Page 37 of Violent Pawn

“If this is your way of flirting, you suck at it.”

His bedroom smirk sends my thighs together, and the hand that slides from the back of my neck to encompass the side, thumb pushing into the underside of my chin. Instincts demand pushing him off me, but doing so proves he affects me.

And he isn’t. He can’t.

“What if this isn’t an attempt? Made you smile, didn’t it, so it’s worth it.”

Smile? I didn’t fucking smile. In what universe is my grimace a smile?

“Why are your tattoos covered up?” His finger brushes along the patch of makeup covering one by my collarbone.

“Tattoos don’t really go with ballet. The dance style is known to be aesthetic, and body art ruins it—in others’ opinions. I was a ballerina before I worked in the Bratva.” In my current role anyway. “So my fans already knew me as one thing.”

He grunts, flicking a finger at the rack of tutus and outfits from previous performances. “Like the costumes you wear.”

“Exactly. Covering my tattoos is part of the costume. It’s makeup I’ll wipe off later.”

“Shame,” he murmurs, eyes flashing to mine. “I like your…what’d you call it? Your ruined aesthetic?”

He lowers his head again until brushing his cheek against mine, his lips branding a line across my cheek I’ll be washing with acid to remove. Real burns are better than his burns.

“Make me proud, Ana.”

With all the cocky swagger his brand of male comes with, he strides out of my dressing room.

Only after the door shuts do I remember needing to correct him about my name.

20

NERO

Closest to the aisle in the first row—because Vanessa may have helped me out with this—I claim my seat moments before the auditorium’s lights dim.

Admittedly, I don’t know what the fuck is about to happen. I’m no ballet-watching person, and my last attended performance was eleven years ago when I met the woman who’d haunt my future.

I grip the armrests tighter as the curtains part, and the stage decorations are revealed. Something Christmassy, garnering a few oohs and aahs from those all around me. Dancers join the set, beginning what I soon realize is an actual story. Then Anastasia appears looking like the one thing I forbade myself to ever have.

A dream.

At intermission, I slip through the side entrance that Vanessa told me about and arrive at her dressing room seconds after she shuts her door. Without knocking, I twist the knob slowly, holding the door in such a way it doesn’t creak as it opens. Anastasia’s settling onto her vanity bench when I close it behind me.

Her gaze flits to mine in the reflection, wide like a bunny’s—but prettier than one. “How’d you get in here?”

“Your security sucks.” I stride forward before she can move, crowding her into the bench. I might be a dick for this, knowing full well she’s run from our interaction earlier by rebuilding those beloved walls of hers. Unfortunately for her, I won’t let her.

She swallows as I trace the edge of her tutu up her back until goosebumps sprout. To me, they’re confetti after a party. “You looked good out there.”

“Wonderful,” she retorts, full of that derision I adore. “Looking good was precisely my goal when I became a ballerina.”

Regardless of her attitude and sarcasm, I drag my finger up the back of her neck to the base of her hair, tempted to tug it free and see the waves of her hair shape her face. Of all things I can do that’ll earn me my death, her hair isn’t the hill to die on.

“What do you think of the show?” Her skin darkens with the question, gaze darting away from our reflection to the corner of the room. It draws my attention to where I know tattoos are concealed. While I see what she meant about the design of the dance not melding with her body art, I hate seeing a side of her covered at all.

“Once I figured out what the story was about, it was entertaining. Though, I’m literally only here to see you, so I really don’t give a fuck what’s happening beyond your dance.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why would you fly all the way from Rome to watch me? We’re not friends, Amato, and we’ll never be more. Whatever game you’re playing, stop. Please. Save us both the trouble.”

The most intriguing aspect is that there isn’t a drop of venom in her voice. She’s not demanding with her usual malice-coated walls, but rather with the softness of an angel’s voice. The softness of a woman scorned—hurt by others.