We dig at each other. Teeth and nails and pain, until we’re both breathing hard.
He’s the one who pulls away first.
He’s the one who steadies both of us, his gaze searing into me. I’d keep taking until I couldn’t take anymore, I think.
“Come on.” He leads me inside, brushing his thumb over his lower lip.
His arm is warm over my shoulders, and I twist my fingers in his shirt while we walk. My nail traces an indistinguishable pattern across the skin I can reach, and he shivers against me.
On my floor, he helps me off and leads me to the door. He swipes a key and pushes the door open.
There’s my stuff on one of the beds, the familiar room I used to get ready, but no Willow.
I rotate slowly and stop when he closes the door behind him.
“What are you doing?”
He opens the closet and reveals…
His stuff.
My heart skips. “Grey?”
“I changed your room.” He admits it so casually.
I can’t respond for a long moment. My mouth just gapes open. He changed my room? Where is Willow? How the hell did he manage to do that?
“Knox put Willow on his room reservation. I put you on mine. You two checked in separately…” He shrugs. “It was rather easy. We canceled your other room.”
I shake my head, which has started to throb. “Bet you had a whole sexy night planned, huh? And then what happened? You decided to fuck me on the ice instead, then asked Steele to try and set me up again.” I nod, my anger spiking. Not high. It hits a threshold I’m not prepared for. My brain seems to mellow before my face can get red or my hands shake. I just feel the anger circulating under my skin, pulsing and then fading. “Is she back with him?”
“They left the club an hour before I took you.”
I circle around to my clothes, the assortment I had laid out on the bed when I changed, and shove them back into my bag.
“What room?”
He shakes his head, leaning against the wall. Casually blocking me from the door. “No.”
“What. Room.” I glower. “Fine. I’ll just text her.”
I pat my pockets.
My empty pockets.
“Looking for this?” He holds up my phone.
“Pickpocketing now? You just love to push what you can get away with.”
He shrugs. “Prove it in a court of law, Ms. Reece.”
I lunge for it, and my left leg gives out. I fall hard, narrowly avoiding smacking my face on the edge of the bed frame.
Greyson drops down beside me. “What happened?”
I put my weight on my hip, bringing my leg around. I watch his gaze go from it to my face and back again, and his jaw tenses.
“Why won’t you tell me?”
My mouth opens and closes. I can’t tell him. I can’t speak it into existence. And also… I have this giant fear that he’s going to laugh in my face.
“Vi,” he tries.
“Do you ever want to say something so fucking bad,” I whisper, my attention fixed on my shoes, “but you know that no one will give as big a fuck about it as you?”
He nods slowly, then reaches out and pulls the lace of my boot. I watch in silence as he completely undoes it and gently slides it off my foot. Then my sock.
My feet are… dancer feet. They’ve improved since I haven’t been training, but the remnants are there. My toenails are chipped and short. My toes are crooked from years in pointe shoes. My feet and ankles are still flexible. I stretch every morning and crack my joints. My foot is still pretty by ballet standards, but to the naked, untrained eye…
I pull my leg in, but he grasps my ankle.
“Stop.” I know the power it holds, and I say it anyway.
He stills.
It’s the word. The magic word that ends everything between us. A wall slams down into place—that wall is his guard and my own defense against him. It’s going to save both of us.
I exhale. I can deal with him choking me, chasing me through a forest, fucking me into a different stratosphere, bullying me—but I can’t bear this kindness.
Not when I don’t believe it to be true.
“If we’re sharing a room, fine. I can live with that,” I tell him. “But I’m not doing… whatever you were about to do.” I rise and snatch my toiletries. “I need a shower.”
And he’d better believe I’m locking the door behind me.
31
GREYSON
I consider Violet Reece. Before. The girl who seemed to have everything together.
Outward appearances can be deceiving. I know that better than anyone.
While she hides in the bathroom, I pull up a video of the Crown Point Ballet. One of their shows that stars my girl as the lead. I keep the screen close to my face, trying to analyze her every expression when she dances.
There’s another video in the suggested list on the side—an interview with Mia Germain and Violet. I don’t know who Mia is, but I’m curious to see Violet. Not just dancing, but her demeanor.
It’s different in front of a camera, that much is immediately obvious. Her and an older woman sit in cushioned chairs side by side. Violet on screen is thinner than she is now. She wears a t-shirt, leggings, and a wraparound cardigan cinched tight to her waist. It gapes at the top. Her hair is slicked back in a bun. Even her face has a sharpness to it that isn’t present nowadays.
The date on the video is from a year ago.
I hit play.
“Mia,” an off-camera woman says, “you’ve created a stunning company, and this latest show is probably your best work to date. Was it a hard decision choosing your next ballet?”
Mia Germain, director. Her name and title appear under her in blocky letters, hovering there for a moment and then vanishing. I skip through her answer.
“And Violet,” the interviewer says. “You’re nineteen, with the world ahead of you, and you’ve just been cast as the principal in Mia’s upcoming production of Swan Lake. Can you tell us what went through your head when you found out?”
Violet rubs her hands together and leans forward. Her smile is enigmatic. “It’s a dream come true. Mia called me and told me just a few days ago, actually. There were some tears… After this show wraps up, we’re beginning rehearsals for it. I couldn’t be more thankful to Mia for giving me this opportunity.”
“Violet has enormous potential,” Mia interjects, patting Violet’s leg. “She has a unique ability to portray both the innocence of the white swan and the darker side of our black swan.”
“Did you draw inspiration from any other ballerinas, Violet?”
“Turn that off.”
I drop my phone. It falls off the bed and across the floor, coming to a stop under the desk. It still plays as I stare at the real Violet. The girl in the flesh.
How different she is now. Her skin flushes, her hair is shiny. She’s got a body that I don’t think I’m going to break when I sink into her.
I stand and make my way to her. She backs up until the wall catches her. She’s got a ragged, holey t-shirt on and shorts. No bra. Her nipples stiffen under my gaze, standing out under the cotton.
Behind me, the tinny voice of the old Violet is talking about whoever she consulted.
I’ve seen Black Swan, but that’s about as far as my knowledge of ballet goes. I know that sort of role could drive someone crazy. And that’s what they were talking about. That’s the show Violet was invested in…