Page 57 of Twisted Prince

No one’s guarding it—at least on this side—likely to keep it better hidden.

Stealing into the shadows beneath the piano’s raised platform, I scan the room to see who might have noticed me. But no one’s looking. The band is in full form, bringing the new number into a crescendo with a trumpet solo. And as the music pauses, the curtains shuffle back with a theatrical snick.

My heart skips a beat as soon as I lay eyes on her.

Mel’s one of the backup dancers tonight, dressed in a costume that mimics a top hat and black-tie ensemble. Only, beneath the tail coat, she’s wearing little more than fishnet stockings and cheeky, frill-covered lingerie.

Her long legs and firm ass flash from beneath the jacket’s cover as she twists and writhes, undulating provocatively in perfect time with the rhythm of the song. She’s dangerously sexy, stealing the show even from the back.

Mouth dry, I swallow hard.

I can’t tear my eyes off her.

However, I need to keep my senses sharp to avoid detection.

It kills me, slowly and painfully, to see her up there. The sultry allure on her face. The way her body moves so suggestively.

Violent jealousy boils up in my chest, consuming me with burning anger.

I know the men in the audience are watching her closely, admiring her graceful beauty, her effortless sexuality. They all dream of touching her. Claiming her for their own.

Just like I do.

The dark thought puts lead rocks in my stomach.

But even if I yearn for her like they do, it’s different with me. Because I will keep my hands off her if that’s what she needs. I will give her space. I just can’t watch other men take pleasure in what she won’t give me. And even if she denies it, I know this isn’t the life she wants.

I can see it in her face as she dances—if I look closely.

This job is slowly suffocating her, snuffing out the light.

I don’t know why she thinks she has to stay. Maybe it’s as Sascha said. She thinks she belongs to the Kellys. She’s afraid to leave. But that won’t stop me.

I will convince her to come back to New York with me—that I can protect her there.

Because if I don’t, I won’t be able to live with myself for letting her suffer.

Mel’s a strong girl, so I know she could endure a long time. It’s probably why she’s thrived this long. But eventually, she would become a husk of the girl I know. The fierce, vibrant, passionate—hard-headed—woman would cease to exist. All that would be left is an empty shell.

Beautiful but broken.

Without a soul.

The song comes to an end, and I can see her chest heaving as she holds her pose, raking in breaths, though she made the dance look effortless. The curtains close, hiding her from view. She won’t be back on stage for a bit. At the very least, she’ll need to change clothes, but from what I remember of the club, she’ll more likely be scheduled for a break after her performance—if no one’s asked for a private dance.

This might be my best chance to speak with her.

Sticking to the shadows, I slink past the bandstand, watching my bouncer half-brothers out of my periphery as I reach the concealed door. It gives a soft click under the pressure of my palms, and I slip through the opening, pulling the door shut behind me.

The club music filters through the wall as I find myself in a red-lit hallway. Mirrored doors line either side, a gold number painted at the crown of each—the private dance rooms.

Girlish chatter issues from the doorway at the far end of the hall, and long legs wearing impossibly high heels stroll past the opening. But I can’t tell if it’s Mel. The woman’s only a silhouette from here. Glancing down the hall the other way, I assess the layout, the number of unmarked, mirrorless doors. At the end of the red-lit space is a steel door. A glowing Exit sign illuminated above.

That must be the side door Mel comes and goes through.

Turning my attention back to the open dressing room, I debate the wisdom of seeking her out. The fastest way for a man to get kicked out of a burlesque lounge is to have him waltz into the girls’ dressing room unannounced. But I don’t see how else I’ll find her before she has another dance.

Then, by the grace of god, it would seem, her slender frame fills the door, her hands clasping the molding.

---