Page 16

Reign

T he next morning, while I sit at the kitchen island and wait for Angelique to come out of her bedroom, I take to the internet to try to find out more about Alec.

It doesn’t take long for me to discover that he goes through female partners like they're disposable—smiling on opening night, gone by season’s end.

I’m not one to judge. I’m no better, but I can’t stop thinking about Angelique’s voice last night, begging him to stop.

Stop what, exactly?

My jaw tightens as I keep reading. According to a dated but detailed Wiki entry, every single one of his partners quit ballet altogether after dancing with him. It’s a pattern that doesn’t sit right as I recall Angelique saying she quit dancing, too.

What did he do to her?

I lock my phone at the soft creak of her bedroom door opening, placing it back in my pocket as I bring my coffee mug to my mouth.

She walks out of her room dressed in rehearsal gear and makes her way down the hall.

Her curls are bunched into a messy bun atop her head and the dark circles under her eyes tell me the rest of her night must have been just as restless as mine.

“Morning,” she murmurs, yawning as she passes me without so much as a glance.

“Morning,” I reply, watching her pour herself a cup of the coffee I made earlier. “Sleep okay?”

She hesitates, taking a sip before setting her mug down. “Yeah, how about you?”

I consider her for a moment. Should I pretend like nothing happened? Or should I bring it up and see if she opens up to me? I stand and walk over to the sink.

“I was,” I say lightly, rinsing my empty cup and placing it in the sink. “Until I heard you scream and figured someone must have broken in to kill you.” I raise an eyebrow, attempting for humour to soften the delivery. “Then I stayed up the rest of the night wondering if I was next.”

She spins to face me, eyes wide with alarm. “I screamed?”

“Loud enough to wake the dead,” I confirm with a nod. “Do you do that often?”

She swallows hard, gaze falling to the floor. “Sometimes,” she says quietly. “But I usually wake myself up before it gets bad.”

I face her and lean my hip against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I thought I heard you say the name Alec at one point,” I say, testing the waters.

She takes a shaky step back as soon as his name leaves my lips, her hip hitting the side of the counter. She has the same look of panic on her face that she had yesterday when we almost tried the lift .

“I was starting to wonder if you’d broken one of our rules and brought a guy over.” When she doesn’t say anything, I keep going. “He was your partner at the Big Apple, right? Were you two dati?—”

“I decided on another rule,” she says quickly, voice trembling. “No more asking about anything to do with New York.”

She turns on her heel and walks out the front door, leaving her steaming coffee behind on the counter, and I know then and there that whatever happened in New York was bad.

I stay frozen for a beat, staring at the door she left open, long enough to let in the morning chill before I pick up her mug and walk it to the sink.

Her reaction said more than any answer could have. Whatever Alec did, it’s something that buried itself inside her and stayed there like rot. My mind won’t stop building its own narrative, stacking possibilities of what he could have done.

Did he hurt her during rehearsal? Like drop her during a lift?

My grip tightens on the ceramic as I try to breathe through the rising anger and keep from letting the storm inside of me spill out, but then I picture her flinching away from me in the studio, and lying in bed, twisted in the sheets, crying, begging him to stop.

Did he force her to do something she didn’t want to?

I see it—and I feel it. The violence of it; the violation—and I know that in that moment Alec took a piece of her she’ll never get back.

Something inside me snaps as I close my eyes and clench my jaw so tight my teeth ache.

I slam the mug into the sink harder than I intend, hearing the sharp crack of ceramic on porcelain followed by a shatter.

Glass fragments burst in every direction like shrapnel while I stand there, chest heaving, my hands braced on either side of the basin, staring down at the broken pieces. If I find out Alec laid a hand on her—if he’s the reason she’s like this—God help him if I ever see his fucking face.

I find Angelique at the estate studio ten minutes later. She's already stretching at the barre when I walk in, her posture tense. She doesn’t see me yet, so I say nothing, choosing to watch for a moment instead.

Her energy used to be so loud when we were younger, and I remember watching her curiously back then, too. I couldn't understand how someone could light up a room the way she had. I'd always been jealous of Lando for having someone like that in his life, someone to brighten up the dark days.

