I frown. “I haven’t said anything.”
I see it before it happens, just like in the old days. She loses her grip on this plane of existence and swoons. I manage to catch her before she face-plants on the marley floor. Anger and rage flood my veins before any compassion.
“Fuck, Sam. How many times does this have to happen?” I growl, slapping her peaked cheeks while her eyes flutter, showing only the whites.
A forgotten water bottle sits against the mirror and I grab it, unscrewing the cap and dumping it on Sam, saturating her face and hair.
She gasps and jerks in my arms, her eyes stealing open and then closing again in shame and embarrassment.
“What did you fucking eat today, Natayla?” I ask her. I’m not proud of how hard I squeeze her fragile arm as I grit my teeth and shout in her face.
“She watches every bite. It’s not my fault,” Natayla sobs. “There’s not even anything to sneak after she goes to bed at night.”
“You’re a fucking adult. It is your fault. You need to tell her to go to fucking hell, or I’ll do it for you. You should be able to down an entire cheesecake in front of her wicked face. What’s she gonna do, Taye? Tell you she’s disappointed? I’ve got fucking news for you—you will only ever be a disappointment to that woman because she wants a myth, a legend, not a real fucking daughter made of blood and guts, true feelings and real vulnerabilities!”
I lose it as I scream in her face. I shouldn’t let myself get so involved. I shouldn’t care so much. I stand and pull my hair, searching for her dance bag. When I open it, there’s only water, a book, and the elevator key card to Katerina’s penthouse apartment—the dungeon in the sky. I scan the floor for wherever I dropped my backpack. I always carry something because I’m not fucking stupid enough to dance without food in my stomach or my blood sugar teetering on nothing while I push my body to extremes.
I find a protein bar and bite the package open with my teeth. Natayla has retreated to the barre and is hanging on for dear life, her forehead touching the wood.
“Eat this,” I tell her, holding it to her lips.
She takes a small bite as tears stream down her face. I box her in, wrapping my body around hers. It’s simultaneously a threatening and protective gesture, my heartbeat pounds against her frail back.
“I should put Katerina out of her fucking misery. Maybe then you’d eat. Live your life. Stop hating yourself so much.” I push the protein bar into her mouth and she takes another hesitant bite.
I bury my face into the back of her long neck, still caging her body with my own. “This piece is called ‘Limerence.’ It’s like he fucking named it after us,” I say, exhaling into her hair and allowing my arms to snake around her in a possessive hug. “You drive me fucking insane, Taye. Out of my mind, and I hate it.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, bringing her fingertips to her mouth while she chews and swallows.
I yank her upright, turn her around, and kiss her like a dagger to the heart. My chest heaves with emotion as Taye lets me in. She surrenders herself to me beautifully, like she could sustain herself from my affection alone.
“I’m falling for you, Sam. But I could never love someone who doesn’t love themselves,” I tell her. I remove my body from hers to illustrate the sentiment. “I can’t love an empty shell.”
She closes her eyes and nods me away.
As I’m leaving the building, the other dancers are arriving.
“What gives, Dash?” Tate asks me.
I should be bigger than this, not let relationship drama affect me professionally. Is that what this is? I’m in a goddamned relationship with Natayla Koslova?
“I think it’s toxic if you want my opinion. It’s not worth giving up your lifelong dream for,” Donavan Tate tells me unsolicited.
I clench my fists and fight the urge to punch him square in the face. It’s none of his business.
“Don’t do anything stupid, that’s all I’m asking,” Tate says to me. He has his hands up in defense as if thwarting off the punch he can sense living in my hands.
“Is Tayla up there?” Bronson asks. The consummate protector.
All of these people in Natayla’s life are enablers, and I hate them for it. They protect the dancer’s perfect body and not the very real human inside.
“She’s eating. Make sure she finishes it before the run-through,” I tell Bronson.
He runs toward the entrance, and I have to fight myself not to accompany him back in.
“I’ve got to bounce. There’s some shit I need to take care of,” I say to Tate.
I shove my hands into my pockets and walk off into the darkness, leaving Tate gaping behind me, likely thinking I’ve got a lot of nerve and speed dialing the understudies to replace me in the piece.