Page 91 of Dance of Defiance

What if I’m not good.

Evie, obviously, is just drunk. I already know her “secret” is that she went on that fucking Club Venom app. I still have no idea how to bring that up with her. Honestly, at this point, I probably won't.

Nothing came of it. Stepan is savvy enough with this house’s tech to be able to show me internet traffic for the last few weeks. No one has been on the Club Venom app since the night I saw that conversation on Evie’s phone. So…that’s done.

What if I’m not good.

Evie doesn’t have a fucking thing to worry about there. Sheisgood; alarmingly, slightly worryingly so.

But me?

I squeeze my eyes shut as I take another sip, letting the vodka burn my throat.

“Good” isn’t lying to yourself and the people who love you. “Good” isn’t sneaking around, drowning your own self-hatred with alcohol, and playing risky sex gameswith a fucking man.

“Good” isn’t looking yourself in the mirror and hating every fucking facet of what you see as you try and convince yourself that you don’t find Val Bancroft extremely attractive. Which means?—

“Roman!!”

I startle, choking on the vodka in my mouth as a haggard-looking Stepan rushes into the room, phone in one hand, drawn gun in the other.

“It’s your father,” he says tightly.

My pulse stills.

“He’s going to be okay. Nikolai Antonov, too. But there was an explosion at the safe house. A firebomb. Come—I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

I bolt after him, taking the gun he hands me and checking the mag before I stick it into the back of my pants. When we rush into the main hall and I see the small fuckingarmyof heavily armed Nikitin men there, I grab his shoulder.

“The fuck is all this?”

Stepan’s face is gray as he turns back to me. “For your sister’s safety.” His jaw tenses. “We’re fairly sure the attack was the work of the Obsidian Syndicate.”

16

VAL

“She’s somean!”

I snort as I follow Naomi into the women’s locker room, with Milena right behind me.

It’s pretty late, but Madame Kuzmina, our artistic director, considers anything less than literal perfection to be a personal affront. Tonight, that Stalinist drive meant she kept Naomi, Milena, and I late to hammer down thepas de troisfromLa Bayadère, a Russian ballet involving a love triangle between Solor the warrior—that would be me—the princess Gamzatti, Naomi, and the temple dancer Nikiya, Milena.

And trust me, I feel hammered the fuck down.

“I want to just say it’s her Russian nature,” Milena groans, glancing at Naomi, who’s slumped on the bench by the lockers. “But she takes it to another level.”

“It doesn’t help that you fucking antagonize her, Val,” Naomi grumbles, shooting me a dark look.

“Moi?” I give them my most charming smile, framing my face with my hands and fluttering my eyelashes dramatically.

“Yes,” they mutter in unison, glaring at me.

Milena turns away, peeling off her tights and leotard and wrapping a towel around her.

Again, these girls are like sisters. Or utterly—and I do meanutterly—platonic pals. For a while there, the other guys in the Zakharova had a habit of leaving directly after rehearsal and showering at home or at their gyms or wherever, and honestly, it got lonely and boring being the only one in the guys' changing room.

So I just started using this one instead. It’s one hundred percent not a sexual thing, and I’ve bent over backward to make sure I’m not making anyone uncomfortable. If Dove’s around, for instance, I use the guys' room, because I can tell she’s not down with sharing the space with me.