The once pristinely clean floor now holds the faintest hint of staining that tells the tale of how I dragged Nikolai into this room to die—the brownish-red streaks pull across from the doorway into the center of the room. I didn’t want to bring him in here—I wanted to let him die alone in the car at the time—but the human in me felt some tug toward fulfilling a dying man’s last reasonable request, even if that dying man was a monster who destroyed our lives.
That was the difference between him and me. We may both have been reckless, impulsive men with flaring tempers, but I still had compassion, and I’d shown him that compassion in his final moments.
I’m struck still as the memory takes hold of me.
Everything changed that day.
Power and alliances had shifted. Anya had been thrust into a role she never wanted, but gratitude was due to Nikolai in some respect—in the fact that he had planned for her to have a future, even if it was without him. It didn’t change that he was the fucking devil himself, but it was enough that it makes me feel compelled to spare a moment of reflection before I rehearse in this space where he bled and died.
It’s strange, really.
It’s strange to feel relief to be back here. After everything that we’ve been through and everything that’s changed, this place is now granting us a small amount of peace. It’s a reprieve from the fear and daily torment we suffered at Renata’s hands and the uncertainty of continued harmony with the O’Sheas. But it’s also comforting to be in a studio to dance again, to prepare a routine for the talent show at the next quarterly meeting, to have something other than overwhelming worry to focus my attention.
We’re safe for the moment and a chance for us to escape is on the horizon.
Anya asked to select the music I’m going to perform to for the four families. I can sense some unease with her lately—aside from the constant battery of unease we experience being slaves to these families—and I think it has to do with how oddly the tables have turned.
For three years, she danced as the Mikhailov family’s talent. Three different partners, all taken from her, until me. And now, she is a Mikhailov, pregnant, unable to dance, and instead, preparing for a dangerous, risky escape from this life that will surely keep us on the run for the rest of our lives.
She puts a song on the speaker, listens for a few counts of eight, then turns it off, scrolling through the playlist again.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” I tell her from where I stand in the center of the dance floor. “The stakes aren’t as high as they were before.”
She snaps her head around to look at me, the familiar, coldly professional look of our early times together twisting her face into an adorably serious look.
“It should always be perfect,” she counters. “I want them to see you like I see you.”
I smile, stretching with my fingers linked on top of my head. “Tell me how you see me.”
The apples of her cheeks flush a perfect pink as she fights her smile as she looks back to her playlist. “Be quiet. No flirting. They’ll hear you.” She glances toward the doorway, knowing Murphy is wandering nearby and could pop in at any moment.
“I don’t give a shit. Tell me anyway.”
She hesitates, bringing her head back around slowly to look at me. “I see you always dancing. Vibrant, strong, mine.” She smiles more broadly before turning back to the playlist, finally selecting a song.
I grin. “Yours, baby.”
She turns back around and walks toward me as the music she selected begins to play. “Listen to this one. I think it’s perfect for you.”
I reach my hands out for her as she comes to stand in front of me. She’s reluctant, but a quick glance over her shoulder gives her enough comfort to see that Murphy isn’t standing in the doorway watching us. She’s still so afraid of being caught in the act of intimacy, and I can’t blame her for all that has cost us before. But I’m her talent slave and she can do what she wants with me. She steps closer to take my hands and immediately, I drag her against me, wrapping my arms around her before she can protest.
I sigh with contentment as soon as I have her safe in my hold. “Do you remember when we danced here together in the moonlight?” I ask, spinning her to face away from me and placing my hands on her hips. I kiss her shoulder softly, chastely.
“Do you think I could ever forget? That night was a precious gift to me. The first time Nikolai had allowed me to keep a partner. That night I was happy, full of hope.” Anya sighs.
“Look how far we’ve come. Look at all we’ve survived. We’re going to survive this, too.” I lean in close and whisper into her ear, “We’re going to be free again. We’ll be free from this life. We’ll have our own family.” I let my hands roam to rub her baby bump.
She spins in my hold to face me again, holding up her palms. I place mine on hers, remembering the time I told her to do this, to listen to the music and feel her movement, to help her break free from her rigidity and perfection to find her soul’s expression through dance. We sway together, walking through a few easy steps that we improvise in the moment. She can’t do a whole lot right now, but she can do some, and she’s all the more beautiful like this.
The corners of her mouth lift with her cheeks in pure joy, the kind of joy we only ever feel when we’re dancing together. “It’s our own little pas de trois.”
A dance performed by three—me, my blue-eyed girl, and our baby.
“Do you think he’ll dance?” Anya asks, rubbing a hand over her belly.
“He’ll have to if he wants to keep up with us.”
I see Murphy come in behind her and I spin her out of a turn away from me. She sees him and comes to a stop.
“Murphy,” she acknowledges him.
“I came to watch. I need a break from my wife.” Murphy moves across the room and sits on the piano bench, then looks at us expectedly. “So? Are you going to dance or just stand there?”
Anya turns and gives me a final frustrated smile before moving away, going back to the stereo system behind where Murphy sits to restart the song.
I listen to the music and feel and dance as it tells me to. That’s the way I’ve always created my routines. I’ve always choreographed them myself. But shit, do I miss dancing with Anya. I kind of hated dancing with partners before the mess of this life forced upon us by Nikolai.
Not that I didn’t have great partners, but really, it never felt quite right when I danced with them. I was never able to pinpoint why I felt so off about it before. When I danced with Anya for the first time, I knew why. It was because she was the only partner I was ever meant to dance with. There was never a second when dancing with her felt wrong or unnatural or uncomfortable. We’d clicked from the very first count of eight.