Page 5 of Damaged Protector
When I was done, my new professor’s head dipped and lifted in a slow nod. “Much better, Miss Fitz. Croisé Devante, please.”
I immediately found the position, holding as still as a statue when he approached me. “Your lines are fantastique, Mallori. Your aesthetics please me.”
My left arm was raised and slightly curved over my head, and Professor Moreau traced a slow line with his finger from my armpit to my wrist. I did my best not to shiver at the unexpected—and unwelcome—touch.
“Thank you,” I rasped. What the hell is he doing?
The man circled until he was behind me. Even if I couldn’t see his reflection in the wall of mirrors, I would have felt the way his eyes scraped against my backside. I’d never felt more grossed out in my life.
The tips of my instructor’s fingers slid up the side of my neck, from my collarbone to my jaw, and he let out a low groan. “And this neck is exquisite.”
Okay, I’ve had it with this guy.
I was always the consummate rule follower, the people pleaser, especially while in any type of dance training. But tonight—in the presence of possibly one of the greatest ballet minds of our time—I split from the character I usually played… the perfect dancer… the perfect student… the perfect daughter.
Without being told to do so, I broke my position and turned, putting on my brightest smile. “Professor, I would love to see what you have in mind for the section after the pirouettes. Your choreography is always brilliant.”
See what I did there? Stroked his egotistical side while also stopping him from stroking my damn neck.
Okay, arguably not the most rebellious thing I could have done, but my mother’s training was ingrained too deeply in my core. And my tactic worked.
Though Professor Moreau’s lips tightened infinitesimally, it was followed by an upward curve. “Oh, I do have plans for you, chérie.”
Well that didn’t sound creepy at all.
My distraction had the intended effect, and over the next thirty minutes, I learned some of the most intense choreography I’d ever experienced.
And I absolutely killed it.
“Excellent, chérie,” my new teacher said, clapping his hands with absolute glee. “A lot of people throw around the word prodigy, and I’ve found it’s generally an obtuse exaggeration, but you… You are precisely as billed, Mallori Fitz. This is going to be so much fun!”
His excitement was contagious, and I smiled through my heaving breaths. “Thank you, sir. I’m looking forward to working with you this year.”
My final year at this university, thank god. Then I could find my own way and finally make it on my own, without my mother hovering over me every spare second.
“Take a rest. You’ve earned it,” he said, handing me a bottle of water. “You must always listen to your body. Push it to its limits, yes? But always listen. We can’t afford for you to be injured.”
Bernard Moreau may be weird as hell, but the man was a ballet genius, so I nodded before taking a hearty drink of the cool liquid.
“I can help with that,” he continued. “I will listen very closely to your body, as well—become an expert on it.”
Why does every single thing he says sound so bizarrely inappropriate?
I glanced at the clock over the mirrors on the back wall and saw that it was after nine in the evening, well past our scheduled time. “Shall I go through it again, or wait until tomorrow?” I asked.
Professor Moreau tilted his head to the side, regarding me intently. “I think that’s enough dancing for one night.” He circled a finger toward the top of my head. “What is that you wear over your hair?”
My fingers drifted over the baby-pink yarn covering my blonde bun, and my heart ached a little. “It’s a bun cover. I don’t have to wear it if you don’t want me to.”
See? People pleaser. That’s me.
“Very interesting. May I take a closer look?”
I tilted my head forward. “My grandmother Fitz made it for me. I can just remove it. It’s no problem.”
“Kneel please, so I can see it better. I have an appreciation for handmade things. My grandmother also crocheted.”
A frisson of unease snaked down my spine, but I sank to my knees on the hard floor, feeling the need to chatter to cover the awkwardness in the air.