“If you want to come on my cock, you’re going to have to earn it,” I whisper viciously in her ear. “I’m going to feed you whatever I want, and you have to eat it. I want you to drop and suck me off any time I feel like it. I want you to keep that goddamned bracelet and wear it every day so you know who you belong to. I’m going to tell Katerina to fuck all the way off, and you can’t do a single thing about it.”
She whimpers a bit but doesn’t disagree with any of my demands. I know I’m being an absolute prick, but I can’t stop myself.
“Go get some sleep. Tomorrow is Studio Company, and you never get a second chance to make a first impression,” I tell her.
It serves her right. Maybe this time, she’ll know what it feels like to exist in absolute chaos and turmoil and then go dance and be judged, expected to carry no baggage whatsoever into your performance.
“I truly hate you, Dashiell. I hope you choke in your sleep,” she spits.
I make sure she gets inside and hear her activate the lock before I turn to head to bed.
I’m exhausted, still turned on, and stuck in a toxic state of mind. While my head screams for revenge, my heart tells me something different. While I seek to degrade her, I also long to protect her from anyone and everything, her family included. As I shuck my clothes and step into a steaming shower, I wonder if I maybe the person I need to protect Natayla from the most is the monster inside me who gets off on tearing her down.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Natayla
The only way to get through this is to completely banish last night from my mind. Pretend Dashiell Cunningham never came back into my life and go dance my ass off like I’ve been doing my whole life—the only thing I know how to do with any mastery.
Ballet Arts lobby is gorgeous and intimidating. Black and white headshots of those who have risen to fame after walking through these doors adorn the walls—a veritable “who’s who” of the dance world.
I thought I was nervous at my audition, but right now, my stomach is a den of moths waging war with the protein shake I downed this morning. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just the other dancers, but Dash and Donavan Tate are also here. To make matters worse, one of the principles is on Katerina’s board of narcs. A friend of Mother’s is not a friend of mine, and I know every move I make will be reported back to the queen bee.
I slam through the metal door of the ladies’ room to get myself under control. I wish I had a tranquilizer to get me through. I laugh out loud in the mirror, remembering the one time I took a class under the influence of a sedative. The result wasn’t pretty. Besides, I’d probably fall and break my leg, destroy my whole career because of one disturbing night with Cunningham.
I splash cold water on my face and remind myself that I’ve been through worse. People aren’t mind readers, so no one will be able to see my tumultuous feelings from the outside. All I have to do is put on my game face—the imaginary veil of the ice queen, a role I’ve played since the beginning of time. Dance my heart out and get the hell out of here. I don’t even have to acknowledge his presence.
My bathroom detour means I arrive late, and when I walk into the studio, some dancers are already doing a demonstration. “Some dancers,” being Dash and Dahlia Cohen-Lang. I feel the bile of jealously rise inside me. I wonder if Dash had a hand in getting her into the company. I know her father, Mr. Cohen-Lang, is as pushy and connected as Mother. She’s a stunning girl, and she’s not a bad dancer either.
I head for the group of dancers seated on the floor, but my face is red, my gait is off, and I don’t know if I can make it through this thick tension and act like a normal person—let alone perform.
Dahlia and Dash dance together beautifully. The piece is contemporary and sexy, a story of lovers torn apart by fated circumstances, Tate explains to the group. This is the piece he wants to set for the company, the one that will premiere at the spring show. The same one he hinted at casting Dash and me in.
I banish the thought from my mind and try to watch objectively. I can’t let politics or personal relationships ruin the one truth in the world that’s ever meant anything to me—my ability to dance. But then my blood runs cold as I realize that Dashiell has always meant a lot to me. Maybe even surpassing the rank of dancing in how he makes me feel. And it’s true what he said, that I only feel alive when he’s near. His attention, his touch, fuels me like nothing else, and that scares me.