Steps

by Bea Paige

  “Get a hold of yourself.”

  Taking in several deep breaths, I make myself stand upright. Above the sink is the mirrored cabinet Rose mentioned. I stare at the man reflected back at me.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  I mean, I know why I came, that desire hasn’t changed. I want to fuck Rose more than I’ve ever wanted to fuck any woman. But something is stopping me from trying to make that happen. Okay, that’s not true, I’m trying to make it happen, I’m just not trying hard enough.

  Why is that?

  It doesn’t help that she seems to be battling herself. Her body tells me she wants me just like all the other women I’ve had, but her actions and her words are telling me to back the fuck off. Whilst that would normally present as a challenge to me, and who doesn’t love a good fucking challenge? This time I feel differently about it. I’m unsure, and it isn’t a position I like being in. Uncertainty isn’t in my vocabulary. I’m a very certain man. Certain about what I want, what I need, what I like and what I don’t. Then why here, with Rose, am I so fucking uncertain?

  “What are you doing here, Luka?” I ask again, more calmly this time.

  I half expect my reflection to respond. Except the person I see isn’t Luka, it’s Ivan and he doesn’t answer to anyone, even himself.

  Walking into the kitchen with the tweezers grasped in my hand, I find that Rose has cleaned up the spilt wine and cleared away the remaining pieces of broken glass. She’s nothing if not stubborn. I get the distinct impression she’s looked after herself for a long time, and accepting help isn’t something that comes naturally to her. I swallow a laugh, giving help isn’t something that comes naturally to me either, yet here I am doing exactly that.

  “I’ve made myself some tea,” she says, hobbling over to the kitchen island with a mug in her hand. She settles down on the stool and looks at me. Her expression is deadpan, the earlier anger, and flush of red heat, gone. She’s managed to school her emotions, hiding herself behind a mask, and damn if it doesn’t want to make me dig deeper for them. I’m used to women giving themselves up to me without even having to ask. I’m used to women entrusting me with their bodies and their hearts. I’m used to taking everything I need then leaving them, I’ve never had to work for it.

  “Did you find them?” she asks, her gaze moving from my face to my hands as she takes a sip of tea. I notice there isn’t a cup for me.

  “Yes.”

  “Took you long enough,” she responds a little sharply. I can see that her hand is no longer covered in a tea towel and that her finger is dressed in a plaster. The cut must be deep because blood still seeps through.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  Sorry?

  Where the fuck had that come from? I don’t do apologies, ever. My mouth clamps shut, and I grit my jaw. The last time I apologised was when I held Svetlana’s limp body in my arms. That apology had been like acid on my tongue, it had changed everything for me. That night, I’d discarded Luka Petrin and had become Ivan Sachov.

  Now I’m apologising for taking too long to find the damn tweezers.

  “Whatever.” Rose shrugs her shoulders, unaware of the rarity of such an apology. I cross my arms over my chest, pissed off with her, with myself. In fact, I’m fucking furious.

  “I tried to get the glass out, but it was a little difficult with my knee...” her voice trails off as she watches me glance at her bare legs. She attempts to cover herself with the dressing gown, but it isn’t quite long enough, and I can see a good portion of creamy thigh. A beauty spot sits just above her swollen knee on her inner thigh and my cock stirs again at the thought of pressing my tongue against it. Forcing myself to look away, my gaze slides lower to her knee which is swollen and red. She must be in a lot of pain with it. I’ve suffered a few injuries in my time as a dancer and that knee is going to hurt like a bitch once all the alcohol has worn off.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

  “She’s sick. Rheumatoid Arthritis.” That’s what Ms Hadley had said, but I ask the question anyway.

  “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but I have an autoimmune disease. That’s why I had to give up ballet. I’ve not danced for over a year.” She reaches down and gingerly rubs her slim fingers over the inflamed and swollen joint.

  “You don’t dance at all?”

