Page 15

After my meeting with Sir Ian, I spend an hour working out and practicing in the rooftop studio, needing to do something with the nervous energy flooding my insides. By the time I leave ABTC, the sun dips low in the late afternoon sky, finally releasing the world from the suffocating heat on this early June day.

I take a few steps down before turning around to admire the building. Sinewy shadows thrash with the muted orange rays against the facade of the historical structure, which sticks out amid the modern skyscrapers with its baroque exterior of wraparound wrought iron gates and stained glass windows.

I remember dragging Mom here on our magical days and sitting on the steps, watching willowy dancers—the girls graceful like swans, the boys refined—stride through those double doors. Mom would tell me the acceptance rate was less than one percent. Only the best of the best may walk in these lauded halls.

It was my dream—our dream—for me to be part of this institution, for me to become one of those elegant ballerinas to inspire the next generation of dancers.

It was my way of contributing to the family, my way of taking us out of poverty.

And now, I’m here—a soloist, the second highest ranking under the principal dancer. I’m an Anderson with a trust fund. Mom isn’t here anymore, but this dream with her…this dream is still alive.

This dream is all I have left, and it’s well within reach.

But I feel this cavernous hollow in my chest I can’t seem to fill.

A loud noise interrupts my morose thoughts. Turning around, I bite back a groan when I see the familiar, towering silhouette of Charles getting out of a town car with two other businessmen, including the balding man with lecherous eyes I remember from our first meeting at the studio.

“What’s one pussy when I can get two, you know?” The balding creep clasps his meaty hand on Charles and laughs at his own joke. Still as gross as before, I see.

“You must be an HR nightmare, John.” The other lanky man in a suit chuckles at his friend’s lewd comment. These two men are older than Dad and probably have children my age.

Revulsion churns through me and I throw up a little inside. But I find my attention riveted not on dumb and dumber, but on the imposing man whose hair gleams like molten gold—an archangel descending on humankind.

Charles smirks, slapping his hand on John’s shoulder, his low laughter sending shivers up my spine. But something about his grin seems forced. “As long as all parties are happy, who am I to judge?” He winks and the men laugh some more.

Ugh. Disgusting pigs. Reason one hundred and one why I hate Charles Vaughn and everything he stands for—entitled rich assholes. Except for my brothers and Steven, I haven’t met one who hasn’t disappointed me yet.

I must’ve made a noise because Charles suddenly turns toward me, his eyes sharpening before narrowing. And that’s when I see it—the pulse hammering across his temple, the stiff tension in his shoulders which I normally don’t see when he’s with my siblings.

The fake-ass smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Huh. He’s hiding behind his mask…again.

The men quiet, clearly wondering how much I’ve overheard, and slowly make their way toward me.

“Taylor, you remember our sponsors, John Finkle and Chris Larkey from Legions Capital,” Charles murmurs when they stop a few feet before me.

John bares his teeth as his eyes rove over my face, then down my body like he’s undressing me in front of him.

I clench my hands and fight the urge to run away. A charring heat burns up my insides.

How dare they disrespect me this way?

“My eyes are up here, gentlemen,” I grind out. “Plenty of women don’t appreciate your attentions.”

John’s eyes widen and his buddy huffs out a disgruntled breath. No doubt they aren’t used to women calling them out on their BS.

“You b—” John scowls and steps toward me.

I flinch and curse myself for the automatic reaction when Charles clamps a hand on John’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the fabric.

“John was just admiring your outfit today—all black ensemble on a summer night, quite the choice, don’t you think? Embodying the black swan already, Ms. Anderson?”

My eyebrow arches at him dropping the first half of my last name, but Charles doesn’t look at me. Instead, he’s doling out another fake smile to John, which is incongruous with how white his knuckles are on the man’s shoulder.

The man is a walking contradiction.

“Anderson?” John asks.

Charles slowly relaxes his grip, letting his hand drop to his side. I see him discreetly flex his fingers before responding, “Yes. Fleur Entertainment’s Andersons. Taylor is Linus’s youngest daughter. She’s the understudy for the Odette and Odile roles for the tour.”

The men blanch at that revelation. I guess there are advantages of being an Anderson other than the money. No one wants to cross my family, especially when they own half the city.

“W-Why didn’t you say so earlier, Charles?” Chris says. “We weren’t aware the Andersons had a dancer in the family.”

