57. Chapter Fifty Six

Chapter Fifty Six

I stand backstage, heart pounding, the heavy curtain separating me from the expectant audience. My body shudders beneath the leotard, a proud tutu sticking out from my hips. Months of rehearsals have led to this moment. My muscles are tense, feet poised in my first stance, every detail of the routine running through my mind. The murmur of the crowd fades as I focus on my breathing, the floor cool beneath my ballet slippers.

The scent of the stage—wood, sweat, and a hint of old velvet—grounds me. I hear the faint rustling of the audience settling into their seats, the occasional cough or whisper. It's a full house and the pressure is palpable. My fingers twitch involuntarily, a last release of nervous energy. I flex them, feeling the delicate fabric of my tutu brush against my legs, a reminder of the countless hours spent perfecting every move.

From the wings, Miss Nightingale watches me closely. A small incline of her head seems to speak volumes. She thinks this is where I belong, what I should be doing with all of my time. In reality, I don't know where I belong. I just like to dance.

The curtain begins to rise. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. As the lights flood the stage, I scan the front row and there they are. Garrett, Axel, Dax, and evidently - Wyatt. I tried to convince Huxley to come but he's not ready to face the outside world yet. Inside is fine, he roams freely now and is eating properly, but he still couldn't bring himself to leave. Not even for me. I understand. I'm desperately trying to understand. I suppose the recording Garrett is taking for Meg will have to be enough.

Holding my pose, the silence before the music starting is deafening. Theo is on the ground level, his fingers on the piano keys. An orchestra accompanies him, the music students making their own debut for agents in the audience. I suppress a shiver, looking for a focus. I find it in Axel. His hazel eyes are fixed on mine, and at his neck, a sharp collar and tie. I withhold a gasp, the backs of my eyes pricking. He wore a shirt for me .

The music starts, and I launch into the first movement without a second thought. My body responds, every practiced step flowing with minimal effort. This routine is second nature to me now. The smile spread across my face is a real one, each leap and pirouette a small burst of joy.

The spotlight tracks my every move, but it's the Shadowed Souls smiling up at me that sees my spirit soar. I let myself fully embrace the music. The melody is hauntingly beautiful, and I pour my heart into every step, every gesture. My movements become more fluid, more expressive, telling a story that words could never capture. I am no longer just dancing; I am living the music. I don't even blink as Nikko enters, my counterpart. He joins the outstretched line of my body like a shadow. His fingers trail my arms, his hands on my waist and then I'm lifted.

During one practice, where it was glaringly obvious I was uncomfortable in Nikko's presence, with his hands all over me, Miss Nightingale had taken me aside. ‘He's a prop,' she'd said bluntly. ‘You're the prima ballerina. Everybody in the show is a prop at your disposal.' I didn't have such a hard time dancing with him after that.

Now, we're completely in sync. My extended leg is lined by his, the flourish of my arms mimicked in unison. We feel each movement, ingrained through repetition and muscle memory, giving the piece the precision it demands. Reacting to the crescendos and decrescendos of the orchestra, we effortlessly glide from one piece into the next. Months of practice, and we sail through the first half of the intricate choreography.

My muscles burn, but it's a good burn, the kind that tells me I'm alive and pushing my limits. The music swells, and I execute a series of grand jetés, my feet barely touching the ground. The audience fades into the background, and it's just me, the music, and the feeling of weightlessness. My heart races. My breaths come quick and shallow, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears. I focus on a spot in the audience to maintain my balance, and there he is again, Axel. His eyes shine with pride, his smile widening with every flawless move I make.

As we enter the final section of the dance's first half, Nikko lifts and then dips me low, my legs poised into perfect points. The climax of the piece approaches, a series of fouetté turns. I spin, faster and faster, my leg whipping around with each turn. The world blurs around me, but I am centered, focused. Suddenly, I fall still, chest heaving and arms suspended in front of my tutu.

For a moment, there is silence. The audience seems to hold its breath. Then, the applause erupts, a tidal wave of sound washing over me. I lower my arms, and absorb the energy of the crowd. The applause grows louder, a distant roar through the blood rushing in my ears. I bow deeply, gratitude and relief mingling in a heady rush .

As I straighten, I look out into the sea of faces, but it's Garrett's face that stands out now. His expression is full of admiration. So open, so in awe. I melt as the curtain falls and I step into the wings. I'm met with the hugs and congratulations of my fellow dancers. Miss Nightingale gives me a proud nod, her eyes shining with approval. I smile. I did it. I danced in front of a crowd, and an excited hum beats through me that I'm about to do it again.

