Page 12 of Dance of Defiance

I can never quite tell with him. Sometimes, it truly does feel like Vaughn is trying to bridge the gap between us that twenty years apart created. Other times, I wonder if he feels guilty when he looks at me, knowing he left me to the foster care system while he went on to…well…this.

I’m not one to hold back on what I’m thinking—shocking literally no one—so I’ve point blank asked him about this, andI’ve made sure he categorically knows that I understand he did what he did twenty years ago because he truly wanted to give me a better shot at life. But he never quite answers the question—in fact, he’s hellaciously good at sidestepping it entirely whenever I bring it up.

So, like I said: I can’t quite tell.

“I’m genuinely asking,” Vaughn says, bringing the crystal tumbler in his hand to his lips and taking a slow sip.

“As my brother, or?—”

As my employer.

That’s a slightly awkward aspect of our relationship that the two of us dance around. Ballet—unsurprisingly—paysshit. But I’ve made it work for years: I’ve bartended, walked dogs, sold weed on the side, even go-go danced in a cage at a greasy, retro-themed gay bar in the village. That gig was pretty fun, actually.

My financial situation has never really bugged me, because at the end of the day, I get to dance professionally. But since my brother re-entered my life, things have changed. And this is where the awkwardness between us comes into play.

Vaughn immediately wanted to move me into some insane penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. But I’ve spent my entire life knowing with brutal clarity that nothing comes for free. Yes, that’s a fucked-up way to look at a gift from your own brother, but it is what it is.

So instead, we found a middle ground. Well, sort of a middle ground.

I said no to the Central Park penthouse, but Ididtake Vaughn up on the Soho loft. It’s still disgustingly expensive, but nowhereclose to a billionaire’s row penthouse. Also, it doesn’t come for free—at my insistence.

Vaughn doesn’t let me do anythinghugelydangerous or illegal. But I do odd jobs for him and the Syndicate at times. Tonight, for example, I wasn’t just here for the food. My job was to “assist with attending to some of the evening's “more select, VIP guests”. Which is a nice way of saying I was babysitting the youngest daughter of Diego Torvallés, Claudia, who was coked out of her fuckingmindall night.

The Torvallés family, as Vaughn explained to me, is one of the oldest and most powerful in the European underworld, dating back to the Spanish Inquisition. And obviously when my brother decided to throw a dinner party with Cosimo Sangrini as the guest of honor they were included on the guest list, including Claudia Torvallés and the full eight-ball of narcotics dusting her nasal cavities, whom I babysat all night.

…Well, notallnight.

My pulse twitches and a throbbing, gnawing hunger pools low in my stomach.

Roman.

Roman, with scowling eyes and outrageously hot grunting sounds that rumble in his chest like thunder. Roman, with forearms that make me fucking drool and a jawline that makes me want to take a fucking bite out of it.

Full disclosure, I’ve been lusting after Evie’s older brother for almost as long as I’ve been aware of his existence. But I wouldn’t classify it as a crush or anything emo like that. I don’t reallyknowRoman Nikitin. I just know he’s got a mouth that isbeggingto be wrapped around my dick and an ass that makes me hard as steel whenever we’re in the same general vicinity.

Like, I’ve never wanted to write syrupy poetry about his eyes. But Ihavejerked off to the thought of bending him over and pounding the fuck out of him.

That makes sense…right?

Tonight, though, things went further than anticipated. My attention was first caught by the guard who kept slipping into shadowy corners up on the mezzanine level and sipping from a metal flask. Red flag number one. Then I started following him with my eyes and couldnothelp but wonder why his suit was practically painted onto his mouthwatering frame.

It wasn’t until I tackled him to the ground, pinned his hands above his head and saw the tattoos on the backs of his hands that it all clicked.

What can I say? Those hands and their tattoos may or may not have starred inseverallate-night fantasies of mine.

Yes, I have many questions, including “what the fuck was Roman doing here”, but that’s not the one that’s been blaring like an air raid siren in my head ever since I told him to get the fuck out.

No, that honor goes to “why the hell did touching himignitesomething in me”. Not just lust—I know lust. This was wild, untamed, and shockingly raw.

Again, I’ve had jerk-off fantasies about the guy since the first time I laid eyes on him. He’s hot as fuck, and has that growly, surly, hyper-masculine thing going on that makes my dickache.

But tonight was the first time I’ve ever seen deeper than that. Tonight felt like I peeked around a curtain I’m not sure I was meant to see behind.

Butfuck me, I liked what I saw.

Beyond the alpha-energy, hyper-masculine sex appeal, the gruff roughness, the muscles hewn from rock, and the tough guy fuck-you attitude…

Tonight, I caught a brief glimpse of something vulnerable, soft, and breakable in that man.