Page 171 of Dance of Devils

“Got any plans while you’re here?” I smile. “A friend of mine is having a birthday party in just over a week and a bunch of us from here are going. You should totally join us!”

She beams. “Really? It wouldn’t be weird?”

“Please.” I shake my head. “It’s at this super fun club, and it’ll be a great time. You should definitely come!”

Rehearsal is winding down as a bedraggled-looking Val jogs through the door to the studio and collapses to his knees, shirtless and dripping in sweat.

“Fuck, it’s a million fucking degrees outside,” he groans.

Inessa and I swap numbers before she takes off. I’m about to go grab Val some more water when Dove steps in front of me, looking extremely confused.

“What’s up?”

Dove’s brow shoots up. “You…don’t know who she is?”

I frown. “Like, who herdadis?”

Dove shakes her head. “No, I mean,she’syour competition for Moscow.”

My eyes widen. “What?” I turn to stare at Inessa just as she walks out of the studio.

“Yep,” Dove says quietly. “And from what I hear, she’s guaranteed to get that apprenticeship withBallet Imperiya Korona.” She makes an unimpressed face. “Kiris getting her in.”

41

KIR

The momentI step into the house, I can feel the tension dissipating.

It’s been like that ever since Brooklyn moved in. Like there’s a calmness to the place that wasn’t here before. A peace. Honestly, I could get very used to it.

I’ve gotten very used toherbeing here, too. There’s never been any end date on this, I just told her when she first got here that “she lived here now”.

Now, I know how much I meant that.

It’s not even that “I don’t mind if she stays.” It’s far more than that. It’s thatI don’t want her to leave.

Ever.

I don’t want a day to come where she’s moved on from this house, or from me. She’s not justinmy life anymore, she’s apart ofit, in a way I never anticipated, and in a way I know I won’t ever tire of.

I roll my shoulders and walk across the kitchen to get a drink, when I pause. My brow furrows as I turn slightly, hearing classical music playing faintly from somewhere in the house.

I follow the sound—theGrand Pas Classique,I realize as I get closer—and stop in the doorway to the ballroom, my eyes riveted on her.

Christ, she’s beautiful when she dances.

And yet, there’s something off. The longer I watch her, the more I see an almost manic expression on her face—the pursed lips, and feverish concentration. Loose wisps of her hair are stuck to the sides of her face as sweat soaks the back of her leotard.

There's a look of pure exhaustion warring with punishing drive in every movement and facial tick.

When the music finishes, Brooklyn’s back is to me as she bends forward, panting for air, her hands on her knees and her legs shaking.

The music starts up again immediately, on a loop. She gets back into position, preparing to start again.

Brooklyn flinches and whirls on me when I shut off the music.

“Turn that back on,” she says, not looking me in the eye. “I wasn’t finished.”