"Twenty minutes, dancers," a stage-hand calls out. "Find a place to stretch, make sure you hydrate!" I accept a bottle of water from an assistant, turning to the rear of the stage. As Prima Ballerina, I'm the only one with access to the wardrobe dressing room, whereas the other dancers are settling onto the wooden floor, their legs spread wide. I've barely made a step when a hand harshly grabs my upper arm, dragging me along. I try to yank myself free, only forcing him to hold on tighter.

"Wyatt?" I gasp, jerking against his body. "What the hell are you doing?!" I look around for backup, but we're swallowed by the people bustling around. Elbowing the door open, Wyatt shoves me in the dressing room. He pauses to shut and lock the door, and then he's coming at me. I struggle to stay on my feet, stumbling backwards until my back hits a wall. He doesn't stop advancing.

"What's your problem?!" I scream, shoving at him when he gets in my space. His green eyes are laced with rage, his face hard. I thought we were getting on okay. How freaking na?ve that was. Pressing himself along the length of my body, his forehead presses against mine, roughly pinning me between the wall and the bun in my hair. I still, not even breathing as he steals the oxygen from my vicinity.

"Did you think prancing about with strangers was the way to get my attention?" Ignoring the obvious irony there, my lips part, dumbfounded. There's that phrase again. Prancing about , as if dancing is some stupid notion to waste time and occupy my simple mind. I want to scream. Shove at him again to no avail, ready to tell him that Nikko isn't a stranger - he's been my dance partner for months. But that's not what tumbles out of my mouth.

"I've been prancing around your best friends' bedrooms and you haven't seemed to care." His hands are on my ribs, his fingers digging in through my leotard. He pushes me flush against the wall, the expensive cologne he always wears slamming into my senses. Lowering his head, his lips brush my ear.

"I care," Wyatt growls, dropping his head and sinking his teeth into my neck. I gasp, a jolt of my body putting me flush against him, my head tilts of its own accord to permit him further access. His thigh shifts, pressing hard between my legs. I'm frozen in place, not daring to move as his mouth releases me and shifts. A gentle bite touches the place where my neck meets my shoulder.

"Wyatt," I say, far too breathily. "What's happening here? "

"Shhh," Wyatt's lips push against my skin, his mouth roaming upwards to nip at my jaw. My body betrays me. With each small bite, my hips tilt further forward, shamelessly rubbing myself against his thigh. I'm going to kill Garrett for planting this fantasy in my head. The amount of nights I've fallen asleep picturing it.

My head tilts, my high bun like a cushion. My eyelids lower, my senses taking over. His mouth is hot and seeking, his chest firm. Angling his thigh away, Wyatt's hand palms my pussy through my leggings. The heel of his thumb is directly over my clit, the sweetest torture.

Did he picture me just like this when Garrett made me put on that slutty ballerina's costume at the club? Did he slink off to the bathroom and jerk off over it? Questions I shouldn't ask. Answers I shouldn't want.

His thumb shifts and finds the right spot, pushing into me and drawing tiny little circles. The pressure is intense as I tiptoe to put some space between us. Everywhere I go, he follows. His tongue flicks over my throat, into the dip of my clavicle. I'm blazing from the inside, an inferno building within the leotard I long to shed. But I won't make that move. I won't encourage him. Any second, Wyatt will remember who I am, what I mean to him, and jerk back in disgust. I dare not wonder why I'm not doing just that.

"Kiss me," Wyatt whispers. My head is angled upwards and away from him, even as I shake my head. No, I'm not giving him that. We're not lovers. We're enemies, at the precipice of our misdirected anger. There's nothing else to be said, nowhere else to go, but straight over the blurred line we've been dancing along for months.

Grabbing my chin, Wyatt drags my head down. I struggle against him, shoving at his shoulders but he doesn't budge. He drags my leotard aside and pushes one long finger inside of me. On my gasp, his tongue enters my mouth. I thrash against him, but it only serves to increase his pace. The hand on my ribs lowers to my waist, pinning me with brute strength.

"Fight me all you want. You need this." Wyatt holds my cheek still with his. My hands are clutching the shirt at his shoulders, but I'm not fighting hard enough. We both know it. I want deniability, while doing nothing to actually deny the desire building within. Wyatt's mouth is at my ear, his hushed words barely audible between my stifled moans. "You've been begging me with your eyes. Every time I've let myself slip, you've been just as curious and eager." A second finger pushes inside of my cunt and I clench. "Just as wet and tight as I imagined."

So he has been thinking about me. His knee nudges mine wider.

"Oh, Avery." I swallow hard then. My name lustfully muttered in his voice is my undoing. "Tell me this is good for you. Tell me I'm being so good for you." My eyes snap open. Wyatt - good for me? After everything he's said and done, he wants a clean slate. He wants me to admit I forgive him, before he turns around and throws this in my face too.

