by Bea Paige
“Are you worth the fight?” he asks her, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Are you worth the heartache?” she retorts, glancing at Anton and I briefly.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.
She nods her head and Erik’s hand drops away. But still she remains on her knees.
“Stand up, Rose.”
This time it’s Anton who gives the order.
Rose gets to her feet with more grace than the most gifted prima ballerina. We all watch as she twists on her feet, walks slowly to the door and picks up her coat and bag before turning to face us.
“I have a lot to think about,” she says, looking from Erik to Anton and then, finally, me.
“I need a few days to get my head straight. Don’t call me. Don’t come to my house. I will return to work on Monday. After that, we’ll have to figure out what this is.”
Then she walks out of the studio, shutting the door softly behind her.
That night none of us sleep.
Anton locks himself in his studio taking out his frustrations on a canvas. Erik spends the night pacing up and down in his room, and I spend mine sitting in the dance studio staring at the stain of Svetlana’s blood, wondering whether this time Anton is right, and Rose really is the one that will save us from ourselves.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rose
The cold wind and sea spray from the waves lash against me, but the sting doesn’t even register as I walk along the shore. I stop, turning to face the expanse of water, a heavy sigh leaving my lips.
The sea is as grey as I feel.
My stomach hasn’t stopped churning since I left the men of Browlace Manor. Every minute, of every hour since, they’re all I’ve thought about. Now it’s Friday afternoon and I’ve had far too long to agonise over the consequences of my actions, of theirs.
Heading towards the derelict studio built beneath the promenade. I take in a shaky breath, filling my lungs with the fresh sea air, hoping somehow it will help to blow away the dark cloud that is beginning to linger around me.
The last time I visited this studio was five years ago on a rare visit back home when my mother was still alive. My old ballet teacher, Sylvia, had contacted me, explaining the studio was being closed. She’d begged me to return, and given I’d spent so much of my childhood here, I couldn’t deny the opportunity to say goodbye to the one place I’d felt really at home. Then a year ago, just after I was fired from the Royal Ballet, I got a call from Sylvia’s solicitor to say she had passed away and had left the studio to me in her will. I’d been too unwell with my own health issues to even contemplate coming down here to revisit the place I’d loved so much knowing it wouldn’t be as I remembered it.
Today, inexplicably, this place has called me back and so, here I am.
Now, as I approach the studio, I can already see the damage caused by the wrath of the English Channel and with no one to take care of it, it’s nothing more than a rundown building with boarded up windows and crumbling brickwork.
I certainly don’t have the money to fix it up.
Peering through the gaps between the planks of wood covering the windows, I can see well enough into the open space. It’s really just a room, with a tiny office at the back, but a space to dance, to express myself, was all that I ever really needed as a child.
And right now, I really, really need to dance.
This one room had given me freedom to be myself. It was a place I could let out all my emotions after everything that had happened with Roman.
It had helped me back then, I’m hoping it will help me now.
Reaching for my handbag, I feel inside for my ballet pointes, reassured by the softness of the frayed ribbon. My fingers delve further, and soon wrap around a key. Pulling it free, I look along the empty stretch of promenade then slide the key in the lock and turn. To my surprise the door unlocks without too much effort, despite the rusting hinges. I had thought, after all this time, someone would have tried to break in, but it would seem even the drug addicts that sometimes hang around the beach didn’t think much of the empty space and so it’s been left to the elements instead.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door, I peer inside. Streams of light filter through the wood covering the windows, and surprisingly, it isn’t as dark as I expected it would be.
“Hello?” I call tentatively, knowing that there isn’t anyone inside, but needing to check anyway.
Satisfied that I’m very much alone, I push the door closed and enter the studio. My first thought is to turn on the lights, but given this place hasn’t been occupied for years I have no doubt the electricity has been switched off. But just in case, I flick the switch anyway.
No lights come on, not that it matters anyway, there’s enough light filtering through the gaps in the wood for me to dance.
As I walk to the centre of the studio, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirrors opposite me. They are covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, giving me an aged look. I laugh a little at that. The girl I used to see in these mirrors, Rosie, has changed beyond recognition. That innocent girl turned into someone who sees the world a little differently, who has needs and desires that not everyone understands.
I lift my hand to my face, running my fingertips over my cheeks, along my jaw and down my neck. They linger at my collarbone, remembering the hot kisses Ivan had trailed across my skin.
Shaking my head from thoughts of Ivan, I stare at the woman I am now. The woman I see is jaded, worn, physically very different, but mentally so much stronger.
Peeling off my coat, I walk over to the row of hooks that are still fixed to the back wall and hang my coat and bag on the one that was always reserved for me. Even now, after all these years, I can still just about make out my name written in black ink below it. At first, Sylvia had been angry at me for graffiting the walls, but as soon as she realised how good I was, that coat hook had been reserved for her prima ballerina, for me. She always had so much faith in me, which was way more than my parents ever had.