“An obvious oversight on my part,” Charles comments wryly, his lips tilted in that annoying smirk again. “Why don’t you head on inside? Sir Ian’s waiting. I’ll be there shortly.”

The men take another look at me, this time keeping their eyes on my face, then walk into the building.

“I didn’t need you to rescue me,” I mutter as Charles sidles up next to me. His cologne of cedarwood and bergamot wafts to my nose and I take a discreet step to the side.

He’s too tall, too large, too close to me.

His eyes flicker down at my feet, obviously noticing my movement. He arches his brow, but thankfully doesn’t comment further.

“But I do need to rescue my tour. They are fronting the expenses for the first two stops and I don’t need you to fuck it up before we kick it off.”

I snort and cross my arms. “Of course, that’s what you were doing. God forbid you were actually putting the pigs in place.”

He leans down, and I fight every urge to step back a few more paces. He already noticed I moved away from him and damn if I’d let him see me scurry away again. From this distance, I see pale gold flecks in his startling glacial eyes—arresting, beautiful, completely wasted on a man like him.

Charles murmurs, “I didn’t want you to think I did that for you.”

I scoff. “Please, I would never think that. You don’t have a good bone in your body.”

He snickers. “On what basis, since you know me so well?”

“On the basis that every inch of you is fake as shit. I don’t know why no one sees that.”

That damn sardonic arch of brow makes another reappearance. “Oh?” His voice drops to a ghostly whisper, and I shiver. “I can rest assure you, plenty of my inches are very real.”

I swallow as my eyes automatically dart to the bulge behind the fly of his pants.

“My eyes are up here, minx.”

Flames erupt on my face, and I scowl at him. But whatever I want to say fades away when I take in those startling eyes once more. They are darkening, mirroring the deep navy chasing away the afternoon glow in the skies.

My breath freezes in my throat as my gaze trails to his full mouth and the shadow of his carefully groomed scruff. An insane thought runs through my head.

How would his scruff feel against my skin?

Charles unleashes a smile lighting up his entire face, his eyes trailing down to my lips, which I belatedly notice are parted. I quickly shut them, cross my arms over my chest again, and lift my chin. I’ve gone nuts, probably from the heat. Maybe it’s not a good idea to wear black on a hot summer day.

“You know, it’s a sign of low EQ to erupt at people whenever they say something you don’t want to hear,” he says.

His body heat radiates from his tall frame, and my skin is hot to the touch. But I nevertheless remain rooted in place. In this game of chicken, I won’t be the one to lose.

“I hate to break it to you, Charles. It’s a sign of low IQ to hang out with the scum of mankind.”

Tossing my hair over my shoulders, I smile inwardly when some of the black strands whip him across his face. I pat my hand on his suit jacket and say, “But I don’t expect you to understand that. Not all of us are born with honor. You know, it isn’t good to bottle everything up inside you, right? Can’t be healthy.”

I spin around, intending to leave him in the dust, but suddenly, his hand grips mine. My pulse leaps in my ears as he touches me and I swallow a gasp.

“Let go of me,” I command, but he doesn’t budge.

“Be careful, little girl. It isn’t wise to poke the bear.” His words carry a steely edge, the same thread of danger I saw when I first met him, the same dominance in his voice when he was at The Sanctuary. But this time, beside the anger simmering beneath the surface, there’s something else in his voice—a spiciness feeling more like a sultry caress disguised as a warning.

He looks like he wouldn’t mind using the whip he held that night on me.

Goosebumps prickle my arms and I try tugging my hand away, but he grips it tighter—not to the point of pain, but enough to show who he believes has the upper hand in our dynamic.

I don’t think so, asshole.

Baring my teeth, I pivot, raise my foot, and stomp the heel of my boot on his fancy leather shoe, watching in satisfaction when he winces in pain. His eyes flare, but he quickly drops my hand.

“I told you to let go. I don’t give warnings twice. Maybe you should take your own advice.” I walk down to him and stab his chest with my finger—his damn muscular chest—for emphasis. “Don’t. Poke. The. Bear.”

Without waiting for a response, I make my way down the steps and head toward the subway station, his raw and raspy laughter echoing in my ears.

My lips twitch, bubbles simmering inside my chest.

Taylor one, Charles zero.

Then, I freeze, belatedly noticing the spark of amusement, the rush of satisfaction at my rejoinder and not bowing down before him. And it’s then I realize, despite him being so close to me just now, I didn’t feel afraid.