Page 32

Reign

“ L et’ s skip Imperium today,” I mutter, tearing a piece of toast apart with my fingers instead of eating it.

Across from me, Angelique lifts her mug to her lips, watching me over the rim. “What about rehearsals?”

I shrug, jaw tight. “We’ll rehearse at the estate studio. I’m not in the mood to growl at people all day.”

But that’s just the surface excuse, the digestible one, because the truth is I’m not in the mood to watch her slip out of my reach again.

Ever since the night I played for her, we haven’t had more than a few damn minutes alone with each other.

If we’re not locked in rehearsal from sunrise until our bodies are too sore to keep going, she’s out with Lando and their friends—dinners, drives, late-night laughter that doesn’t include me.

And when she finally gets back, it’s like she evaporates straight to bed.

She’s so close and I still feel starved.

She snorts and sets her mug down with a clink. “I’m beginning to think you growl for attention.”

I tilt my head. “That wasn’t a no.”

Her lips twitch as she eyes me for a beat, weighing whatever’s simmering beneath the suggestion, and then she finally nods. “Alright. Let’s try it.”

The tension in my chest loosens just enough to let a grin pull at my mouth.

I wolf down the last of my breakfast and follow her out, matching her pace as we cut through the garden path toward the studio.

Morning mist still clings to the hedges and the world feels quiet; ours.

She types out a text to Lando letting him know she won’t be at Imperium today, so I pull out my phone to text Terry.

Me:

Are you free for a drink today?

Terry:

Yeah mate, after rehearsal?

Me:

I won’t be in, and neither will Angelique, but I’ll come pick you up later

Terry:

Volkov is going to skin you alive.

See you later.

“Lando’s throwing another party tonight,” she says, still half-focused on her screen.

I sigh. “He throws one every time my father leaves town.”

She looks up at me, brows pinched. “Charlie’s gone?”

“Off to London. Finalizing details for the gala.”

“The gala?” she repeats, blinking.

Right. She wasn’t here last season.

“It’s a fundraiser. Before every major production, my father hosts an event to get investors drunk while we perform a preview, wine them, flatter them, and then take their money.”

She frowns, curious now. “I thought you guys were self-funded.”

“We are, but investors are leverage. Their names carry weight, and their money comes with influence. It’s more than cash; it’s connections and prestige. It gets eyes on Imperium and gets big name dancers talking. They’ll want to come to us instead of the other way around.”

She nods slowly, then glances sideways. “What kind of preview?”

“We usually do a short number. Just a taste of the production. This year?” I pause. “Probably you and me.”

She stops walking. “What?”

I stop too, facing her. The morning is so quiet I can hear the wind pushing through the trees. “It won’t be anything crazy, just enough to show them what we’re building.”

“When is it?”

“Probably in a month. I’ll know more once my father is back,” I reply, reaching out for her hand and tugging her gently until she walks again. “Worried about getting stage fright?”

She huffs a nervous laugh. “Something like that.”

But I don’t miss the way her other hand creeps to her sleeve, tugging it down, or the way she bites her lip nervously. I wonder if this is what she was like in New York—on edge before every show—or if this is new.

When we reach the studio, the cold hits us first. I flick on the lights, flooding the space with sterile fluorescence, then head to the back wall to start the heater. The space hums to life, but it’ll take a while to chase the chill from the air.

We don’t talk. We just start stretching, side by side, both of us buried in our own heads.

I watch the way her spine arches into each bend, the soft curve of her neck when she tilts her head back, the way her thighs tremble ever so slightly when she deepens a stretch.

She’s so focused, so serious, so beautifully unaware of the chaos she wakes in me just by existing.

She’s wearing a black leotard and her ballet skirt, but it’s her bare legs that undo me—smooth skin exposed beneath slouched leg warmers and pointe shoes. I’m hard before I even realize it, strung tight with the need I’ve been trying to ignore.

When our warmup ends, we launch into the new choreography—Odile’s seduction of the prince. It’s the piece she’s been struggling with the most. Not because of the technique, Angelique is too well-trained for that. It’s the intimacy; the hunger written into the steps.

The performance requires her to reach into a darker part of herself, and I can see how it pulls something painful to the surface for her.

Every time we run it, I see the same thing happen—goosebumps prickling down her arms, her breathing tightening, her body tensing against the implied desire in the movements.

We try it again, but she falters halfway through again. Her gaze drops, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too fast. She looks frustrated to the point of tears, so I step forward, not touching her yet.

“Let’s slow it down,” I murmur. “I want you to feel what Odile feels.”

Her eyes study mine, uncertain and vulnerable, but she nods. Carefully, I reach for her, sliding my hand across her stomach in a smooth, gliding motion. My fingertips barely press into her leotard, just enough for her to feel it. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t flinch or pull away.

