Page 37

Angelique

I t’s just me and Reign in the studio today. Most of the company is out preparing for tonight’s gala. The mirrors stretch around us, and the floor creaks gently under our movements. The only other sound comes from the faint music looping from the speakers.

Ever since we slept together, I can’t stop thinking about him, his mouth on me, the sounds he makes when he’s close, and the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching.

Every time he touches me now, even in rehearsal, it lights a fire low in my belly.

Even now, as he places a hand on my waist to guide me into a turn, I need to bite down on my lip to stay focused.

"Again," Reign says, oblivious to the effect he’s having on me.

We move through the sequence, the same one from the estate studio weeks ago. I think of that day often and of how far I let it go. I wanted Reign’s body on me, even through my fear, but I had to stop it when I started seeing images of Alec pop up in my head .

I’m tired of letting Alec take up space that he doesn’t deserve. I’m tired of him owning places that should be mine. My body, my art, and my memories. This space belongs to me. To us.

We reach the last movement of the sequence and Reign steps back slightly to reset. But I don’t move. Instead, I turn to face him, breathing hard as I step into his space, and he goes still.

"Angel," he murmurs.

I reach for his shirt and fist the fabric. "Don’t talk. Just… let me."

Reign’s eyes darken instantly, jaw ticking, but he nods. I stretch up onto my toes and kiss him, softly at first, but the moment his mouth opens beneath mine, something hungry and desperate cracks wide open inside me.

He groans against my lips, and I press closer, rolling my hips forward until I feel him—hard, hot, and just as wrecked as I am.

His hands slide to my lower back, gripping me tight as I move against him.

I gasp into his mouth, overwhelmed by the friction, the pressure, the want .

It hits me like a wave, crashing into my ribs and making my legs shake.

We stumble backward, my spine brushing the mirror, and his body cages mine in. His mouth finds my neck, kissing and biting gently, his breath ragged. I grind against him, moaning when he presses back, and as the studio dissolves, all I see is him.

His breath hitches. "Angel..."

"I want to," I whisper. "Here, with you. I don’t want him to have this place."

His fingers flex against me, but he doesn’t move.

"Please,” I beg, and Reign kisses me hard, his hand sliding up beneath my ballet skirt, fingertips brushing over my leotard, causing me to shudder with need.

"Fuck, baby," he groans against my mouth. "You’re already shaking."

I choke on a moan. "Don’t stop," I breathe.

He hooks his fingers into the side of my leotard and underwear, sliding them aside to bare my pussy to him.

I cry out when he sinks two fingers inside, the stretch sweet and perfect.

My hips roll, desperate for more, for everything.

He thrusts slowly at first, deep, curling just right.

Then faster, setting a rhythm that has my knees nearly buckling.

My hand slams against the mirror, the other clutching his shoulder. The obscene sound of his fingers moving inside me fills the room, mixing with my moans.

"You like that?" he growls. "You want to come for me right here, where anyone could walk in?"

I nod frantically, unable to speak, breath ragged.

His thumb circles my clit, and I shatter, my body jerking as pleasure snaps through every nerve while I fall apart in his hands.

He groans, holding me steady as I cry out his name, trembling against the mirror.

He doesn’t stop until I’m spent, slumped against him, breathless.

"No one else gets to touch you like this but me,” he whispers, kissing my temple softly. “And I want this to be what you remember when you’re in the studio, not anything else. Just this. Us."

I nod, still shaking, tears pricking but not falling. I won’t cry. Not this time. This time, I’m proud. He fixes my leotard and reties my skirt with care before helping me stand steady.

"Thank you,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to his chest .

He kisses the top of my head. "You don’t have to thank me. I should be thanking you"

And just like that, something in the air shifts. My body and the way I see studios no longer belongs to Alec, or fear. It’s mine again.

I’m barefoot in the upstairs dressing room of Imperium, standing in nothing but my strapless bodice and nude dance tights, arms raised as Lando tugs the zipper of my gown up with a dramatic sigh.

“I still don’t understand how you managed to get through a ten-hour rehearsal without murdering someone,” he mutters. “You’re practically glowing.”

“I’m just trying to survive the night,” I say, voice tight with nerves. “And this corset might kill me first.”

Lando gives the zipper one last tug, then smooths the back of the gown with an appreciative touch. “Well, if you’re gonna go out, at least you’ll look celestial doing it.”

