Chapter 45 The Serpent in the Studio
The aftermath of Halloway's first rehearsal feels like being run over by a freight train made of velvet and glass. My ankle is screaming, a sharp, staccato pulse that rhythmically thumps against the compression tape, but I do not dare touch it. Not here. Not where the walls have eyes and the other dancers have knives for smiles.
I am sitting on a low leather bench in the hallway, staring out at the Thames. The river is a churning slate grey today, swallowing the rain like a secret.
"You are vibrating, Vane," a voice drawls.
I do not even have to look up to know it is Soren. He is leaning against the glass wall a few feet away, a bottle of expensive electrolyte water dangling from his fingers. He has shed his compression shirt, leaving him in a thin tank top that shows off the jagged scars on his shoulders, marks of a dancer who has pushed himself past the point of sanity.
"It is called adrenaline, Soren," I say, my voice flat. "Some of us actually use it to perform."
"Is that what you call it?" He saunters closer, his movements so fluid they make me feel like I am moving underwater. He does not sit next to me. He stands over me, shadowing the light from the window. "I call it desperation. It is a very American trait. You dance like you are trying to pay off a debt. It is exhausting to watch."
I finally look up, meeting his ice-blue eyes. "I am not here to entertain you. I am here to take your spot in the Showcase."
Soren laughs, a soft, musical sound that does not reach his eyes. "My spot? Chérie, I have been the center of the Vanguard for three years. You are just a charity case in a nice pair of leggings. Tell me, is it true what they say in the tabloids? That you were literally scrubbing the toilets of the boy you are now with?"
My blood turns to liquid fire. I start to stand up, but a sharp wince catches in my throat as my ankle protests.
"Careful," Soren says, reaching out. His hand does not grab my arm. He just rests his fingers lightly on the top of my shoulder, a touch that feels like a claim. "You are fragile. Like a little bird that flew into a glass skyscraper. You think because you are official with a Thorne, you are protected. But Caspian is a runaway. He has no name here. He is just another body on the floor."
"His name is not why I am with him," I hiss, shaking his hand off.
"Of course not," Soren says, leaning down until his face is inches from mine. He smells like expensive menthol and something metallic. "You are with him because he is the first person who looked at the janitor and saw a girl. But Caspian is a prince, Zora. Even in exile, he is used to the best. How long do you think it will take before he realises he traded his inheritance for someone who still smells like bleach?"
"He did not trade anything," I grit out. "He chose me."
"He chose a distraction," Soren counters, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. "He is using you to punish his father. It is a classic trauma response. But you, you need someone who actually understands what it is like to come from nothing. I was not born in a palace either, Zora. I grew up in the shipping docks of Helsinki. I know what it is like to have blood in your shoes."
He reaches out again, this time his thumb brushing the line of my jaw. It is a move designed to unsettle me, to mark territory. "You are wasting your time with a boy who is playing dress-up in your world. You should be with someone who knows how to keep you on the stage, not just somewhere else."
"Get your hand off her, Soren."
The voice is like a blade sliding out of a sheath. I look past Soren to see Caspian standing at the end of the hallway. He is holding two steaming cups of coffee, but his eyes are fixed on Soren with a murderous intensity I have not seen since the shipyard.
Soren does not flinch. He slowly pulls his hand back, flashing a sharp, wolfish grin. "Just offering some professional advice, Thorne. Your partner looks a little unstable."
Caspian walks forward, his stride long and predatory. He does not stop until he is standing directly in Soren's space, forcing the taller guy to lean back against the glass. "She is my partner. And she is my girlfriend. If you have advice, you give it to me. But if I see you touch her again, I will forget we are in a professional environment."
"Is that a threat?" Soren asks, his eyebrows arching. "How very Thorne of you. I thought you were done with the family business."
"It is not a threat. It is a fact," Caspian says, his voice vibrating with a quiet, dangerous power. "You think because you have been here three years, you own the floor? You are just a placeholder until we got here. Now walk away before I make it an official problem."
Soren looks from Caspian to me, the smirk never leaving his face. "Enjoy the honeymoon while it lasts. The Gravity Test continues tomorrow. And I do not think your partner has many leaps left in that ankle."
He turns and saunters away, whistling a sharp, dissonant tune that echoes off the concrete walls.
The silence that follows is thick and heavy. Caspian stands there for a moment, his shoulders bunched, his knuckles white around the coffee cups. Then he lets out a long, ragged breath and turns to me.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice instantly softening as he sinks onto the bench beside me. He hands me a coffee, his fingers lingering against mine.
"I am fine, Cas. He was just trying to get in my head," I say, though my hands are shaking slightly.
"What did he say to you?" Caspian demands, his eyes searching mine. "I saw him touch you, Zora. I swear, if he—"
"He was talking about the bleach," I whisper, looking down at the dark liquid in my cup. "He said you are only with me to punish your father. That I am just a distraction from your old life."
Caspian sets his coffee down on the floor and takes both of my hands in his. He forces me to look at him, his gaze so intense it feels like he is trying to brand the truth into my skin.
"Listen to me," he says, his voice low and fierce. "I did not leave my life for a distraction. I left it because I could not breathe in it. You are the only thing in my life that has ever been real. My father, the Academy, the money, that was the script. You are the reason I finally stopped reading the lines."
"He knows about my ankle, Cas," I say, the fear of the injury finally bubbling up. "He saw the crack in the studio. If Halloway finds out I am compromised, she will cut us. Greg's scholarship will not save us if the Director thinks I am a liability."
Caspian pulls me into his arms, tucking my head under his chin. He smells like the cold London air and the coffee, a scent that finally starts to settle my racing heart. "He does not know anything. He is guessing because he is scared of you. He saw what we did today. He saw that even with a bad ankle, you dance better than Isla ever will."
"I do not know if I can hide it much longer," I admit into his chest. "It is getting worse."
"We have tonight," Caspian says, pulling back to look at me. "We are going back to the flat. I am going to wrap that ankle, and you are going to rest. No rehearsing in the kitchen. No marking the steps. Just us."
He leans in, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss that is long, deep, and full of a desperate kind of protection. It is a kiss that says I am not letting them take this from us.
"We are a team, Zora," he murmurs against my mouth. "Official, remember? Their drama does not get to live in our space."
"Official," I repeat, a small, tired smile finally touching my lips.
He helps me stand up, his arm firmly around my waist, taking as much of my weight as possible. As we walk toward the elevator, I catch our reflection in the glass. We do not look like a janitor and a prince anymore. We look like two survivors, bruised and battered, but still standing.
The war at the Vance Academy was about secrets and names. Here in London, under the grey skies and the sharp eyes of the Vanguard, the war is about something else entirely.
It is about who breaks first.
We step out into the cold London rain, the city lights reflecting in the puddles like shattered diamonds.
And as Caspian pulls me closer under the umbrella, I know that whatever Soren is planning, he has never had to survive what we have survived.
He has never had to bleed for the stage.