Page 54 of Dance of Devils

“The fuck was that?”

Jesus. Not another man who wants to hurt me, please.

Slowly I turn, looking up into Zak’s face. The head bouncer scowls at me.

“What were you doing in there?”

“I—” I can barely think, let alone speak right now. I can’t focus on anything but the horror rampaging through my psyche, the lingering ache of Lou’s fingers, and the self-loathing burning like acid in my veins.

“Were youfuckinghim?”

“Zak, please,” I croak. “I just want to go work?—”

“Answer me!” He grabs my shoulders and slams me back against the wall, making me wince. “I thought we were gonna hang out sometime, Brooklyn!”

“Zak,please,” I choke. “Not now?—”

“Did you fuck him?” he growls. “Or were you in there sucking his dick for the good shifts? I know you sluts all do that.”

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t stand here and smile and say the nice things so the violent man doesn’t lose his cool and hurt me. I can’t stand here and “just take it” because it’s the easier option.

I just fuckingcan’t.

“Get out of my way, Zak,” I groan. “I need to get to work?—”

The punch knocks me sideways off my feet, sending me sprawling to the floor as black speckles dot my vision. Throbbing pain radiates through my face, down my jaw, even into my hands as I lie there in shock and agony and horror, panting against the floor.

Zak spits on the ground next to me.

“Fuck you, slut.”

I blink back tears as his footsteps retreat heavily down the hall, the combined scents of body lotion, perfume, testosterone, smoke, and alcohol making me gag as the sickening beat of the music I’ll have to shed my dignity to very soon pounds in my throbbing head.

I can’t do this anymore.

I’m sinking fast. And if I can’t find something to hold onto, I’m going to drown.

12

KIR

From the shadowy upper balcony,I watch as she glides across the stage. Magda barks a command from the middle of the fourth row—her usual spot from which she directs her dancers—and the whole company stops and gets ready to run the scene again from the top.

As involved as I am with the Zakharova, it’s rare for me to sit in on rehearsals. Those are Magda’s domain. Which is partly why I’m sitting uphere, cloaked in the shadows, watching the dancers.

Well, not dancers, plural.

One dancer, singular.

I understand that I’ve already crossed a major line with her, and that being here is only fueling a fire within me thatshould notbe stoked.

But I’m here because of a lie I keep telling myself, which is that my interest in Brooklyn Ellis is professional. That I see a tremendously talented dancer who just needs a small nudge to go from very good to great.

To be honest, Iaminterested in helping her achieve greatness. She’s phenomenal, but there’s so much potential being wasted. She doesn’t follow through. She hangs back when she should keep going, figuratively speaking. There’s a fear in her that prevents her from taking that final leap.

But helping her push past that is not my lone focus. Not when the taste of her lips still lingers in my brain, keeping me up at night.

…In more ways than one.