You are going to dance for me,” he’d told me that morning.

I was sitting on the window seat. The one my friend, the raven-haired, beautiful nude girl used to occupy. I hadn’t seen her in a long, long time and I often wondered what happened to her, but I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want him to know I needed anything from him. It would be a sign of defeat.

I didn’t respond to his words. Just stared out at the beach where I still hadn’t been.

“I know you practice every day,” he went on, his fingers going to the nape of my neck, gently stroking my skin.

I hated the way my body responded to his touch. I arched my back instantly, desperate for him to go on. The attraction between us was incredible. Indescribable. I still didn’t understand why my body was so desperate for his, but I’d stopped resisting it. He hadn’t fucked me yet, but I was desperate for him to do it. To sink his cock between my legs and finally relieve me of the ache I felt every second he was close to me, and even when he wasn’t, yearning for him to come back.

“I’d like to watch you dance,” he added. “I know you haven’t done it in a long time…”

His fingers twirled in my hair, his touch rough as if he was physically holding back and making himself go gentle on me. I wanted to hate him – the same feeling I had struggled with since he’d killed Ellis. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it. There was the attraction between us, blinding and crazy and fucking impossible to ignore. I decided at the very least I could hate him for that. For igniting feelings inside my body that had no business there. I’d decided a long time ago to dedicate my life to dancing, and he was taking it away from me.

“Will you dance for me, Harlow?” His words were soft, his voice demanding, and I crumbled at what it did to my body.

“No,” I whispered. “I don’t want to…”

He reached for me, his fingers wrapping around my chin and making me look up at him. I shut my eyes tightly, not wanting him to see the pain in my eyes, but he stared at me so intently I had to open up, and a single tear rolled down my cheek.

He still hadn’t explained everything. Hadn’t told me why I was a victim, a prisoner. Why he’d decided to steal me when he had so many women willing to kneel for him, take everything he gave them while begging for more. What made me so special? There were women in the mansion who were more beautiful, more special. Yet he had chosen me. And I couldn’t figure it out for the life of me.

“You don’t want to?” he asked softly, and I shook my head no. His expression hardened. “But you will.”

I opened my mouth to argue but he closed it for me, gently forcing my chin upward.

“Tonight,” he went on. “I want to see if you’re as good as I remember.”

He left with those words, leaving me wondering.

He’d seen me dance before, after all…

* * *

That evening, some clothes were delivered to my room, and I nearly wept at the sight of them.

They were ballet clothes, things I was familiar with, but hadn’t seen in months. He’d sent over a black body stocking that was tight and fitted. I didn’t wear a bra under it, and my nipples poked through the fabric. There were also white tights and a pink tutu that looked more like an accessory than a part of a dancer’s wardrobe. I was still grateful though, surprised at the effort he’d gone to. But the real surprise was waiting in a gorgeous white box. I unwrapped the pink tissue paper, and when I saw what was inside, a sob escaped my lips.

It was my ballet shoes, the ones I’d had in London. They were just as ruined and stained as they were when I last wore them. They were perfect.

They still fit me, and I slipped them on and fought back the tears that threatened to slide down my cheeks. I’d often wondered what had happened to my flat in London, to my things. I now knew he’d taken them, just like he’d taken everything else that was part of me. I should have known before.

I pulled my hair up into a bun, the motions familiar yet forgotten. I hadn’t done it in a long time. Pia had told me to wear my hair down.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, with carefully applied makeup and the clothes he’d gotten for me, I felt like the old me. The sight was almost unbearable, and I turned away from my own reflection.

A couple of minutes later, I was walking down the hallway, accompanied by a guard. Thorn had told me there would be a room prepared for me, for what I was about to do, and he hadn’t been lying.

The guard led me into a large room that appeared to be a home cinema. But now, there was no film playing, just a large space at the front with a single spotlight shining on me.

Thorn was sitting in the front row, a huge bouquet of red roses next to him. Their color was stark, so red and dark it reminded me of Ellis’s blood when Thorn shot him. It made me shiver as the guard left, leaving me exposed in the room.

My eyes connected with Thorn’s and I stared openly at the man who would be my new master.

It had been months since he’d taken me.

Another month since Ellis’s death, since I’d finally connected the dots.

I’d spent weeks not speaking, or talking only to Amber. But now I was prepared. I was ready to call him Master.

I held up my ballet shoes, battered and bruised just like I was.

“I can’t wear them,” I said softly. “It’s… it’s too much. They remind me of who I used to be.”

Thorn stared at me as music started to fill the room. Piano music, tones I knew, melodies I’d danced to before. I approached him with slow steps and deposited my ballet slippers in his lap. When I tried to draw back, his fingers wrapped around my wrist and he made me look back at him.