I glance at myself in the mirror and my breath stutters.

The dress is breathtaking. Ivory satin and sheer mesh, fitted through the waist and flaring into layers of delicate tulle shaped like feathers—tiny, shimmering wisps cascading down to the floor.

It hugs my body like it was made for me, the sweetheart neckline dusted in fine pearls. A gift from Reign.

Lando walks over to the vanity and retrieves my mask. “It’s time,” he says, handing it to me.

It’s white and gold with soft feathers fanning outward from the eyes like wings. As soon as I place it on, Lando gasps.

“You look like a goddess,” he murmurs .

I turn to him, taking in his outfit, a black tux that fits him like a glove, the lines sharp and clean. His mask is deep purple with jet-black feathers, dramatic and bold.

“You’re one to talk,” I tell him, smoothing a wrinkle from his lapel. “You look like the hot villain in a gothic opera.”

“Stop, you’re going to make me blush,” he deadpans, then leans in with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Want to know what Wendy’s wearing?”

I raise a brow. “Tell me.”

He makes a face. “A puffy black feather dress.”

I blink. “So… she’s the Black Swan?”

“More rooster than swan, if you ask me.”

I bite back a laugh as I roll my eyes in response.

He takes my hand. “Ready?”

“No,” I whisper. “But let’s get this over with.”

We walk through the candlelit hallway, and I hear a live symphony rising from downstairs—violins and soft percussion. At the top of the grand staircase, Lando stops and faces me.

“Make an entrance,” he says with a wink. “And don’t trip. But if you do, at least fall beautifully and pretend it was intentional.”

I laugh under my breath. “Thanks.”

He kisses my cheek and runs down the stairs first, leaving me to take a steadying breath. I begin to descend and the moment my pointe shoe touches the first stair, I feel the room sway, but I push forward. As the guests come into view below, heads turn and voices hush, eyes on me.

The train of my gown swishes behind me, feathers swaying, and the chandelier light catches the pearls at my neckline and the mask over my face. I move slowly, as graceful as I can manage, as if I’m not shaking inside .

My eyes catch on Reign at the bottom of the stairs.

He’s dressed in a custom-tailored black suit with white gold embroidery stitched into the lapels, just like swan wings, matching my dress.

His mask is a simple matte black, sculpted perfectly to his face, but it doesn’t hide his blue eyes piercing through the crowd and locked on me.

The moment I meet his gaze, a wave of calm rolls over me and the nerves vanish. As if the chaos of the night, the pressure, the weight of this role and all it symbolizes for Imperium, for me… none of it matters. Not while he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.

As I take the final step, the soft tap of my shoe’s echoes against the marble, and Reign steps forward, taking my hand without a word, fingers threading through mine, his touch is warm and grounding as his eyes roam over me slowly—neck to waist to the tips of my shoes—and when he meets my gaze again, it’s like the rest of the world disappears.

“You’re going to ruin every man in this room who thought they were going to get your attention tonight,” he murmurs.

Heat blooms up my neck. “Reign?—”

His smirk curves slowly. “Don’t blush now. I haven’t even gotten to the part about what I want to do to you later.”

I let out a breathy laugh, cheeks burning behind my mask. He lifts my hand to his lips and presses an indulgent kiss to the back of it. Then, with his other hand, he passes me a champagne flute, the crystal glass already fizzing with gold.

“For the nerves,” he says. “And to celebrate how goddamn lucky I am.”

I take it with a grateful nod, the bubbles tickling my lips as I sip.

He keeps hold of my hand and guides me into the crowd.

Wherever Reign walks, people part for him, and I follow.

He stops in front of a small group—three men and a woman in cocktail masks, all laughing behind flutes of champagne.

The moment we step into their circle, the air shifts and their attention locks on him, and then on me.

“Ah,” one of them says. “The elusive Mr. Harrington. You’ve been keeping out of sight for quite some time.”

“I’ve been working hard behind the scenes,” Reign says smoothly, before sliding his hand around my waist. “May I introduce Angelique Sinclair—our Odette and Odile. The soul of Swan Lake .”

Their eyes snap to me, glittering with curiosity.

“She’s even more stunning in person,” the woman murmurs.

“The one from New York?” one man asks.

Reign’s voice turns darkly proud. “She’s the best principal I’ve ever shared a stage with.”