Page 43 of Baby for the Bratva King

I feel my brows raise as I watch her. Such an impossible woman. Her flexibility is ridiculous. Her arched foot sails into the air, higher than her head, pointed toward the ceiling as she holds the position.

I watch her through the mirror, taking stock of her face. Her eyes are closed. A faint line forms between her brows as she feels the passion, moving her body in time to the violins. Her body leads the way, arms outstretching, reaching for something intangible that seems so close, and yet so far away at the same time.

My chest aches as I watch her. Dancing comes to her effortlessly. Saskia harbors passion through her body, like this is her way of communicating with the world, with herself.

I glance down at the blood on my shirt, grimacing. She expresses her feelings in a healthy way, and she looks good while doing it. Me on the other hand? I kill to feel something, to escape my own mind.

I look back into the mirror, loitering behind the door as the violins begin to settle. Saskia follows the rhythm, swaying her hips back and forth in time to the music, brown hair sweeping over her shoulders.

I was too caught up in her movements, I didn’t even see what she was wearing. A pair of coral-colored sweatpants sit low on her hip, exposing her torso and belly button. She wears a yellow sports bra, the bright yellow contrasting with the color of her sweatpants, but Saskia makes it work. She pulls everything off. I could throw a trash bag over her, and she would still find a way to amaze me.

I step back from the door, combing through my matted hair. In a world full of performance, Saskia is real. She moves because she wants to, because it’s her choice.

Authenticity is something this world is starting to lack, or so I thought.

She’s the realest person I have ever met, and that makes me question some uncomfortable things about myself.

We both have secrets, stuff about ourselves we don’t want others knowing.

But if I give my demons space, they have the potential to destroy us both.

10

SASKIA

I open my eyes, the song reaching its end, and see a pair of eyes fixated on me through the mirror.

I turn around, positive I’m dreaming. I wish.

“What… are you doing?” I gasp, opening the door wider.

Felix cowers behind the other side. This is the first time I’m seeing him tremble. Cold, hard billionaires like him are supposed to be unshakable, but I see his jaw quiver as he realizes he’s been caught red-handed.

I was dancing to Land of the Free by Obsqure, an emotive song that explores self-expression. It takes the listener on a journey, encapsulating refugees floating on a raft in the Mediterranean Sea as they dream about a safe haven, far away from harm. The song holds a special place in my heart. I left my father and used this song to help me break free, to burn off the imaginary shackles he had put on me.

I choreographed this song on and off the pole, making two different versions because I loved it so much.

That being said, I run away with the music most of the time, trying not to overthink the routine. Structure is restricting. When Fleur and I left our father, all we wanted to do was break free.

You can walk away from someone, live on the other side of the city and never see them again, but your body never forgets. My bones held onto the oppression. The human body is like a prison cell, and I needed to break free.

“Don’t stick to the routine,” is what I told Fleur when I taught her the choreography. “Imagine yourself floating on water. Let the music decide your journey.”

I stare deep into Felix’s eyes and the oppression comes right back, my body aching in the same places as before, my heart heavy.

Felix represents everything I want, and yet everything I can’t have. He’s the sun and the moon, the ocean and the desert. I look into his starburst eyes, and feel like the entire universe is existing inside of me.

I want him in a way I’ve never wanted anyone before.

But he’s what I want, not what I need.

That man is only good for himself. He pushes his family away, his friends. He chooses himself every single damn time, and I’ve only ever chosen other people. We’re incompatible, and I really fucking wish my body would get the memo so I can work here in peace.

My thighs will be bruised soon. I’m always clenching them together, always holding my breath when he walks into the room.

“Why are you here?”

“Why are you watching?” I reflect his question with one of my own.