"Yes, sir." I parted my red lips, flashing a wicked, triumphant smile.
For the next two minutes, this luxurious conservatory became my one-sided revenge slaughterhouse.
One, two, three, spin. Crack. One, two, three, back. Crack.
I precisely timed every musical accent, using the dance steps as cover to stomp on his feet multiple times! Each time I used all my strength—hard enough to make him hurt tomorrow when he walked.
Nikolai's coldly handsome face maintained that unflappable, elegant expression, but those dark gray eyes locked on me burned more dangerously, nearly setting my practice dress on fire.
Patrick finally noticed something was off. He frowned and stepped forward, sounding puzzled. "Ms. Cole, why does your axis keep wobbling? Your transition steps are getting messy."
"I'm very sorry, Patrick." While spinning and stomping on Nikolai again, I lied shamelessly to the instructor. "Mr. Volkov's stride is too large. I'm trying to adjust to match him."
Hearing that, Nikolai let out a low chuckle from deep in his chest.
That low laugh made my heart skip a beat.
"You're playing with fire, firecracker."
The music entered a long continuous spin, and Nikolai suddenly surged forward, his tall frame pressing me against his chest almost savagely. He bent down, his slightly sweaty lips nearly grazing my sensitive earlobe as he growled through clenched teeth in an extremely husky voice.
"Enjoy your special privileges while they last. But I promise, after tomorrow's gala, when we get back here, you'll face the same issue in bed. You better still have this much energy then."
The hot breath on my neck sent a shudder through me that weakened my knees.
As the final musical climax dropped, I used my last bit of strength to give his toes one final grand finale stomp.
"Interest paid in full, you arrogant bastard." I leaned on his shoulder, whispering provocatively in his ear with satisfaction.
Revenge complete, the frustration I'd been holding allday finally released. I put away the mischief and started actually dancing seriously.
And what came next was unexpectedly, shockingly synchronized.
The hellish torture Gable and Patrick had put me through the past two days suddenly clicked under Nikolai's lead. This man was a born controller—he didn't need extra words or even obvious physical cues. The tiniest tilt of his shoulder, the slightest pressure from his hand at my waist, and my body could decode his signals automatically, instantly knowing which direction to glide next, which beat to extend my lines on.
We flew through that spacious conservatory like water, spinning. The silk skirt formed countless perfect arcs in the air, our breathing falling into seamless sync without either of us noticing.
Patrick gradually stopped talking, slowly lowering that baton that always struck without warning.
The Viennese waltz's grand strings moved toward their finale, the rhythm slowing.
Our movements slowed with it. He guided me into an elegant backbend, my spine pressed against his arm, and as my body slowly returned upright, my gaze crashed unprepared into those dark gray eyes.
The temperature in the air had somehow, quietly, changed.
All the gloating, all the vengeful satisfaction evaporated in that instant, leaving only a scalp-tingling, viscous, scorching current growing wildly in the air.
The final note dissolved completely under the dome.
We stopped in the center of the conservatory. Sunlight stretched our overlapping shadows long across the floor.
But neither of us moved first.
My left hand was still wrapped tightly in his large, callused palm, his left hand still locked at my waist, imprisoning me against his chest that reeked of cedar and male hormones. My heart was like an out-of-control jackhammer pounding in my chest, even my breathing growing heavy in this extreme silence.
He stared down at me, storms churning in those dark gray eyes,devoid of his usual mockery, leaving only a nearly tangible, absolute possessiveness that wanted to devour me whole, skin and bone.
The surrounding air felt frozen, completely solidified.
