Page 14 of Dance of Devils

Isaak rolls his eyes. “For the record…” He glances down at the girl. “I think this—whatever it is—is a bad idea.”

“Noted. Goodnight, Isaak.”

When he’s gone, I sit on the edge of the bed and gently bring the washcloth to her forehead. She barely stirs as I dab at the cut on her forehead. It’s not that bad. She won’t even need stitches. But again, head wounds bleeda lot.

Slowly, I start to clean the dried blood from her face, pulling her matted blonde hair free as I go.

She’s like a beautiful little broken doll.

I dab the washcloth against the last matted lock of hair, freeing it from the crusted blood before I gently push it aside, finally revealing her face.

Instantly, I go still.

Because I suddenly realize the broken doll has a name, and it’s Brooklyn Ellis.

I know her.

Not well or personally, that is. We’ve hardly ever even spoken before. But I do own the Mercury Theatre and the Zakharova Ballet, with whom she dances.

From what I’ve seen, she appears relatively normal. She’s definitely a fantastic dancer. And I know for sure she doesn’t come from a mafia family, unlike most of the girls she tends to hang out with at the Zakharova.

So why in God’s name was she in that part of town, loitering behind a fucking strip club, attractingthatsort of attention? And why thefuck—and I can’t overstate this enough—was this completely normal girl, with no ties to any mafia families, so insistent on “no police”?

I purse my lips, scanning the swelling on her cheekbone, the split at the corner of her mouth, and the cut on her forehead, which has stopped bleeding by now, thank Christ.

Her hands are scraped raw. Her knees are bloody.

Whatever her reasons for both, she’s not going to be answering any questions while she’s out cold.

Time to get to work.

I’m more than well-versed in basic first aid: what I didn’t learn in Moscow, I got a crash course in during my stint at the penal camp when I was barely a teenager.

Knowing how to ice down bruises and stitch up basic cuts came in handy later on, when the boys at my private school realized I wasn’t like them and didn’t come from generational wealth that could be traced back hundreds of years.

I start with the cut on her forehead, cleaning it with antiseptic and then keeping it closed with a butterfly bandage, then putting some soft gauze on top of that. I get to work on her hands next, then her knees. Frowning, I pull my custom-tailored jacket off her body and set it on the bed.

The Moscow streets taught me pride and honor. Siberia taught me never to lose. Private school and then Oxford taught me that clothesdo, in fact, make the man.

I take a pair of shears from the med kit and start cutting her ripped shirt from her body. Her bra is torn, so I cut that away too.

No, not to sneak a peek or cop a feel. I mean she’s, what, fucking twenty-one? Twenty-two?

Gorgeous, with a lean, toned, dancer’s body.

Pert, handful-sized breasts. Pink nipples. Soft skin.

My jaw tightens as I toss the shears away and use the washcloth to cover her chest a bit, reminding myself this isn’t a fucking peep show.

I unzip and pull her skirt off next,again, not so my eyes can roam all over her body, but to make sure there aren’t any other injuries I haven’t noticed. Sure enough, I catch another cut on her shoulder and tape that up, as well as a scrape on her hip just above the waist of her black panties that’s quickly bruising.

My jaw stays locked as I tape that up, too, ignoring my proximity to her warm body, covered only by the washcloth and little black thong.

As I pull back from bandaging her hip, my brow furrows deeply. I finally allow my gaze to roam over her body as black fury begins to swell inside me.

The head, knees, hands, shoulder, and hip are from tonight.

The other bruises are older.