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But I hear the lie in her voice, the way her words shake with doubt as she says them. If she could only turn that fear into anger, turn it into something dangerous instead of something that keeps her small, she’d make a lethal Odile, and I want to be the one that helps her find that edge.

Volkov doesn’t understand. He wants art born from cruelty, but I know hers will come from survival, and if she learns how to wield that… God help anyone who stands in her way.

Volkov smirks, turning to signal the pianist. “Good. Impress me.”

The piano kicks in again, fast and electric and she moves immediately, throwing herself into the role. Her arms cut cleanly through the air, surprising me, her movements unrelenting. This is what she needs to channel when she’s Odile, because power suits her.

She looks dangerous, and it makes me want things I shouldn’t, because within seconds I’m hard.

I shift my weight and subtly adjust the waistband of my sweats, praying no one notices.

Her body spirals in tight, controlled fury.

Thirty-two turns. Not a stumble, or a break.

She lands the final one with precision, arms closing at her sides, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm.

“Beautiful,” Volkov murmurs, his expression just as surprised as my own.

Angelique straightens, shoulders trembling. Her face is flushed, her skin shining with sweat, and I can see how much that took out of her. Volkov circles her slowly, rubbing his chin like he’s searching for the flaw.

“But now…” His tone shifts. “We test real Odile. The seduction. Prince is fool, but not blind. Odile must make him love her. Trick him. Tempt him.”

He turns and points to me. “Prince, come. Odile, seduce him.”

Angelique freezes. “What?”

“It is character,” he says with exaggerated patience. “You are not inviting him to dinner. You are seducing. The stakes are life or death. Show me how you lie with your body. Make him want you.”

“With my…body?” Her eyes dart to mine, wide and startled.

I keep my face neutral, but inside, something clenches. Not because of the request, but because of how cornered she looks, like a rabbit in a snare.

“I—I can’t just?—”

Volkov groans, rolling his eyes. “Are you virgin?”

And just like that, whatever I was feeling a moment ago dies, because now I’m pissed.

What the fuck?

Angelique’s body tenses. “What?”

“You move like you do not know touch,” he says, shrugging. “No man has ever wanted you? No one has ever?—?”

Heat rises in my chest, and I clench my jaw to keep from losing it. It’s not just inappropriate—it’s cruel. She’s already standing on trembling legs, doing everything she can to hold it together. This isn’t direction, it’s humiliation.

I watch her flinch, her shoulders tightening, and something ugly sparks in me—protective and furious. He doesn’t get to do that, not to her, and definitely not while I’m standing in the same room.

“Alright.” I step forward, putting myself between them to shield her. “That’s enough.”

Volkov blinks at me, as if just remembering I’m still here.

“She just danced thirty-two fouettés,” I continue, my jaw like stone. “Maybe it’s time you shut the fuck up.”

“It’s discipline,” he says, eyes narrowing.

I can tell he’s offended by my words, but I guess it pays to be the heir of the company he works for.

“No,” I say, steady. “It’s harassment.”

I stare him down, daring him to push it further. One more word. One more little dig, and I won’t just use my voice next time. But Volkov, for all his bravado, knows not to push me further. He sighs like we’ve both offended his artistic soul and flings his hands in the air.

“We are done for today,” he announces. “This…” he gestures vaguely between Angelique and me. “This is not connection. This is strangers on subway, not lovers on stage.”

Volkov rounds on me. “You must fix this. You are lead. You are prince. Make her trust you. Make her love you. Make audience believe.” He jabs the air again. “Right now, you dance like man checking mailbox. I need passion. Heartbreak. Devotion! You have face like funeral. Give me fire, Reign.”

He steps closer, pointing a finger straight at my chest. “Just now, you had fire. Defending her. I want that in your dancing. That heat, that edge. You threaten like man who would kill for love—so dance like it.”

I bite down hard, hands flexing at my sides, but I stay silent.

I shouldn’t have let that much emotion show.

She’s not mine, and she never was, but try telling that to the part of me that would burn the whole fucking world just to stop her from hurting.

I dig my nails into my palm while I lock that part of myself down before it costs me everything, before she costs me everything.

Then he swivels back to Angelique. “And you…” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before waving his hand like she’s an unsolvable equation. “Drop the fear, it stinks. You want to be Odile? Then stop acting like girl in corner at school dance. Call me when ready to dance like real partners.”

Her cheeks flame but Volkov doesn’t wait for either of us to reply.

He slings his bag over his shoulder and storms out, muttering under his breath before the door slams behind him.

I cross my arms, eyes pinned to the floor, trying to sort through everything I want to say and everything I know I probably shouldn’t. Then I exhale and look up.

“He’s right.”

Her head snaps toward me.

“Not the virgin bit. That was bullshit.” I pause. “But the rest of it… he’s not wrong. We can’t pull this off unless we trust each other,” I say, keeping my tone calm, measured.

She nods, slow and uncertain, like she’s bracing herself.

I study her a beat longer, then say, “It looks like if we want Volkov to work with us, we’ll have to start off by practicing without him until we’re ready.”

Her brows lift. “Like… alone?”

I nod. “If it feels like too much, then we can bring our understudies,” I offer. “Just until you’re more comfortable around me.”

“Okay,” she breathes, her eyes lowered.

“I’ll meet you at the estate studio tonight, around eight,” I say, grabbing my belongings from the corner and making my way out of the studio.

“No,” she calls out, stopping me in my tracks.

I turn to look at her with a lifted brow. “Let’s do it tomorrow morning instead,” she says. “I don’t rehearse at night.”

I don’t tell her I don’t do early mornings, instead I nod and turn to leave.

I’m ripped out of my sleep by the sound of Angelique screaming at the top of her lungs.

With a speed I didn’t know I had, I grab my pocketknife from my nightstand and run down the hall, bursting into her room.

But I find her all alone, her sheets tangled around her as she whimpers in her sleep, tears streaking down her face.

“Angel?” I whisper, frowning as I watch her.

“Please…” she whimpers, still asleep. “Please stop, Alec.”

Alec? As in her dance partner in New York?

Instead of waking her, I back out of her room slowly, mindful that I’ve just broken one of the rules she set and close the door behind me. Standing in the hallway, listening to her whimpering behind the door, a piece of my heart fractures.

I clench the knife tighter in my hand, my knuckles burning white. I don’t know the full story, but from how she’s begging him to stop, I know that if I ever see him, I’ll slit his fucking throat.

I turn and press my back to the wall, my chest heaving as I fight the urge to go back in and wake her up just to hold her and tell her she’s safe.

I sit on the floor outside her door, knife still in hand, and I wait until the whimpers stop.

Then I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall.

“I’ve got you, Angel,” I whisper into the dark. “Even if you don’t know it yet.”