Ballet Master by Cassie Mint
Three
Paige
Why is he here?
Raphael Dupont could be in any room of the art world. He could watch the star dancers of the biggest companies rehearse in their studios, casting a judgemental eye over their technique. He could attend galas and red carpets; he could judge competitions and give interviews.
So what is he doing here?
This academy is great. One of the best in the country, despite its small size. But it’s still a class of students, far below Monsieur Dupont’s pay grade.
His dark eyes land on me again.
I shiver.
He seems different today. More agitated, like he didn’t sleep well. He can join the club—I went home last night, ranted to my roommates, then locked myself into my bedroom and tossed and turned until dawn.
I even tried to soothe myself. To run my palms over my heated skin; to touch myself in those forbidden places.
It didn’t help. The sensations built, fast and hard, but they left me hollow afterwards. Still wanting.
Seeing Monsieur Dupont again this morning… those thrumming, tickly feelings below my navel come flooding back.
I roll my head, wincing at my stiff neck, and smile politely as the girl next to me chats about a movie she watched last night. I’m trying to listen, honestly, but my eyes keep dragging back to Monsieur Dupont like they are pulled on two invisible reins.
He smirks at me, secret and slow.
“Oh god,” I murmur to myself, shifting on the floor to press my thighs together.
“Huh?” The girl next to me screws up her face. “What is it?”
I don’t even have to lie. “Monsieur Dupont. He’s back.”
The girl’s head whips around, and my teeth clench at her breathless sigh.
“He’s so handsome, isn’t he?”
I say nothing.
“He looks like he could pick you up and slam you against a wall.”
I do not need that mental image, nor the answering pulse between my legs. I huff and shove my last pointe shoe on, tying the ribbons with vicious tugs.
“You will cut off circulation.”
I hear his deep voice before I notice the sudden hush around me. Monsieur Dupont crouches beside me, taking my foot in his big hands. He reties my ribbons with deft, sure motions, the pad of his thumb sweeping to circle quickly over my ankle bone.
I gape up at him, lips parted. His mouth quirks up on one side.
“Do not strangle your feet, Paige.” He remembers my name? “They are a dancer’s best friend.”
His hands are still on my foot. Their heat scorches through my thin tights, burning into my skin. I blink up at him, drowning in the sensations of his touch, until my neighbor elbows me in the ribs.
“Oh! Um. Thank you, Monsieur Dupont.”
“You are welcome.” He lets go of me with clear regret, pushing to stand. Oh my god, the other dancer mouths at me, but I shrug.
I have no idea what is going on.
All I know is, this man caused me trouble yesterday. He singled me out with that heated gaze, made me clumsy and off-time and aching for something, then he embarrassed Madame on my behalf.
One day soon, he will leave, and I will be left with the consequences. So I drop my chin and stare resolutely at the floor.
It doesn’t matter if this legend has taken an interest in me. He will leave soon, like everyone does, and I will be left in the wreckage.
He’s brought me nothing but pain.
* * *“The black swan’s dance is wicked and wild. She is a seductress, sent to ruin the prince and make him forget all about his love.”
I pick at my thumbnail as Monsieur Dupont explains the piece for the showcase. Some prince, if he forgets his love so easily.
“It is a pas de deux, a dance between partners, but more than that—it is a slide into temptation and chaos.”
Sounds familiar. I fold my arms over my chest, staring at a spot on the wall over Monsieur Dupont’s shoulder. It’s safer this way, if I don’t look him in the eyes. If I only listen to his deep voice with half my attention.
If I take in the full effect of him, I’m liable to crumble like that stupid prince.
And how humiliating would that be? A student dancer swooning over the ballet master. He wouldn’t give me a second thought.
We pair off quickly at his command, seeking out our usual assigned partners. Madame mixes things up sometimes, but we mostly stick to our pairs. We’ve been matched for body size, style and temperament.
Monsieur Dupont’s gaze burns the back of my neck as I cross the studio to my partner David.
“Cool showcase piece.” David holds out his fist and I bump it.
“Yeah. Definitely.”
David drops into a stretch, his muscles bulging and his joints popping. His light brown hair flops forward, so ashy compared to Monsieur Dupont’s dark hair, and I look away quickly before I can draw more comparisons.
“Dupont seems to like you,” David says suddenly.
I hum, noncommittal. It is not always a blessing to receive extra attention.
“Be careful there.”
I look at David sharply, but his face is open. Innocent. Only creased in concern—for me. And why shouldn’t he worry, when I can still feel Monsieur Dupont’s glare burning into my skin even as we speak?
“I will.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I must remind him of someone.”
David snorts, like I’ve said something funny. And he blushes as he says, “I doubt it.”
How strange. I begin to ask him what he means, but Monsieur Dupont claps twice and we all jump to attention.
The showcase is it. My only chance for a great career.
I cannot afford any distractions.
