Ivan 2 (Her Russian Protector #9) - Roxie Rivera

Chapter One

Step. Together. Step. Tap.

Trying to keep my spine long and my feet nimble, I danced across the gleaming hardwood in the barre studio. We were halfway through our workout, and I was already sweating through my camisole and leggings. The mix of cardio and leg work was killing me.

“And let’s add an arabesque!” Mitzi called out from the front of the studio, where she sailed side to side with the ease of a professional dancer.

Step. Together. Step. Lift.

As a little girl in ballet class, this had been one of my favorite movements, and I smiled through the exertion, lifting my arms high as if flying. My thoughts naturally drifted back to childhood recitals, the nervous energy and excitement of flitting across a stage in a poufy tutu and glitter-dusted bun. Memories of Ruby, terrific memories, came back as I mirrored Mitzi’s for the next sequence of movement. Plié. Relevé.

Ruby and I had been in different dance classes. She had gravitated toward hip hop and jazz while I had been a ballet girl from the first time our mother walked me into the studio at four years old. While I had been a strong dancer, Ruby had been a star. Like every little sister in awe of her bigger sister, I loved to watch and imitate her. Back then, Ruby had welcomed my attention. We had been so close—two sisters who shared everything.

Until the drugs.

“Let’s move to first position,” Mitzi called out over the music. “And now, sauté!”

Next to me, Zoya leaped like the most graceful Russian ballerina. I shot my friend an annoyed look as she performed every barre movement with the expertise of a dancer who had been classically trained as a child. My jumps weren’t nearly as high as hers, probably because I had about seven extra pounds of Christmas cookies and pies weighing me down. I grimaced at my reflection in the classroom mirrors, certain I could see the extra weight jiggling as I landed.

I wanted to blame Vivian for hosting the best Christmas dinner I had ever had, but my willpower was at fault. I had given in to my feelings and crammed two servings of stuffing and sweet potato casserole in my gob before hitting the dessert table and knocking back hot toddies and spiced wine. Two days later, and I was still bloated. Some of it was probably from my period, but most of it was the alcohol and carbs wrecking my digestive system.

When Mitzi directed us to the barre, I pushed loose strands of hair from my forehead and back under my headband. I had decided to let my hair grow out, and it was in that awkward stage where it wasn’t quite long enough for a ponytail or bun. Holly kept offering to put in extensions, and I was sorely tempted to schedule an appointment before the Denim and Diamonds fundraising gala on New Year’s Eve. Maybe I should ask Zoya what she thinks.

“First position,” Mitzi announced. “And battement front. Two. Three. Four. Side. Two. Three. Four. And back. Two. Three. Four.”

With the pattern of movement explained, I followed along while trying to maintain my form. I tended to tuck my hips in too far and round my back, so I made a conscious effort to keep straight and tall and point my leg correctly. After a few rounds, my thigh was burning from the exertion. I wanted to lower it an inch or two to ease the ache, but Ivan’s gruff voice was suddenly in my head, coaching me to keep going the same way he did his fighters.

The image of him standing on the sidelines of a barre class, huge, tattooed arms crossed as he shouted in a mix of Russian and English, made me grin. His high-energy, extremely regimented style of coaching was a complete contrast to Mitzi’s friendly, nurturing methods. She enjoyed chatting with us as we wandered into class and slowly eased into the stretching phase. There was no way Ivan would accept his students trickling in and talking. He would be out in the hallway, clapping his massive hands while shouting, “Davai! Davai! Davai!”

“What’s so funny?” Zoya asked as we switched legs.

“Imagine Ivan as our barre teacher,” I panted.

She snorted playfully. “He would have us swinging kettlebells at the barre.”

We shared a private giggle and continued to dance. The burn lessened in my standing leg, but it would soon transfer to the other side. I tried to focus on the outcome, of firm but lean legs