“Thanks for everything, Sylvia,” I whisper to her ghost that I’m positive still lives on within the bricks and mortar of this very building. It’s funny as I remove my shoes and slowly move across the dancefloor, I can almost feel her watching me from her spot in the corner of the room.
“That’s it Rosie, point your toes. Beautiful arms, straight back. Remember that length of string pulling your spine straight…”
Drawing strength from the memory and not caring that the wooden floor is covered in a thick layer of dust and sand, I pull off my boots and put on my pointes shoes. The moment my feet slide into them, I feel a sense of peace. Just like I had in Anton’s studio, just like I always do when I dance.
In some ways, I have him to thank for finally having the courage to return here. If I hadn’t danced for Anton, I may never have felt the urge to revisit my childhood sanctuary. I’m grateful for that at least, even if thoughts of him, of Ivan and Erik has my guts churning and my thoughts roiling just like the turbulent waves that crash against the shore outside.
Despite the cold, the damp, and the musty smell of rot mixed with the distinct smell of the ocean, I’m happy to be here.
I’ve not felt happy in a very long time, and though I sense it might be fleeting, I hold onto it.
Taking hold of the barre, I turn towards the stream of sunlight pouring through the gaps of wood and turn my feet out into first position. Like a soothing mantra, I repeat the five positions until I am relaxed enough to dance. Today, the aches and pains that usually haunt me aren’t so debilitating. Ever since I smoked that joint with Anton, I’ve felt marginally better. I’ve no idea what was in it, and I’m not sure I want to know, but today, I’m glad of it.
After more warm up exercises at the barre, I step into the middle of the studio ready to dance. Ready to feel. Ready to be me.
For just a moment I allow the sound of the waves crashing against the shore to wash over me, and then as I
push off from my toes, kicking up clouds of dust and sand with my feet, I let my body move of its own accord. There are no rules in this space. No eyes watching me, assessing whether I’m good enough to dance. There is no judgement, or pressure, just freedom to move my body in any way I choose.
I twirl around the studio, pirouetting across the floor, moving freely between the balls of my feet onto my pointes and back again. As I dance, I leave everything I’ve ever learnt behind, moving to the beat of my own heart and soul. I think of my past and the man who twisted the girl I once was into something new. I think of the woman I became when I lost him, and the years of solitude after. I think of the handful of men that came into my life and left when they realised how damaged I was. Then, finally, I think of the men of Browlace Manor and the way they make me feel.
My heart pounds with the exertion as I dance, my skin covering in a layer of sweat, and despite the sharp pain I begin to feel in my knee and back, I don’t stop.
I can’t.
Distracted by the need to dance, to feel free, I don’t hear the door swing open.
I don’t hear the footsteps that enter the studio, the rolling sound of the waves nor the cawing of the seagulls.
I don’t see Ivan enter until it’s too late.
“Rose, we need to talk...”
The smooth command of his voice, and the edge of sadness beneath it cut through my escape and I come to a standstill. Beyond the dust motes that dance in the sunlight, stands Ivan and he looks as though he’s seen a ghost.
“What are you doing here, Ivan?” I pant, my breath as ragged as my pulse.
I can’t even pretend that it’s solely due to exertion. We both know it’s more than that. There’s a dangerous chemistry between Ivan and I, a blazing desire that is no good for either of us. It’s the kind that destroys, not heals. It’s the kind that will eventually ruin us both if we can’t find a way to control it.
“I followed you,” he says, without apology.
Stepping into the room, Ivan’s gaze trails over me. I’m wearing my old ballet attire. The black leotard and leggings are a little tighter than I’d like, but they still fit, just.
“Why are you following me?”
“Because I have things I need to say, Rose. I need to fucking say them before I lose my damn mind.”
“I’m not ready. I’m not ready to hear any of it. I came here to clear my head, to think. I asked you for space to do that. Why can’t you just give me that?”
Ivan runs a hand through his hair.Dark circles ring his eyes, and he has a three day stubble that just makes him look even more handsome, not less.
“Ms Hadley said you were determined to take the job, and yet you ran. Why?”
“I didn’t run, I asked for time. I said I would return on Monday and I meant it. Jesus, Ivan.”
He steps forward, passing through the shards of light, getting ever closer.
“You can’t kiss me like that, then expect me to sit on my hands and wait for your return. I’ve been going fucking crazy, Rose. You drive me fucking crazy.”
“You kissed me, Ivan,” I murmur as he steps closer.
“But you kissed me back…” he says, lifting his fingers to my cheek. “You infuriate me. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t think straight. What have you done to me?”
“I haven’t done anything…”
“You danced for Erik, for Anton. I just watched you move like a fucking angel...”
An angel? Surely he must see the demon inside of me?
“You dance beautifully,” he murmurs.
“I’m nothing compared to Svetlana.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Rose. You’re so fucking wrong! But whether you like it or not, you belong to me now.”
His fingertips feather over my cheek that is coloured a deep pink from the exertion, from the nearness of his body and the heat of his words. I can feel myself giving in, but I mustn’t.
