Page 71 of Dance of Devils

“So was that pushing me to be stronger?” I snap, turning to him and yanking my gloves off. “Or punishing me for daring to question you?”

He stiffens, half-turning his head to glance at me.

“Or was it just you losing control?”

He turns a little more, his eyes flashing as he levels a cold look at me.

“I don’t lose control, Ms. Ellis.”

I bark a laugh. “Right, because that was obviously you incompletecontrol when you tackled a girl half your age to the ground and dry-humped her?—”

“That’senough, Brooklyn,” he snarls.

“Is this why you like ballet?” I toss at him. “All those young girls, prancing around in leotards and tights?”

Kir turns to face me fully, standing rigid and tall, his eyes smoldering.

Fuck, is he gorgeous, in a dark, terrifying way.

“You’re treading onverythin ice, Ms. Ellis,” he rasps. “I would suggeststopping.”

“Is that it, Kir?” I hurl back. “You just want to be able to walk in here and single out some poor, struggling girl to play fucking head games with?”

His eyes turn the color of midnight.

“That what does it for you?” I snap. “That what gets you?—”

“Stop.”

He doesn’t yell it. Honestly, he barely raises his voice. But the sheer power behind that single word, the dark, vicious way it curls its tendrils around me, instantly gets my attention, sharp and focused.

It feels like the entire balance of power has completely skewed in his favor. Justone fucking wordcoming from those sinful lips, and whatever cockiness and sass I was feeling dissipates like smoke. Suddenly, I realize I’m standing in the lion’s den, taunting the king of the jungle himself.

Kir pulls off his boxing gloves deliberately, setting them aside before he folds his hands behind his back. He levels a withering, authoritative look at me that makes my core clench and my legs tremble.

He draws in a slow, deep breath, then exhales and looks right at me.

“Come here.”

Heat slithers down my spine.

“I—”

“I didn’t tell you to speak,” he replies. “I told you tocome. Here.”

He brings a hand out from behind his back and points to the floor directly in front of him.

“Now, Ms. Ellis.”

My pulse quickens as Kir takes a step back and sits on the long bench behind him, where dancers usually rest before or after rehearsal to gab or catch a breath.

I shiver as Kir plants his palms on his slightly spread thighs, his dark eyes piercing into mine across the low-lit room.

“Come.Here.”

He punctuates each word with another point of his finger to the floor.

And suddenly, like I’m being pulled by invisible strings, I'm walking over.