A knowing grin tugs at her lips, like she’s been waiting for me to break. And then she spins, some fancy twirl that makes her look like she’s weightless. She stops dancing only when I’m close enough to feel the heat of her skin.
I step in behind her, grip the wooden barre on either side of her, caging her in without touching her… yet. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, lashes low, mouth soft, body still poised like she’s holding herself steady on purpose.
On me.
“Did I say stop?” I whisper against her bare shoulder.
Her breath hitches. “N-no, sir.”
I reach up, sliding my fingers through her hair, and I loosen the bun carefully.
Blonde curls spill down her back. Instantly, she looks less like a dancer and more like my undoing.
“Dance for me, baby,” I murmur.
She turns to face me. Her eyes search mine with that fire she tries to pretend she doesn’t have anymore. Then she bites her lip. “They say it helps to imagine your audience naked,” shepauses, voice dripping with menace. “I’d like to test that theory for real.”
My chest tightens.
Fuck.
Her fingers fumble with the hem of my black t-shirt, and I help her, pulling it over my head. Then my shoes. My pants. Piece by piece, she watches me like I’m the show now.
Her gaze flicks up to my eyes.
“Fully naked, Drago,” she says, like it’s a challenge.
I let out a low chuckle and push my boxers down.
“Just wait until your performance is over, lastochka,” I murmur, leaning in until my lips are right there, close enough to steal her breath. I brush my mouth against hers. Then I step back. Not far—never far—but enough to give her space. Enough to let her do what she came down here to do. To reclaim herself.
Her gaze stays locked on mine for a beat longer, like she’s making sure I’m watching. Like she wants me to see her, really see her.
Then she turns back to the mirror. Back to the barre. Back to her breath. Back to the version of Lily that existed long before men and monsters like her mother tried to rewrite her.
Music hums low from the speaker in the corner. Almost too gentle for the way it makes my chest ache.
She slides one hand to the wood, and she begins again. Her knees bend, and her spine stays long; her chin is lifted, and her shoulders are down like she’s carrying a crown she refuses to let slip.
I watch the line of her legs. The grace that looks effortless, even though I know it’s not. I know every beautiful thing costs something. And she’s paid for hers in blood.
She extends her leg behind her and rises onto pointe, her calf tightening, her ankle steady. Her free arm lifts, wrist soft, fingerselegant, her movement so precise it makes my fingers twitch with the need to touch.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Because she isn’t doing this for me.
She’s doing it for her.
And I’ll be damned if I steal that from her.
She catches my eye in the mirror again. A silent check-in. Or perhaps a silent dare.
I let my gaze drag over her slowly, with no shame in it. She’s mine. But more importantly… she’s hers. I swallow hard, my throat tight. “Good girl. Keep going,” I murmur, voice rougher than I want it to be.
Her mouth curves like she likes hearing it. She shifts into a tendu, toe tracing the floor like she’s drawing a line between who she was and who she’s becoming. Then she pivots, slower and more controlled, and turns to start twirling.