  “No.” She sighs, looking away. Something tells me she’s lying about that. Ballet is ingrained in her very soul, she can no more stop dancing than I can stop fucking.

  I look her over, apart from two slightly swollen knuckles on her right hand and knee I can’t see any other obvious signs of the disease. That doesn’t mean to say that she isn’t in a great deal of pain, it just means the outward signs aren’t as obvious yet.

  She holds her hand out. “Now that you’ve had a good bloody look, would you give me the tweezers, so I can get this damn glass out.” she growls.

  “No, let me.”

  Ignoring her suspicious gaze, I crouch down before her and grasp her ankle. The second my fingers touch her skin, something fucking crackles inside my chest. Call it chemistry, call it overwhelming attraction, call it lust. Whatever the fuck it is, I’m not sure I like it. Yes, I’ve had similar reactions to other women, but nowhere near as intense. The moment I’ve fucked them the feelings subside, absorbed by the demon inside. Rose appears to be poking the beast.

  “What are you doing now?” she bites out.

  “Helping you.”

  She laughs bitterly. “I don’t need your kind of help.”

  “Well, you’ve got it, whether you like it or not.” I inspect the cut, gently feeling for the piece of glass beneath the skin.

  “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who helps others. In fact, you don’t strike me as the kind of man who ever gets on his knees for anyone, let alone a woman. So why are you doing it now?”

  I snarl. The sound literally releases from my mouth before I can stop it. She’s not wrong, in fact she’s absolutely right. I don’t help anyone unless it benefits me. I don’t get on my knees for a woman unless I have an ulterior motive. Frankly, it’s normally the women kneeling before me, not the other way around.

  “Did you just snarl at me like a fucking animal?”

  She attempts to pull her foot back, but I grab hold of it tightly, running my thumb over the arch. “Stop talking,” I grind out.

  “Ha! This is my house, remember. If you don’t like what I have to say, you know where the door is.”

  “Right now, I’m just taking a piece of glass out of your foot, that’s it.”

  Rose snorts. “What do you take me for, Ivan? Do you honestly think you can demand my attention, my respect, from a few hot glares and well placed touches? I see you. I’ve known men like you and I won’t fall for it again.”

  And there it is… again. So, there is more to Rose than she lets on. I knew it. I sensed that.

  “Well, do you?” she persists.

  “No, actually, I don’t,” I respond honestly.

  Yes, I might want her attention but I sure as hell don’t need her respect. What I want is to fuck her. I ignore the snort she makes, choosing to run my hand over her instep and up her ankle. Rose draws in a breath at the touch but this time she doesn’t try to pull free from my grasp, a feeling of self-satisfaction turns my lip up into a smile.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I hear her mutter with disdain. “I want the glass out. So if you’re insistent on doing that, I suggest you get on with it.”

  The smile I have slips, and I squeeze her foot tighter than I should. She’s beginning to piss me off. How dare she fucking reject me? Pressing my thumb onto the sole of her foot beside the wound, I feel for the shard of glass. The hard edge isn’t too far beneath the surface.

  “Shit,” she says, jerking her foot.

  “You need to keep still, or I won’t be able to get it out.”

  “That hurt!” she snaps back, glaring at me, and fuck if I don’t want to pull he
r off the stool and into my arms. My fucking cock stirs, and all I can do is squeeze her foot tighter, harder. One more snide remark from her and I’m not going to be able to control my actions. She needs a good fucking spanking.

  “It’s going to hurt more if you don’t hold steady,” I snap back, a veiled threat even if she doesn’t recognise it.

  “Just get it out, then you can leave.”

  I almost respond with a smart remark of my own but decide against it. Her absolute determination to send me on my way has my blood pumping and my anger boiling. No one fucking rejects me.

  “Fine!” I grip her foot tightly and ignoring her yelp, dig the tweezers into the cut. I find the piece of glass and pull it out quickly.

  “Fuuuuuuckkk!” she cries, as the shard slides out, blood following its release.

