Ballet Master by Cassie Mint

Two

Raphael

There is an angel in this class. Her soft hair glints golden in the sunshine spilling through the windows; her rosebud lips part on a sigh as she dances the arabesque, her movements like the slow spread of honey. I frown at her, transfixed, as the students progress through their exercises, trying and failing to pinpoint why she captivates me so.

She’s not the most technically perfect.

She does not have the highest extension or the most arched feet.

She does not even have the best focus, her attention slipping regularly from the dance and landing on me. Usually, I would snarl in frustration at such lack of focus.

But I find I like this—her distracted gaze on me. The pink flush on her cheekbones when I catch her looking; the way her nipples bead against her thin leotard. I begin to will her to look, to miss a step again and glance at me with those big, wistful eyes.

What do you want from me, angel?

Whatever it is, I do not think I would mind giving it.

“Paige!” The old woman scolds my pretty dancer for the dozenth time, exasperation crackling through her voice. I can’t blame her, not with how distracted the girl is, and yet my spine stiffens.

Perhaps it is my imagination, but I suspect Madame is harder on Paige than the others. She picks out more flaws and speaks more curtly. And Paige cringes in response, conditioned and ready like she is used to harsh words in this studio.

Harsh words are part of a ballet dancer’s training.

Even so—I do not like that.

With her new position in the front row, it is more clear than ever that Paige is far beyond her peers. Though her technique needs improvement in some areas, she dances with so much feeling that I forget to breathe.

Her every movement aches with emotion. She is lightness; ethereal grace.

“Paige! You are a two ton elephant!”

I do not hide my fury when I turn to Madame. She cringes back against the piano, her fingers scrabbling over the wood.

“Perhaps we have different ideas of greatness.” I snap. Madame swallows hard, her powdered throat bobbing.

“No, Monsieur. Of course not! But the girl—she is losing time, she lands like a sack of bricks—”

“We are watching the same class,” I tell her coolly. “Though I confess, I am not sure what you bring to the room.”

I am being unforgivably rude. Several dancers stumble, picking up the moves again with wide eyes. And though Madame gapes at me, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, she has no retort.

I turn back to the class, chest tight. And find Paige staring at me, horrified, her face chalky white.

“Paige.” I mouth her name—my lips move but no sound comes out. And something steely passes over her expression, her eyes hardening as her shoulders tense.

Her message is clear as she finishes the class with a tight jaw, refusing to meet my eyes.

My outburst was not welcome.

And now my angel won’t look my way.

* * *

The second class I attend is no better. I should not even be here—one class was favor enough. But when I returned to my hotel suite last night, I could barely stand still with so much primal energy crackling under my skin.

The way she danced…

Those big, wistful eyes…

Perfection.

I am haunted by the little dancer from the class. And I will not leave until I see her again—I cannot. I tell myself that I won’t bother her, that I won’t stare so much as this morning.

Just as long as I can see her again. Just one more time.

Last night, I prowled the length of my suite so many times, I almost wore a track in the floorboards. And when I finally gave in to the vicious urges brimming in my chest, leaning one shoulder against the wall and choking my cock until I burst in my hand—

It was her face I saw.

Her name on my lips.

Paige.

“Monsieur Dupont!” To her credit, Madame does not turn me away at the door, despite my rudeness yesterday. She smoothes a nervous hand over her hair, steel gray and scraped back into the traditional bun. “We did not expect you again so soon.”

“I wish to direct the showcase.”

The words are a shock, even to me. Since when do I care about some little academy performance? I am not a recruiter nor a director; it means nothing to me how well these students audition for the ballet world.

“Monsieur…” Madame trails off, lost for words. She swallows hard, her papery throat bobbing. But then she rallies herself again, pushing her shoulders back and down, and gives me a glowing smile. “How marvelous.”

I’ve stolen her throne in this studio, but the canny woman knows what this means: her academy will receive far more interest with Raphael Dupont leading the showcase. More interest means more contracts for her dancers, more attention from wealthy parents. More money; more prestige.

I haven’t even demanded a fee. Lovestruck fool.

The dancers murmur quietly amongst themselves in the far corners of the studio, oblivious to our conversation. Only one has even noticed me here again, and she frowns at me with her big doe eyes. She’s sitting on the cold floor, tying the ribbons of one pointe shoe.

Her tights are flawless pink, clearly fresh out of the packet.

Something clenches in my chest.

It doesn’t matter, I want to tell her. It doesn’t matter if your clothes are worn or your hair escapes its bun.

She is still a revelation. My blood pumps hotter at the mere sight of her.

“Which ballet?” Madame asks, her voice raised in a way which makes me think she has asked several times already. “Monsieur?”

I tear my eyes away from Paige.

“Swan Lake.” I hold Madame’s gaze. “The dance of the seductress.”