But she's different now, more guarded. Grief did that to her when her dad died. I remember how empty she looked afterward, like the light had been siphoned out and no one noticed except me. Losing him hollowed her out in ways I think only I fully understood.

She still looks empty inside now, but I don’t think it really has anything to do with her dad, and all to do with why she moved back to Marlow.

What would happen if she ever trusted me enough to let me in again and tell me what happened in New York?

But what if she tells me something horrible?

What then? Do I fly to New York? Beat the shit out of the person who hurt her?

Yes , I growl in my head.

But even I can admit that’d be an overstep on my end. She’s not my friend, and she sure as hell isn’t mine. Not anymore. Yet I can’t help but feel protective of her, curious even. But curiosity can turn cruel when you don’t have the heart to follow through.

I don’t believe in love, not the way people talk about it, like it’s some kind of salvation.

Not since I’ve learned that love is just another word for leaving.

For breaking things that don’t deserve to be broken.

I've lived under the philosophy that people always leave.

No matter how tightly you hold them, they find the door eventually.

Because love is a temporary, fleeting feeling.

And Angelique? She already looks like she’s barely holding herself together.

The last thing she needs is someone like me getting too close, because if she ever lets me in again, I don’t know that I’ll be able to give her anything real, and I sure as hell don’t want to be the one who ruins her any more than she already is.

I watch her closely, noticing how she avoids looking at the mirrored wall, avoids looking at herself. If she had glanced that way, just once, she would have seen me already.

"There you are,” I say, pretending not to notice when she startles. “Wasn’t sure you’d still come.”

She stands up straighter and wipes her hands before tugging her sleeves lower.

“Yeah, well. The show must go on, right?” She looks around the studio, her eyes softening. “I never had time to say it last time we were in here, but this place hasn’t changed much.”

I shrug. “I didn’t want it to.”

This building is the only part of the estate untouched by my father’s endless renovations. Either he forgot it existed when he laid out the floor plans for the construction crew, or he didn’t care enough to gut it like everything else.

It still feels like my mom in here. She used to teach private lessons, long before the rest of the house turned cold. I miss her, as stupid as that sounds, and this studio is the only thing she didn’t take with her, the only part of her that I have left.

Angelique moves toward the barre, trailing her fingers along the worn wood, and when she turns back to face me, I take my time looking at her.

She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful, but now it’s different, older.

There's a softness in her that calls to something brutal in me.

I want to touch her, wreck her, just to see if she'd let me put her back together again. That thought alone should scare me, but it doesn’t. It excites me.

I make my way to the piano in the corner of the room, flip the lid open, and let my fingers fall over the keys.

A few scattered notes ring out, steadying me.

Music has always made more sense than people.

It doesn’t lie, and it doesn’t leave. It just exists—pure and exact, the way I wish life worked.

“I thought we’d start with the lakeside scene in Act Two,” I say, pulling out my phone and connecting it to the Bluetooth speakers.

She nods, moving to stand in fourth position, but I can tell she’s trying her hardest to look brave. I hit play and set the phone down on the piano before turning to face her.

"Already warmed up?"

Angelique nods again, so I step toward her.

She doesn't run, but I see how her body braces for my touch in the way her spine subtly stiffens and how her shoulders lift just a fraction too high.

She inhales and holds it like she's waiting for me to hurt her, and it pisses me off how automatic that reaction is; like it's muscle memory; like being touched means pain to her now.

What the fuck happened to you, Angel ?

“We’ll take it slow,” I whisper. “No lifts unless you want to try them.”

She gives another small nod, still avoiding my gaze.

I step behind her, hands hovering just off her hips. “You ready?”

She exhales. “As I’ll ever be.”

The first few steps feel mechanical. Her body knows the motions — the sweep of her arms, the angle of her chin — but there’s no emotion in it, no connection.

It’s like she’s trying to keep herself out of her own skin and disappear mid-performance.

Maybe telling her she said his name was a bad idea after all.

“I can feel you thinking,” I murmur as we turn, my palm grazing the small of her back. “Stop it.”

“I’m not thinking,” she lies.