"No," I grind out. Pushing his arm hard, his fingers fall free while I grab his crotch through his slacks. He's painfully hard beneath my palm, gasping at my touch. Using the grip, I shoulder Wyatt aside and twist us both, using my free hand to slam his shoulder into the wall. He lets me, his green eyes hooded and cheeks flushed.

"You don't get to do that to me." Unbuckling his belt with sharp movements, I leave it hanging and unbutton his slacks. Tugging them to his thighs, his cock springs free. A trickle of defiance and a fuckload of foreboding hits me. He's so thick, beautifully veined and circumcised. His head is plump and purple. My thighs clench, wetness seeping through my lycra. He just stands there, unmoving, not even breathing. I set my jaw and look up at him with malice.

"You don't get to be an asshole," I grab his shaft as tightly as I can.

"You don't get to be jealous," I pump him in angry jerks.

"You don't get to finger fuck me." Grabbing his tie, I wrap it around my fist and yank him into me. We've been here before, at the Fall Ball, but this time - I'm in charge. I still my movements, glaring into his dazed green eyes .

"You don't get to be praised." I use the fisted tie to shove him back into the wall whilst dragging my other hand up and down his cock. Not once do I release my tightened grip. I want him to hurt. I want him to remember this pain the next time he thinks to insult me. I want him to see how much hatred I hold inside, what his hot-and-cold routine does to me.

Beneath my hold, Wyatt slumps. He's quivering, the collar at his neck pinched. Small, rushed pants cause his cheeks to hollow, the mess of dark hair on his head soon becoming damp with sweat. His hands are pressed against the wall, letting me use his body in any way I see fit. Is this the punishment he was seeking? My thrusts are slickened by his precum, the friction beginning to burn my hand.

"Get on the sofa," he grinds out, daring to grab my hip. "Bend over the arm and let me show you just how much I don't deserve your praise." I jerk him sharply, snapping my hand free of his shaft and grab his balls. I squeeze tightly enough to draw a quick gasp from his parted lips.

"You've taken enough." My voice is laced with anger. "You don't get any more of me." Wyatt's thighs tense, his balls tight. Releasing his tie, my nails drag over his buttoned shirt, feeling the shift of muscle underneath.

I time it perfectly, dropping to my knees and deepthroating his cock. My jaw clicks, the smoothness surprising. A salty blend mixes with the pleasure of hearing his startled cry. He hardens impossibly more, a choked sound preceding the cum bursting into my throat. I swallow every drop. Then I bite down. All teeth and barely any tongue, I scrape the length of Wyatt's shaft, up and down, on and on. He shudders, gasping in pain and jerking against me. His hands lightly touch my head, a faint plea for me to release him. It's at odds with the way his dick is jumping for more.

Finally, I suck down his swollen length and release him with a pop. Sitting back on my heels, I watch Wyatt assess the damage, handing his reddened dick with careful fingers.

"Bitch." Returning to my full height, I plaster a smirk on my face and tilt my head. His green glare is back in full force, but the tension isn't the same. We're thinking the exact same thing. I hate you so fucking much. When can we do this again?

Thumping sounds on my door, a call for the end of the intermission. All dancers need to be back on stage in five minutes. I stand aside, gesturing to the exit.

"Congratulations, Wyatt. You've had my fucking attention." He carefully tucks himself away, not in any rush to leave. Righting his hair and suit, Wyatt steps forward, stopping when his bicep brushes my chest. The air is thick with lust but I hold my ground, until Wyatt turns and grabs my pussy roughly beneath my tutu .

"It's cute you think you've won, when you're the one who's left soaking wet and unsatisfied." There's no use denying it. He can feel my heat. But if there's one thing I've learnt from Wyatt, its's to always have the last word.

"Your men are in the hallway waiting to deal with that." His expression hardens.

"Of all the things, I never thought of you as a slut until-" The words have barely left his mouth as my open palm cracks across his cheek. Wyatt's head whips aside, his chest heaving evenly. I've either pissed him off or turned him on further, and I can't tell which one it is. A shudder rolls through his spine and he strides away, leaving the door wide open. Just as I expected, there's a pair of suits leaning against the opposite wall of the hallway. I'm not an idiot, I knew there was a reason Wyatt wasn't dragged out of here the second he closed us in together. And that reason is currently shedding his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

"Four minutes isn't long, Peach, but I do love a challenge." Garrett strides in, making a show of checking his watch. Lifting me into his arms, my legs automatically lock around his back. Axel remains back, closing the door behind him, watching through hooded eyes. Dropping me onto the vanity, I grin at Garrett licking his lips.

"I give you two and half."