn from the mines. I never wanted her to come easy. I got my fucking wish. She’s a wildcat.
I slip a hand behind her neck. Her skin mists with sweat. I know better than to think she’s still in a state from her practice. Bethany dances hard. She recovers quickly. This is from me. I’m doing this to her. Her perfect bun fits into the notch at my thumb like it was meant to be there.
Her hips roll forward. The new contact makes my dick leap. I’m going to fucking come in my pants, that’s what’s going to happen. Every muscle is tight with need for her. I want to push inside her and take up all the available space. I want to pin her beneath me so she has nothing left to do but writhe against my sheets. I want to fuck her so hard and for so long that her perfect bun is left in ruins.
A groan escapes me. I’ve been playing mind games for too fucking long now. Longer than the week she’s lived in my house. She’s the game. Think about Bethany Lewis and I lose. I saw her name on that list for North Security and I’ve been losing every second since. Now it’s clear, crystal fucking clear, that behind the closed door of my bedroom she’s been thinking the same thoughts.
We’re the same.
We’re still not the same. But this animal desire isn’t just me. It pours off Bethany in waves. She bites at my lip, exchanging one scrape of teeth for another. Her nails work their way into the back of my neck, up to where I keep my hair in a crisp line. That’s a habit that will last the rest of my life. So will the taste of Bethany on my tongue.
She makes a little noise in the back of her throat. Her knees inch apart on the desk.
Fuck, I want it.
I could pull her off the desk right now. I could bend her soft, pliable body with its lean, hard muscles over the unforgiving wood and pin her there. She would hate it or she would love it, but she would beg for more either way. I allow myself another taste of the seam of her lips. Memorize the way they part for me. The strap of her leotard lies in a perfect fit against her skin. I push one finger beneath it. I trace it down to the neckline, down to the cleft between her breasts. Her small, tight, beautiful breasts. They rise. They fall.
Her dark eyes snap open and meet mine.
Fuck.
I’m the devil on earth. I was the devil’s son, but I’ve become him now. Monstrous as I am, I can’t ignore the fear I see in her eyes. Like two flickering candles. Unmistakable. Regret roils through every inch of me, tidal in its power.
Hands on either side of her face, cupping the line of her neck. She’s delicate as a bird at the juncture where her pulse meets her jawbone. Bethany relaxes. She thinks I’m going to pull her in for more. I know it from her hungry sigh. As if she hasn’t had enough to eat all her life. For once, we’re not prodding at the other’s open wounds. We’re pulling together.
And I have to push her away.
It hurts me to do it. To create that extra space between us. Bethany’s face falls into confusion. “Why?” she breathes. The question is enough to make me bleed out, the life pumping out of me onto my polished hardwood floors.
“Not tonight.”
Whatever this is, whatever it could become—it can’t be tonight. She’s fucking terrified. She’s throwing herself at me out of abject fear. A man stalked her at the studio, where she should have been safe. Where Noah should have been watching. I’ll have to post someone outside the studio, if I ever let her go back. I’m a filthy, depraved motherfucker with ragged shreds of a soul, but I can’t take advantage of Bethany like this.
She sinks onto the desk, her polyester practice skirt in no-nonsense black pooling around her thighs. Her chin sinks toward her chest. My heart tears out of mine. I want to lower her to the desk and spread her legs. My dick demands it. Instead I lift her in my arms.
Dancers are not insubstantial people. They look that way, from the rows of seats in a theater, but it’s an illusion. Bethany’s petite frame is girded by the hard muscles necessary to propel her into the air and break her fall on the way down. She’s strong in a way that most people can only dream of. But she still feels light in my arms. It takes no effort to whisk her out of my office and up the grand staircase. Five steps in she rests her head against my chest.
In the master bathroom I turn the shower on. The hiss of the water fills the room with a soothing white noise. She walked out of practice without showering, and I know she hates that feeling. It’s my life’s greatest sacrifice to keep my eyes in appropriate places while I strip her out of her sweat-soaked leotard and slip her shower cap over her hair. While she showers, I force myself to collect her favorite pajamas—the ones I’ve seen her in the most. Teal, with a pattern of hearts around the hem. I push the switch on the lamp next to the bed. The light glowing from under the lampshade gives the bedroom a more stately quality. Like I don’t still want to destroy her on this mattress, on these sheets.