I catch her waist more firmly this time, anchoring her. “Yes, you are." She stiffens but doesn’t pull away.

“The audience won’t need perfection,” I say. “But they’ll expect honesty in our dancing.”

The music swells as I guide her into a slow pivot that lands her back against my chest. I don’t move, choosing to let her stay there and feel the steady rise and fall of my breath. I should step back, but I don’t. I like her close.

She smells like lilies, her curls brushing against my jaw as the heat of her body bleeds through the cotton of her top.

Her voice is small. “What if I don’t know how to show that in my dancing anymore?”

“Then we learn how," I pause, "together.”

I ease her into the next set of steps, slower than the tempo. I want her to feel safe in the movement, not pressured by it. When my hand glides over her rib cage to catch her underarm, I feel the shiver that ripples through her, but she still doesn’t flinch or step away.

Progress.

We reach the part of the duet where the lift would begin and I stop, letting my hands fall away as I step back.

“Do you want to try it?” I ask, already knowing the answer, but asking anyway.

She hesitates and I watch her throat work as she swallows. “I… not today.”

If she were anyone else, I’d already have them in the air, whether they were ready or not.

I’ve done it before; tossed dancers higher than they could handle and let the chips fall where they may.

But I want her trust more than I want her in the air, and that pisses me off because the part of me that craves control, that wants to own every inch of her skin and breath and movement, hates being gentle.

I nod. “Okay.”

When we’re done rehearsing, I reach for the door and hold it open for Angelique. She slips past me, and I follow her out into the early morning light, the studio door swinging shut behind us with a soft click.

We walk side by side toward the guesthouse, the silence between us more comfortable than it was earlier. It’s not tense, or awkward, just quiet in that way two people can be when they’re tired.

I look over to her as we walk, noticing how her hair’s falling out of the bun, a few strands clinging to the side of her neck. She’s flushed, cheeks still pink, her top sticking to her back in places. She’s beautiful—frustratingly so—and the worst part is, I don’t think she even knows it.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this, but fuck, a part of me doesn’t care. I want to claim her as mine again, but I grit my teeth against it. That would only end up with us both feeling broken all over again.

“You did good in there.”

She glances over, skeptical. “I didn’t finish the scene a single time.”

“Still,” I shrug. “You tried, and that counts.”

She’s quiet for a moment, brows pinching slightly. “Thanks for not pushing, but you don’t have to be so nice to me.”

I nod, not sure what else to say. I never know what to do with gratitude—especially when it’s directed at me. She pulls ahead slightly, and I let my gaze linger on the curve of her waist, the way her leggings hug her hips. It’s a problem, how aware I am of her.

We’re just a few paces from the guesthouse when I slow my steps. “I’ve been thinking maybe we could bring Lando in for the next few sessions. Just to help you get more comfortable with lifts before we try again?”

She pauses, just slightly, then turns to face me. “I’d like that.” I catch her almost-smile. It’s the first trace of the girl I remember, the one who used to laugh too loud and dream big.

We reach the guesthouse and stop walking.

I watch as she lingers in front of the door, fingertips trailing across the wood, her chest rising and falling a little too fast. My gaze dips—just for a second—and I have to lock my jaw to keep from thinking about what it would feel like to touch her again.

I almost reach for her just to feel her warmth under my hands, but I don’t.

Because if I touch her now, I won’t stop, and she deserves softness, not the hunger clawing at my ribs.

“Thanks,” she says softly, her eyes lowered. “For… making it feel safe. ”

That shouldn’t be something she has to thank me for.

It should be a given, not a gift. The fact that it isn’t makes my stomach twist. My fists clench at my sides, the need to touch her eclipsed by the deeper need to protect her from every hand that ever made her feel unsafe in a space that was supposed to be hers.

“Good morning,” Lando shouts in the distance. I look over my shoulder and see him making his way over.

“Bring him to tomorrow's session,” I say, voice low, already backing away.

Because if I stay a second longer, I might not be able to keep this rage from spilling out of me for a second time this morning. I turn and head toward my car, jaw clenched, fists in my pockets, not daring to glance back at her.