The God (Bratva Blood #3)- S.R. Jones Page 0,21

I head over to my desk. I change quickly into practice clothes, which consist of black leotard and white tights. I pause, and because of Bohdan, I add a small wrap skirt around the outfit. I feel too exposed in my usual practice attire. It shows my body off in minute detail, which is the whole point. There’s nothing sexual about it. I need to see it well in the mirror so I can make tiny adjustments to the movements. Today, though, I know I don’t want his laser-like gaze on me wearing nothing but that.

Dressed, I head to the table in front of the mirror. I pull my hair onto the top of my head in a tight bun. Then, I reach for the make-up I normally only use for a performance. I look wan. Not liking the fact, I add a sweep of blush to my cheekbones and a tiny bit of mascara. There, I look more awake now.

Finally, I add my pointe shoes. They are customized to my feet as I do with every pair, the ribbons and the elastic sewn on to my liking. Caressing the shoes for a moment, loving them as they are the tools that enable me to truly express myself, I carefully slip them on.

Once I’m ready, I sling my bag over my shoulder. It holds a bottle of water, a protein bar, a banana, and I add my wallet and my phone. Then I take a deep breath, open the door, and prepare to face Bohdan.

Chapter Eight

Bohdan

She walks out of the dressing room, and I take her in. She’s so slim the way she always was, but now there’s strength there too. I’ve been reading about ballet dancers. They have incredible core strength, and it takes much training for them to be able to stand en pointe. What Dasha does is an art form, but it’s also physically demanding.

I respect that. I push my body to the limit too. I have a trainer who works with me in Moscow, and most of the stuff I do is based in martial arts, with a mix of interval training and strength training. I also swim regularly and run. I’m not big the way Konstantin is big, but I still weigh around two hundred and twenty pounds, and it’s all muscle. I don’t do it for vanity. The reason I train so hard is so I won’t ever again be that young, skinny, pretty boy whose father let men paw at him.

Absentmindedly, I touch my new nose and smile.

Following Dasha, we walk down the hallway. She flashes smiles at a few people, but she doesn’t stop to chat. As we near some double doors, a male dancer steps back and indicates for Dasha to go through. She smiles at him.

“Thanks, Rafe, but I’m going to practice in the auditorium today. I want to start to get down some stage placings.”

“Okay,” he says with a grin and opens the doors. I glance in and see a room with wooden floors, bars around the edge, and mirrored walls.

“That’s the main practice room,” Dasha says to me.

She leads me in silence down the hallway, turns left, and goes into a darkened corridor before climbing some stairs to a small area beyond which is a curtain. “Okay, we’ll go onto the stage, and you can then climb down, sit in the chairs, and wait for me. You’ll probably find this boring,” she says. “I hope you have a book or a game on your phone.”

I stop her by touching her upper arm. It’s the lightest touch, but she flinches as if I’ve jabbed her with a hot poker. “I never found watching you dance boring, Dasha. Anything but.”

Even as a child, I found her entrancing to watch. Ballet per se doesn’t interest me, but Dasha dancing is a different thing. She always comes alive when she moves, and I used to love that.

We head onto the stage, and she grabs a stereo, one of those portable ones that looks old like it’s from the nineties or something. She puts a CD in it and must see my puzzled expression. “I have the music on my phone, but I don’t have any pockets, and I tried wearing one of those arm band things that hold your phone, but the arms are so important in this piece that I can’t bear anything on mine. It disrupts my flow.”

“Ah, I understand. I’ll, erm, go sit there then, yes?” I indicate the