Small victory .

“Again,” I say.

We move together, and something shifts. Slowly, like she’s unzipping a piece of herself that’s been locked inside, her body loosens, and her hips start to move with intention. Her gaze lifts to mine in the mirror—and fuck .

Her lashes lower slightly, framing those wide, dark eyes, and something hungry flickers behind them. A quiet, wicked promise only I’m meant to read. Her mouth softens, just enough to make me imagine how it would part if I touched her, kissed her, slipped my fingers behind the fabric of her leotard.

She pushes back on me during a turn, her ass grazing my hip with a heat that snaps the air between us. A low sound claws up my throat before I can stop it. I lean in, breath brushing her ear.

“If you’re going to press into me like that,” I murmur, “at least pretend it’s part of the choreography.”

Her arms shiver—tiny bumps rising along her skin like a wave.

She closes her eyes and draws in a deep and steady breath, like she’s grounding herself.

But I can feel her heart pounding against me, frantic and uneven, and it tells me everything.

She wants this—wants me —but she’s scared, too, and I know I’ve cracked open a place she’s kept locked away.

She pulls away, just slightly, and says, “From the top?”

Her voice is soft, almost fragile, but there’s a shift beneath it. Hunger tangled with hesitation. Like she’s standing at the edge of something dark and doesn’t know if it’ll swallow her whole or set her free. Either way, I’ll be right beside her, every step of the way.

We run it again, and again. Each time, she gives a little more.

Her movements are deliberate now, like she’s embodying Odile’s danger and seduction.

It's beautiful, and it’s killing me. But I know that it’s not just technique holding her back.

It’s permission. She hasn’t given herself any.

So, I decide to take a risk and see if she’ll give it to me .

As we pass the mirror again, I pivot her body to face it. She stumbles slightly but recovers, her wide eyes locking with mine in the glass.

“Watch yourself,” I murmur behind her. “Odile knows exactly what she looks like. What she’s doing to him.”

I settle my hands on her hips and guide her through the next part of the sequence—fingers gliding over her waist, then up her ribcage. The music is still playing low in the background, but I barely hear it. I’m locked on her. Every breath and every muscle twitch. Every inch she lets me touch.

“Trust me, Angel,” I say softly. “Let go. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

And she does. She moves differently now, bending into the steps, pressing her hips back against me in the turn again, but this time, she doesn’t stop, she lets her body do the speaking.

Her gaze jumps up to the mirror, and she sees me behind her.

How close I am, and how I’m looking at her like I might lose my goddamn mind.

When I step forward and press my chest to her back, she surprises me by staying. I slide one hand up her stomach again and her breath stutters, but she leans into it.

Beautiful , I think. Fucking beautiful.

My other hand comes to rest gently on her jaw, tilting her face just enough for me to see her mouth. The air around us thickens while every inch of her body is pressed against mine, and when I dip my head to kiss her, she doesn’t hesitate to turn around.

Our lips meet slowly—testing, tasting, but not tentative, because it’s a kiss full of everything we’ve been holding back.

I slide my hand into her hair and tilt her head to deepen it.

Her lips part in response, and her breath hitches when my tongue grazes hers.

Her fingers clutch at my forearm, then drift down to my hip, anchoring us together.

I walk her forward until she’s pressed against the mirror, and her back arches as I kiss her harder.

My hips press into hers, and God, the way she moves with me—creating friction like her body’s starving for contact—is maddening.

Her breath comes fast against my mouth as we move together in a rhythm that’s no longer dance, no longer anything choreographed—just us, burning slowly.

But then Angelique stiffens, and her hands shoot up between us, pressing to my chest.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

I freeze, my chest heaving, heart pounding. “Okay,” I breathe, forehead dropping to hers. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself and not ruin this bit of progress we’ve made, but I want to know what’s stopping her. “Is it because you’re still upset about me ghosting you?”

Her fingers tremble slightly where they rest, and she shakes her head. “Something… bad happened to me,” she says, voice tight. “In a studio. I don’t want to talk about it.”

My gut twists, a dangerous rage simmering beneath the surface—but not at her. At whoever did this. And something tells me it’s Alec.

I’ll kill him, I swear to myself.

“You don’t have to,” I say softly, lips barely brushing hers.

She exhales like it’s the first real breath she’s taken in minutes, and her hand slides away from my chest. I take a step back, letting the air settle around us again, and she blinks up at me, cheeks flushed, and lips swollen.

I reach for her, fixing the strap of her leotard that slipped down, brushing her shoulder with an appreciation I can’t hide.

She lets out a shaky little laugh. “You gonna kiss me again or put me to work?”

I smirk faintly. “Both.”

I step back, giving her space, letting the moment settle into something safe.

“Alright,” I say, nodding toward the mirror. “Let’s run it again.”