  I look up at her wide eyes and bite back down on another apology. What’s wrong with me? I hurt people, that’s what I do best. This is no fucking different.

  “Pass me the antiseptic wipes,” I say, dropping the pair of tweezers on the floor. I press the pad of my thumb over the cut as I try to stem the flow of blood.

  “Here,” she says, passing one to me.

  I take it from her and clean the wound. “I need some wadding and a bandage too.”

  She passes me both and stays quiet whilst I wrap up her foot. Once I’m certain it’s going to stay in place, I release her foot and stand. We look at each other, neither of us saying a word. For the first time in my life I’m not sure what I’m going to do next.

  I came here with every intention of fucking her then leaving her wanting, needing me. I came to mess with her head and her heart… I still want to fuck her. I want to tear that dressing gown from her shoulders, rip her shorts down and fuck her up against the kitchen island.

  This is the first time I’ve come close to wanting to take without getting consent. The demon inside me fucking roars to life at the thought. I take a step back from her. That’s one step too far, even for me. I’m not a fucking rapist.

  “Why are you here, Ivan?”

  She asks me the same question I asked myself not five minutes ago. The fact that she doesn’t use my real name surprises me. Then I remember her promise to keep my past a secret. I don’t doubt that she will. I can already tell she’s someone who keeps her promises, just like I’m the kind of person that breaks theirs.

  “I thought that was obvious. I came here to fuck you,” I say.

  Chapter Nine

  Rose

  “I came here to fuck you.”

  Did he actually just say that? He stands before me, his arms folded across his chest, refusing to look away. The cocky, arrogant bastard.

  Most of me is indignant, pissed off, some of me is flattered, turned on. Another part is scared. Okay, that’s a lie. A very large part of me is scared. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust myself around him.

  “I don’t even know you,” I say, surprising myself with my response. What I should have said was ‘get out of my house, you self-serving dick’, but my brain doesn’t appear to be computing right now.

  “I’m your boss. We know each other,” he replies.

  “For all of five minutes. You fired me, remember?!”

  A muscle flicks in his jaw as he regards me. He doesn’t mention the other way we know each other. Discussing La Bayadere, and the fact that he was one of the most gifted ballet dancers of our time appears to be off the table.

  “Then work for me.” He unfolds his arms and steps towards me once more.

  I automatically want to shrink back because his presence is so overwhelming. Instead, I sit up straighter and hold my hand up, barking out a laugh.

  “So you can fuck me, then fuck me over? No thanks. Been there, done that.” I slam my mouth shut on my response, realising too late I’ve let out another snippet of my past without meaning to.

  His eyes snap to mine and I look away. Why do I persist in hurting myself? I don’t want to think of him, I don’t want to remember how my foolish sixteen year old self had been used by a man just like this one. Ivan steps closer, he grips my jaw in his hand and forces me to face him. I’m about to push him away when the fire in his gaze stops me. Is that jealousy? How can he possibly be jealous? It doesn’t make any sense, he doesn’t know me enough to warrant such a reaction.

  “Who? A director, one of the troupes? Who?” he demands, the low growl of his voice rumbling up his chest.

  I jerk my chin out of his hold and push upwards, ignoring the throbbing pain every-fucking-where. Pulling myself up to my full height, I stab my finger into his chest. “It’s none of your damn business. Now. Get. Out. Of. My. House.”

  To my surprise, he steps back.

  “You can have the rest of the week off to recover, but I expect you back at work Monday morning eight am sharp,” he says, taking another step backwards.

  “No,” I say, stalking him now. For every step I take towards him, he steps back down the hall.

  “No?”

  “You heard me. I’m not in the business of fucking my boss just because he orders me to!” I snap.

  Ivan doesn’t even flinch. Seemingly oblivious to my very obvious distaste. He backs away from me, as I limp towards him. My dressing gown has managed to undo itself and even though I know I’m on show, I’m past caring.

  He needs to leave. Now.