“Rose,” he whispered. His nickname for me. He’d called me that before when he first took me from that bloodied room. “If you dance for me now, I won’t be able to hold back. You’ll be mine forever. I’ll never let go. Do you understand?”

I stared back, not willing to say a word. I had to dance. I needed to dance to stay sane. Yet here he was, offering me a way out. A chance to escape his cruelty and the terrors I would experience with him. He wasn’t a good man. He’d already proved that by killing Ellis.

“I understand,” I whispered, tore my hand out of his and walked to the stage.

The music made me dance. I could never resist it. The movements, the dancing, it flowed out of me like someone had severed a vein. I bled for him, beautiful dark blood washing over the makeshift stage as I danced. For his eyes only, as it would be from now on. I only danced for one person, and it was no longer me. It was Thorn – the man in the front row, with his eyes dark and hooded, and his intentions wicked.

I didn’t know how long I’d been dancing for. Time wasn’t important anymore, all that mattered was the music playing for me only, the music that had transitioned into the Nutcracker and later on, into Swan Lake, letting me dance freely, not by a routine I had learned during my lessons. I closed my eyes and danced with hope, with regret and every other feeling I’d felt since I’d met Reuben Thorn.

When I couldn’t bear to keep my eyes closed anymore, I opened them wide and connected my gaze with his. He was rigid in his seat, his cock visibly straining against his trousers. He picked the biggest, plumpest rose from the bouquet and tossed it on the stage. It landed at my feet, the stem snapping when it connected with the floor. I kept dancing and he kept throwing roses, a performance just for him, just for us. I willingly let go, understood and accepted that I belonged to him now. That I was his woman, his private dancer, his property. Now and forever.

I danced. I danced over the roses, the thorns digging into my feet, but barely noticing the pain. The floor was stained with my blood, and I kept on dancing as he threw the flowers. He hadn’t meant to hurt me, I don’t think. But yet I danced, my soles torn up by the roses. I let my pain bleed out of my feet, the pain of knowing I was stuck here, with this man my body loved and my mind struggled to hate.

In that moment, I understood what Pia had meant when she’d showed me her bruises. Why she had to hurt herself. How it had escalated from pain to something she needed as much as her next breath.

I danced when the music tuned out. I danced in silence. I danced for my hopes and dreams, and I danced for the love I hadn’t known I needed. It was only when I started to feel the pain that I stopped.

I collapsed on the stage, my feet ruined and torn up. He was next to me in seconds, his strong arms gathering me in his embrace. He held me like a broken doll. Held all of my pieces together, so beautifully broken by what he’d made me do and what I’d done to myself.

He must’ve carried me to the bedroom again. But he didn’t leave after that.

He patched up my feet. Cleaned the wounds, applied antiseptic cream and wrapped them up for me. We didn’t say a word, either one of us. There were some things better left unsaid.

Once he was done, I settled on the bed and he brought out a bottle of amber liquid.

“For you,” he said. “I thought it would remind you of…”

My eyes watered. It was Becherovka, the Czech drink I’d shared with my friends after The Nutcracker performance.

“You know everything,” I told him in a whisper.

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. I knew it was true.

We drank it together, straight from the bottle.

Later on, he held me in his arms, my hair fanned out across his chest and the taste of cinnamon still tingling my mouth. He was stroking me, his fingers running over my bleeding feet, the damage I’d inflicted myself. I knew he was angry, and I braced myself for the punishment that was undoubtedly coming. I’d hurt myself – something that surely went against the rules he’d set for me. The rules I was meant to live by.

“Why did you do it?” he asked roughly, his voice harsh. “Why did you dance on those roses?”

“I had to,” I whispered. “I had to feel a different kind of pain.”

His chest strained under my head and I crawled on top of him, my knees on his crotch as I settled down in a fetal position against his torso.

“I don’t want to be me anymore,” I whispered, and I could feel his guilt, how fucking broken he was because of what he’d done to me.

There was no excuse, and there was no way back. All there was left to do was for me to forgive him. It would take a long time.

“Who do you want to be?” he asked, his tone softer, his hands stroking every spot that hurt and ached for him.

“Yours,” I whispered. “I want to be your Rose.”

“You have a lot to learn,” he reminded me. “You don’t know me yet… You might not like what you find out.”

I didn’t reply, just looked up at him with my eyes brimming with tears. We were both so fucked up. He’d done terrible things to me, and I wanted more, god-fucking-damnit, I wanted more.

“I don’t care,” I finally admitted. “Let me be yours. Train me. Let me be what you want.”

He stroked. Touched. My body trembled with anticipation, desperate for him to kiss me. Desperate to know more about the man who held my fate in his hands.

“My Rose…” he whispered, and in that moment, I knew my life as I knew it had ended.

I would run from him again. This I knew for certain. But that moment hadn’t come.

Goodbye, Harlow Granger.

Hello, Thorn’s Rose.

To be continued…

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