I look up at her. "Before she died, Elena whispered one thing. I couldn't understand most of it, but I heard two words clearly: 'Stay strong.' She died wanting me to be strong, to not soften, to protect our world the old way." I trace her name on the mirror again. "So I did. For fifteen years, I opposed reform. Blocked Alexei's legitimacy movement. Fought every change, every softness. Because I promised her with her last breath that I would stay traditional, stay hard, stay Steel."
"And the tracing?" Sonya's voice is gentle.
"Started that night. Couldn't stop thinking about her, so I started writing it. On every surface when I'm thinking, planning, grieving. It became my promise to never forget." I look at the mirror where her name is traced now. "Until you."
"She wouldn't want you frozen for fifteen years," Sonya says.
"How do you know what she wanted?" The question comes out rougher than intended.
"Because I understand what it's like to be broken. To have someone steal your future." She meets my eyes. "Anton stole hers, and he stole mine too, even if he didn’t kill me. But she got to dance until the end. Her last moments were in this studio, doing what she loved. My last performance was falling on stage while he smiled. Being destroyed in front of two thousand people who thought it was an accident."
The parallel devastates me.
Two ballerinas. Two broken futures. One killer.
And I'm kneeling at the feet of the one who survived, in the studio of the one who didn't.
Something breaks.
I kiss her ankle. The one I just wrapped. Then her calf, working up.
She gasps. "Maksim—"
I kiss her knee. Her thigh. Working higher, pushing the nightgown up.
She pulls me up by my hair, desperate, and kisses me.
It's different from the gallery kiss. Slower, deeper, more certain. Like we both know where this is going and we're choosing it anyway.
I recognize her inexperience immediately. The way she kisses is passionate but uncertain. The way her hands move on my body—eager but unsure where to touch, how much pressure, what I want.
I pull back slightly, studying her face. "You've never—"
"No." She says it plainly, no shame. "After what Anton did, I couldn't trust anyone enough. Couldn't let anyone that close."
The admission hits me like a fist to the chest. She's twenty-nine years old and she's never—because he broke her so badly she couldn't—
"I've been broken too long to be anyone's first," I say, even as every cell in my body screams to claim her.
"Then we'll be broken together," she responds, pulling me back.
I should refuse. Should be stronger than this. Should honor Elena's memory by not taking another ballerina in her studio.
Instead, I lift Sonya in my arms and carry her to the mirror.
Press her back against the glass, her nightgown riding up around her hips. Kiss her until we're both breathless. My hands map her body—small breasts, narrow waist, the muscles of a dancer even after five years away from the stage.
"Tell me if it hurts," I say against her mouth.
"Everything hurts. Make it hurt differently."
I slide the nightgown off her shoulders. It pools at her feet. She's naked except for the ankle wrap, standing in Elena's studio, reflected in mirrors on three sides.
Beautiful. Broken. Mine.
I strip off my sweatpants. Her eyes widen at my size, a flash of fear crossing her face.
"We'll go slow," I promise.