  “In fact, I’m not in the business of fucking any man just because he orders me to. I’ll find another way to survive, thank you very much.”

  His fingers might have felt like fire and ice on my skin. His gaze might make my insides quiver, his presence might make me want to submit myself utterly to him and he might just be the most alluring man I’ve ever met, but that doesn’t mean to say I will give in to him. I’m thirty fucking years old, not some doe-eyed teenager who believes that love conquers all. Love fucking tears you up and spits you out. It fucking shreds your heart and devours your soul.

  Love fucking hurts.

  “Then don’t,” he says, stopping so abruptly that I almost collide into his chest. I would have if he hadn’t held his hands out to stop me. I feel the warmth of his palms seep through the robe covering my arms.

  “Don’t what?” I tense under his touch. Don’t think about where I want those hands to move next? Because that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. He’s dangerous. Poisonous.

  This man is not for you, Rose. This time that little voice in my head has a point.

  “Don’t fuck your boss…” He sighs, lifting his hands off me. “Come and work for me, and I promise I won’t touch you.”

  “What?!”

  “Be my assistant, come work for me, and I swear on Svetlana’s soul I won’t touch you,” he repeats. It’s the first time he’s mentioned his late wife, and a flash of pain slices across his face.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, pulling my robe tightly around me. “A few hours ago, you fired me because I know who you really are, because I remind you of your past.” He blanches at that, but I continue regardless. “Then you come here because you want to fuck me, and now you’re offering my job back on the promise that you’ll never touch me? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “If I knew that, then I’d know how to fix it,” he admits, surprising himself at the admission given the look of shock that follows it.

  “You’re messed up.”

  “I know.”

  “Why would I want to work for you now?”

  “I’m a man of my word.”

  I laugh at that. “Tell me something, Ivan. When we danced together in La Bayadere, there were rumours that you fucked the entire cast of dancers.” Except you, the same dark voice says inside my head. I ignore it and continue. “I never believed it, until now…”

  “You didn’t?” he asks, swiping a hand through his damp hair. Strands stick up in different directions making him look like a dishevelled school boy, but it’s just another ruse to hide the danger within.

  “Why would I? I saw the way you we
re together. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people more in love. Why would you want to jeopardise that?”

  He looks over my shoulder, avoiding my gaze, and I know instantly that he’d done exactly that, jeopardise their love. Perhaps Luka wasn’t so different from the man standing before me now. With that knowledge, the memories of the man I once admired, shatter. I’m guessing at nineteen I was still as naïve as I was three years before. Well, I’ve grown up a lot since then.

  “It’s complicated…” he admits.

  “You fucked all those women despite the love you shared, because I know that can’t be faked. You did love her, I saw that, but you fucked her over anyway. You’re a piece of work.”

  Ivan stares back at me. I wait for the lie to come. I have a feeling he’s been lying to himself for a very long time. What he says next surprises me most of all.

  “I’m fully aware that I’m a bastard, but in my own way I loved Svetlana very much. Did I betray her? Yes, yes, I did. I fucked every woman in the troupe, except one it would seem,” he says.

  My arms tighten around me, but I don’t allow myself to react any more than that. Ivan doesn’t need to know how much he affects me. In fact, I’m going to make it my sole aim to ensure he never knows how attracted I am to him.

  “I cheated on my wife before we were married, I cheated on her after. I stole her heart and made her love me. I ruined her. That’s what I do. I take things and I ruin them.”

  “And this makes me want to work for you because?” I ask.

  “Because I swear to you now, I won’t touch you. I won’t ruin you.”

  “Why? If this is who you are, what makes you think you won’t even try?”

  “Because you see the demon within me and you aren’t afraid of it. I can’t promise I won’t try, but I know you’re strong enough not to let me succeed. Tonight, you’ve proven that to me. I always get what I want. This is the first time ever I’ve been denied.”

  “Jesus, bighead much?” I mutter. That draws a smile, or perhaps it’s a grimace, I’m not really sure. I don’t think his face knows either.