When the shower shuts off, I wait a small eternity and knock on the door. It cracks open, and Bethany blinks out at me. “Yes?”
“Clothes.”
She takes them and seals herself off again, emerging ten minutes later with no shower cap and a tired droop to her shoulders. Bethany doesn’t fight me when I take her hand. She lets me lead her to the bed and help her in. Everything she does is imbued with a natural grace, including lowering her head to the pillow. One hand slips beneath the edge of the pillow. Her eyes flutter shut.
I feel too big for the room to contain me. The blood in my body feels too raucous to be contained by my own flesh. My heart is an army on the march. It’ll take an act of God to stop it. But all it takes to tuck her in is a lift of the blankets. I smooth them down over her shoulders. Safe and sound. Like a child.
Her eyes follow me when I step back from the bed. When did she start watching me? Bethany swallows. “You said not tonight.”
One step and I’m close enough to skim my hand over her hair. Her eyelids flutter shut at my touch. It’s fucking inconceivable, that anyone could get any semblance of comfort from me. So inconceivable that it breaks something loose in my chest. Something I almost never give. I’m not the kind of man who makes promises. Promises are almost always a bad bet. But one of them rolls off my tongue anyway. “If you still want me tomorrow,” I swear fervently, “I’ll do it. Whatever you want.”
Just before she falls asleep, I see the ghost of a smile on Bethany’s lips.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Adelina Patti was the highest paid soprano of her time. She made her debut as a child in New York and sang at Covent Garden for twenty-five seasons. When asked for her rates to perform, the theater manager rep
lied, “Why, Madame, that is four times as much as we pay the President of the United States for a full year.” Patti replied, “Well, then, why don’t you get the President to sing for you?”
Josh, five years ago
Mud sucks my boots another inch into the swamp. Caleb’s idea of a celebration was to come out to Blind Lagoon two hours before sunset and shoot as many ducks as possible. Out on the bayou, everything is waterlogged and the scent of rot sits heavy on the surface of the water. Cypress trees loom in the light. The sun sinks below the horizon in barely perceptible increments.
My gut is unsettled in this heat. Congratulations to Noah and me. We’re part of Caleb’s gang now, and we came here to seal our agreement in the blood of dead ducks.
If we can manage to shoot any.
Something’s off about the trip. Everybody knows duck hunting’s better in the morning, but here we are, with the remains of a case of beer and a haphazard collection of waders and boots. It’s a parody of a group of friends.
It’s a half-hour drive from the city to Blind Lagoon. Caleb’s Jeep is parked half a mile behind us at a nondescript parking area off highway 90. Connor and Noah were both buzzed when they tipped the aluminum boat into the first available shadows. Connor, obnoxious and loud. Noah, silent as always. He never says a fucking thing, that guy. If I could get him alone, I could get a better idea of what he’s about. But being alone with a guy whose former partner met an unfortunate end isn’t high on my agenda tonight. Or ever.
“We’ve got a system, okay?” Connor shouts at full volume.
He’s such a fucking asshole. Yes, we’re out in the middle of nowhere—but it’s not like we’ve fallen off the map. If we can get here, so can anybody else.
“Nobody counts a goddamn thing in the army. They say they do, but why do you think Uncle Sam gives them unlimited credit? It’s because all kinds of bullshit slip through the cracks. Well, we’ve found one of the cracks. Lucrative as fuck. A gun here, a gun there. Soon you’ve got enough to sell on the black market. We get deployed, it gets easier. Who the hell is paying attention to that stuff when you’ve got the Taliban breathing down your neck? Nobody.” He slings his Remington across his back and cracks open another can of the shittiest beer known to mankind. His gulps are loud enough to make a squirrel nearby screech itself into action and get the fuck away from us. Connor crushes the can in his fist, tips his head back, and howls.
