Page 22 of Masked Sins
I glance behind my father, locking eyes with light blue ones. His lips twitch, and his eyes gleam with mischief. His hair is a bit neater than usual, and he seems to have less scruff than normal. He’s wearing a white button-up rolled to his elbows and fitted black trousers with black Converse High Tops. No tie, but it’s formal for Orion. Unlike his brothers, I don’t think he owns a single suit. If he does, I’m not sure I could handle it. We haven’t spoken since last weekend when he threatened my date out of nowhere, and I’m still not sure what his intentions were that night. The fact that he’d texted me… I’d stared at his responses all weekend, even going so far as to memorize them.
He didn’t order you dessert.
For years, we haven’t spoken except when we happened to be in the same room.
What changed recently?
Why was he there last weekend? Was he watching me? The thought of him skulking around in the back of the restaurant creeps me out and also makes everything inside me turn to jelly. Lance had left shortly after I’d gotten back from the bathroom. I’d looked for Orion, but I didn’t see him anywhere in the restaurant, and my brain had the audacity to be disappointed.
I’m blaming all of the dark romance books I read.
“Hope that’s okay,” he says slowly, holding up two tickets.
Front row seats. I’d be able to see him the entire time I was dancing.
My skin breaks out in a cold sweat, and as his eyes track over my heavy makeup and tiara, something inside my stomach flips upside down.
“It’s almost time for me to go on,” I tell them.
My dad gives me a quick peck on my cheek. “I know. We’ll go get seated, but I just wanted you to know that I’m so proud of you, La-La.”
“Thanks, Dad. Oh, that reminds me, I really appreciate the beautiful flowers, but you don’t have to send them every day.”
He pulls away, and his brows knit together, but before he can respond, Orion claps a hand on his back.
“We should go sit down, old man.”
“You’re right. I’ll go and give you two a minute,” he says quickly, walking out of the door they came in through.
That leaves Orion and me alone.
At first, it looks like he’s going to turn around and walk after Dad, but instead, he takes a step closer to me.
“I’m sorry for last weekend,” he says, his voice a low murmur.
I cross my arms and hold myself taller. Even when doing so, he still towers over me.
“You should be.”
His lips twitch, and to my chagrin, he takes another step closer so that he’s in my personal space. He smells good—like leather and tobacco, though I don’t think he smokes. My expression falters, and I take a step back. He chuckles, running a hand over his mouth. I follow the movement of his hand, and my eyes unintentionally drag over his mouth.
“Are you still thinking about that cake? Is that why you’re so unfocused right now?” he asks, fully grinning like he’s won some bizarre game I had no idea we were playing.
My nostrils flare, and I huff out a frustrated breath. Before I can respond, he turns around, leaving me alone with only a few minutes to spare.
I close my eyes and take a few steadying breaths, attempting and failing to quell my nerves.
Pretend he’s not watching you. Pretend it’s any normal day, and your hot stepbrother is not in the front row with that arrogant smirk splashed across his face.
Somehow, I’m able to relax my breathing and focus on stretching for the next sixty seconds. The soft notes of Tchaikovsky float through the air, and I continue stretching my calves and hamstrings. I also do breathing exercises to warm my lungs, and the last thing I do before one of the coordinators finds me is stretch my ankles and feet. Despite doing pointe for over a decade, it still doesn’t one hundred percent come naturally to me. After every performance, I still have to ice my feet and bandage my toes to prevent blisters, but I welcome the pain. I’m used to pushing my body beyond the boundaries I set for myself week in and week out.
Or maybe I’m just a masochist, I think derisively.
I’d given up all outside activities and committed to dancing full-time when I was fourteen, and it had been full steam ahead since then—with a few setbacks.
I welcome the challenge of giving everything I have during a performance because anything less has the power to end my career. No matter how skilled I am, I know I’ll eventually hit a ceiling where I’ll no longer be able to put my body through such extremes. Being twenty-six, that day might come sooner than I expect.
It all works out in the end, though.