“You might have agreed to my terms, but I never agreed to yours, Ivan,” I reply, twisting my head away from his touch.
Ivan reaches forward, cupping the back of my head in his hand, forcing me to face him.
“I told you. It doesn’t matter, Rose. I won’t let you run.”
“What do you want from me?” my voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. He’s caught me off guard in this place that means so much to me.
How ridiculous must I look? A broken woman, turfed out from the Royal Ballet dancing in a rundown building, dancing to run from her memories, dancing to protect herself from the man that stands before her now.
Ivan lets me go, but he doesn’t move away, and despite all that I’ve just said, neither do I.
“Tell me, Ivan. What do you want?”
He swallows, the searing burn of his gaze making heat rush over my skin. Damn this body that betrays me.
“Everything, Rose. I want everything. Every moan of pleasure, every cry of pain, every tear shed, every whispered words of love, devotion, submission. I want to rule you. I want to lose myself in the softness of your curves, and the tightness of your cunt. I want to plunder the depths of your heart, the bottomless ocean of your soul. I want everything I can get, and I won’t stop until I get it, Rose. I will pursue you relentlessly until you break and give me all that I desire. Then when you’ve given it all, when I’ve gathered every last piece of you, I’ll walk away satisfied, whilst you shatter into a million pieces. That’s the only truth I know. I’m not a good man, Rose. I won’t pretend to be.”
By the time he’s finished my heart is pounding, my hands are shaking, and my pulse is racing. This is the man behind the locked door, this is the man I’m drawn to and he’ll do everything in his power to break me, to own me entirely, to make me his. Just like Roman had.
He wants me to dominate me.
The question is should I let him?
I twist away from him and stride over to my coat and bag, then untie the ribbons and remove my ballet shoes, placing them back in my bag. I pull on my boots, my hands trembling. All the while Ivan is watching my every move.
“Do you have nothing to say?” he asks.
With my coat and bag in my hand, I turn to face him. “No, not here, not in this place that means so much to me. This empty, rotting building is all I have left. Ballet is all I have left, Ivan. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.”
“This place is yours?” he asks, frowning.
“Yes. My ballet teacher left it to me in her will. It’s broken, damaged beyond repair, just like I am.”
“We’re all broken, Rose.”
“Is that why you do what you do, because you’re broken?” I ask him.
“Yes.”
Sighing heavily, I press my fingers against my eyes and try to think. I already know that I can’t run from him, from Anton and Erik. I know that on Monday I will return to Browlace Manor to face my fate, whatever that may be. I just need the time to get my head straight, to gather the strength I know I’ll need to do what I must, because if there’s one thing I know to be true, it’s this; I can’t stay away from Ivan, any more than he can stay away from me.
“Then you’ll know that sometimes, no matter how much we wish it were true, broken things can’t always be fixed,” I say, then walk past Ivan and out into the cold air, leaving the keys to the studio on the step by the front door.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ivan
Monday took an eternity to come around.
The rest of the weekend ticked by agonisingly slowly. So much so that I had to stop myself from making up an excuse to drive to Rose’s house demanding that she speak with me. Eventually, the hours without her had blurred into one long nightmare and Monday morning had arrived startlingly bright with a chill in the air.
Now, I sit in my office, watching the clock, waiting to see if she shows.
A minute after eight, the sound of a car pulling into the drive has me pushing back my chair and striding to the window. Even though she said she’d come, I’
m still surprised to see Rose step out of the passenger seat. She leans through the open window and says something to the driver before waving him off.
Today, her limp is marked, pain evident in the lines around her eyes and the hard grit of her jaw. She danced and now she’s paying for it. A slice of anger pushes through my chest. She needs to take better care of herself.
Why? A voice inside asks. She hurts because she dances. You wanted this. Now you can have her.
I laugh at that. Something tells me that Rose isn’t going to make that easy. In fact, I know she’s going to refuse me every step of the way despite the kiss we shared and what that had sparked between us, despite the desire I know she feels. I’m not averse to the chase, in fact I positively enjoy it, but one false move and I know I will lose her entirely, and that, I’m not willing to chance. It’s the only reason I’ve left her in peace these last couple of days.
Seeing her dance had shaken me more than I’d care to admit. Her strength and fragility so powerful against the backdrop of that derelict dance studio. Watching her dance so freely had opened up every single cut I’d inflicted on myself over the past couple of years, but instead of scaring me off, it just makes me want her more.
If I own her, then I can control her. I just need to be patient.
The problem is, I’m not usually a patient man. In fact, I’m not patient full stop. I get what I want, and I want Rose. Yet, this time, even if it takes me the rest of my life to fucking claim her, I’ll wait.
I lose sight of Rose as she enters the house. A minute later her footsteps sound outside the door. Not wanting her to know I’ve been watching her arrive, I return to my seat and pretend to be busy, my fingers typing a stream of nonsense.
“Morning, Ivan,” Rose says as she enters.
I make it a point not to look up at her, knowing it will rile her but doing it anyway.