“I’m sorry, my beloved,” I whispered.
The effect of using his nickname was immediate and startling. His entire body tensed as if I had physically slapped him. His eyes widened, and for a moment, his anger seemed to diminish. But then his hands clenched into fists, the muscles in his jaw working furiously as he ground his teeth.
“Don’t fucking call me thateveragain,” he practically screamed in my ear. “You lost that privilege.”
I flinched away from him, cowering.
“Your apology is as worthless as you are. They’re stupid words said by a stupid little girl.”
The words struck like the Gorean whip, searing into the scar tissue of my past.
How could he hurl those words at me?
My tongue twitched with the cursed rhythm of the response I used to recite, over and over, in four languages. The echo of the words clawed its way up, and my body shook. Then the dam inside me split, my breath snagged, and sobs ripped free instead.
“Boss,” Marcus said firmly.
It was enough to snap Ivan out of the haze he was in. He stepped back from me, and I took off.
Chapter 17
Pasha
The Universal Language
The haunting first notesof the song filled the room. The floor beneath my feet seemed to come alive, pulsating with anticipation. The lights in the area the guys had sectioned off for Mouse and me to dance reflected off the mirrored walls. Despite how she was completely unfocused this morning, my heart filled with incredible joy.
When I’d gotten the call from Marcel, I was floored. In my heart, I knew it was her that day in the dance studio. When the King brothers told me it was a case of mistaken identity, I refused to believe it. At the time, I didn’t have any other choice but to walk away. The company I trained with had promised dates and workshops that I was either in charge of or dancing in. I had planned to go back to America to pursue it further once I had a break.
Marcel’s only condition on reconnecting with her was that I wasn’t to mention her family or their ties. He was fiercely protective of her, as was Sebastian. They’d grilled me privately four times prior to letting me come to the house. None of that mattered now, though, with the tiny girl breathing heavily in front of me. Small wisps of her hair escaped her bun, and her eyes narrowed as I snapped in Russian.
“Mouse, please focus.” My voice cut through the music, and she paused mid-step, her gaze momentarily clouded with confusion. “You’re not here. Your mind is wandering, and we can’t have that.” I tapped her forehead.
Her brow furrowed, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. “I’mtrying, Pasha.” She put her hands on her hips, and anger pulsed off her in waves, much as they had done as a child.
Despite missing out on years of her life, I still knew her like the back of my hand. We were bound by the universal language of movement, and each of hers today showed frustration, which was entirely new for me.
Our connection transcended words, the bond defied explanations, and it was entirely magnetic how our souls were intertwined in ways I knew with no other woman. She was beyond beautiful, and I knew if we’d had the privilege of growing up together, she would absolutely be more than a dance partner to me.
However, life threw us a curve ball, and I was smart enough to know that opportunity for us had passed. So I rejoiced in the fact that no matter what man was in her life, there was still a place for me that no one would or could replace.
I took a step closer, narrowing the distance between us, my gaze locking with hers. “Myshka, I need you fully present in this dance, every step, every movement. A distracted dancer is an injured dancer.”
She blinked, her eyes flickering with a mix of recognition and gratitude. “I know,” she whispered, her voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. “There’s so much going on inside my head, and I can’t seem to shake it off.”
Switching gears, I spun away from her and strode toward my phone, which was connected to the Bluetooth speakers. I knew exactly what she needed. The current routine wasn’t serving her, wasn’t pulling her out of the emotional whirlwind that consumed her. I needed to ground her, to help her work through her issues.
I scanned through the playlist until my eyes landed on a song. No doubt it would tug at her heartstrings—but some things were worth the ache. The piece had been one of her mother’s favorites, full of quiet meaning that only the two of us would understand.
Was it a risk? Absolutely, but one I had to take. I believed with all my heart it would connect her to her roots, refocus her, and provide a sense of comfort and familiarity.
Without a word, I selected the song and watched as the music shifted, filling the room with its bittersweet notes. Turning back to Kinsley, I fixed her with an unwavering gaze, my voice taking on an authoritative tone.
“This time it’s just you. It’s time to face the storm inside you head-on.” I sauntered over to her, lifted her chin, and stared into her grayish-blue eyes. “Let this song be your anchor, your guide.” I positioned her body in front of me and grounded her with my voice. “I need you to dance like your life depends on it, with every ounce of passion and pain. Embrace the moment, and let it set you free.”
She hesitated, her body tensed, and waves of uncertainty flowed from her to me. I stepped around her. As the first few chords resonated through the air, a flicker of recognition danced in her eyes. A slight shake of her head, quick andstubborn, greeted me. The motion was almost defiant. I clapped my hands loudly and began showing her the movements I expected her to make.
With a booming voice, I called out, “Tanets.”Dance. My mind buzzed with a mixture of emotion and pride as her body responded, and I began guiding her through the routine.
