Break

“I didn’t get you flowers, Sam. They delivered them to my apartment. Mom and I moved into Penthouse B last week. They’re from your dad. Merry Christmas, or whatever,” I set them down on the floor and turn my back on my favorite basket case.

“They’re not from you?” I can hear the slight disappointment in her voice. She steps out and the door closes behind her.

“I would have brought you peanuts. Besides, why would I be glad you got into the company I’m dancing in? I hate your guts.”

I smirk at her, making sure she sees teeth, wanting her to know exactly what kind of game she’s playing. I slowly walk toward her, taking deliberate steps, being careful not to spook my prey. The panic in her eyes makes my dick hard. With every step I take, she holds her ground as if challenging me. She still thinks I’m that fuckin’ sad sack willing to die for her. Tayla doesn’t know that I’m much more dangerous than I ever was before because now I don’t want to win her heart. I want to crush it. When my body brushes hers, she finally steps away, but I close the distance until her back hits the door and there’s nowhere left for her to go. A trapped animal in my cage.

Then, as quickly as I boxed her in, I turn and leave.

“Dashiell, wait.”

I turn halfway back toward her. Her face is so torn that she looks like she’ll either burst into tears or start laughing like a lunatic. Maybe this is about to become an epic Kerrigan versus Harding type rivalry.

“My family is throwing a soiree tomorrow for the newly cast Ballet Arts Studio Company members. It’s at my parents’ apartment. Why don’t you come? You can bring your mom.”

I don’t think she’s patronizing me. She looks genuine and timid. She lifts the giant bouquet, which dwarfs her, and I almost run to her aid to keep her from dropping it and the glass shattering on the floor.

“Why? So your mom can get me kicked out of there, too?”

“Dashiell, that was years ago,” she whispers. “She probably doesn’t even remember you.”

“Thanks,” I say coldly. “If Mom’s up for it, we’ll stop by. Same address?”

“Yeah, they haven’t moved,” she says.

“But you did?” I can’t help but wonder how it is she managed to get her own place. Katerina is the most controlling person I’ve ever met. It’s unbelievable she’d let her protégé out from under her thumb.

“I made a bet with Katerina that she’d let me get a place if I won the Grand Prix. So I won it.”

“That easy, huh?”

“Piece of cake,” she says with a sight grin.

My body floods with adrenaline. Maybe that’s my reaction to hearing her wicked mother’s name, or it could be that I just busted a nut thinking about Sam’s lips right across the freaking hallway from her. Or it might be remembering that I used to steal her peanuts to keep her from starving to death. But either way, I have a burning need to know if Sam can take care of herself once she’s out of Katerina’s blood-sucking embrace.

I change course and practically mow Sam over as I push inside her apartment. I storm right over to the two-door sub-zero fridge and yank it open.

Inside, I find a heart filled with six white chocolate-covered strawberries, two bottles of Champagne, a container of protein powder that looks unopened, and at least two dozen green glass bottles of sparkling water.

I take out one of the strawberries and dangle it over my mouth before consuming it in one bite. I shake my head in dismay at the lack of food in her fridge.

“If we’re going to be neighbors. I’m cooking the meals.” I take another strawberry and bring it to her face. She turns her head to the side, and I grip her neck. “Who sent you these? Was it that douchebag boyfriend? Or is he your beard?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Sam presses her lips closed in anticipation of me forcing the treat on her. Instead, I bring it to my lips and demolish it in one angry bite. I look down at her sculpted dancer’s legs and have the urge to undo the silken belt of her satiny red robe. I grip her arm in a way that lets her know how serious I am.

“Does he know?” I ask her.

She lowers her head and gives an almost imperceptible shake.

“Good to know. That clown can’t see what’s right in front of his face, huh? Your body is your gift, Sam. If you starve it, you can’t play your instrument.”

Sam slips out of my arms and leaves the kitchen entirely. “Come to the party if you want, Dashiell. Otherwise, I’ll see you in class.”

“Or at the Studio Company, or in the elevator, or perhaps the laundry room,” I add.