Cassie Mint

  Ballet Master

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-914242-23-6

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Contents

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

  1. Paige

  2. Raphael

  3. Paige

  4. Raphael

  5. Paige

  6. Raphael

  7. Paige

  8. Raphael

  9. Paige

  10. Raphael

  11. Paige

  About the Author

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  One

  Paige

  Madame claps her gnarled hands together, an immediate hush settling over the rehearsal studio. She stands in the center of the floor, her back ramrod straight and her chin tilted high. Though she hasn’t danced on stage in decades, Madame still holds herself like a prima ballerina. Her graying hair is scraped back into a flawless bun, floaty fabrics flutter around her as she moves, and she watches us along the narrow length of her nose.

  “Students.”

  Her throaty growl comes from her only vice—the cigarettes she still sucks down one after the other at the stage door. A habit from her performing days, when the dancers smoked to settle their nerves and chase the hunger away.

  We murmur our greetings. Madame is… unpredictable. Sometimes she shouts that she expects a reply when she speaks. Other times, she wishes silence.

  We hedge our bets and murmur quietly. Little indistinct sounds that we can swallow back if she frowns.

  “We have a visitor today.” She arches one heavily penciled eyebrow. “A very important visitor.”

  I keep my face carefully blank, my hands clasped loosely in front of my waist. Madame does not tolerate gaudy shows of emotion—it’s better to play the silent, dutiful dancer.

  Inside, though, curiosity gnaws at my stomach. A visitor? So early in the year?

  It’s too soon for recruiters from the big dance companies. Too soon for the parade of directors, come to snatch up budding talent.

  We haven’t even been cast for the showcase yet.

  A very important visitor. I fight the urge to fiddle with my worn leotard. If only I’d splashed out last month like I’d planned and bought some new dance clothes.

  “You will have heard of Monsieur Dupont.”

  A sharp intake of breath hisses through the studio. A flash of movement draws my gaze—a man pushing away from the doorway where he was leaning, away from prying eyes. The man strolls into the center of the room to join Madame, a panther’s grace in every fluid step.

  His dark eyes scan the crowd as we stare at him, shell-shocked.

  Raphael Dupont.

  The legend.

  He’s older now than in the videos I’ve seen—the bootleg clips of his most triumphant performances. The roles he danced that shook the ballet world to its core.

  In those clips, he danced with fury, with hunger, with a snarl curling his top lip and sparks glancing from his heels. He was younger then, vibrant and vicious, but the man standing before us still crackles with power. He must be in his late thirties—a retired dancer, yes, but a man in his prime.

  “Ladies.” Monsieur Dupont nods at the cluster of female dancers in our corner. “Gentlemen.” At the men in the other. The faint tinge of his accent has softened since his earlier interviews.

  We hold our breath, too afraid to shatter this moment. To risk displeasing this legendary dancer, and carrying that shame for the rest of our lives. The silence hangs in the studio air, taut and shuddering, until Madame claps and the spell is broken.

  “Take your places.” We hurry to do as she says, lining up at our allocated spots at the barre. “Let’s show Monsieur Dupont what you’re made of.”

  What we’re made of? I settle a trembling hand on the barre, the polished wood worn smooth by thousands of hands before mine. I’m dressed in a faded gray leotard and there’s a tiny ladder at the heel of my pink tights. The satin on the bottom of my pointe shoes is frayed. Wisps of caramel hair frame my face, escaped as always from my bun.

  What I’m made of…

  I swallow hard, wait for the tinkle of piano keys, and wish I could disappear.

  I’m not sure I’m made of anything.

  * * *

  “Paige.”

  All around the studio, reflections of me jerk in the mirror. Madame stands at my elbow, watching me run through the warm-up exercises with her mouth pursed.

  “Yes, Madame?” I murmur, trying not to move my lips. Monsieur Dupont watches us from the front of the room, his arms folded over his broad chest. Even under his long-sleeved black t-shirt, the shift and rise of his sculpted muscles is clear.

  Madame starts to say something, then gusts out a sigh. It’s not like her to hold back criticism, and I risk glancing in her direction.

  Her eyes darken.

  “Face forward,” she snaps. “Did I tell you to break form?”

  “No, Madame.”

  Monsieur Dupont watches us, his expression tight. Am I messing up so badly? All around us, legs bend and raise. Limbs float through the air, the movement made to look effortless while we sweat and ache and tremble.

  “You are wooden.” Her harsh words cut through the music. The tips of my ears burn, but I keep dancing. It’s so much harder when she is watching me, when Monsieur Dupont is watching me, but I try to make my movements fluid. Lyrical.

  Perfect.

  “Better,” she growls, like I’ve wasted her precious breaths. I don’t relax, even when she turns away. She strides across the studio, her heels drumming on the floor, but with the mirrors everywhere, it is never safe to slack.

  I can never ease off, not even for a moment.

  And especially not with a legend in our midst.

  I steal another glance at Monsieur Dupont, and flush hot when I find him still watching me. His dark eyes are narrowed, his jaw tensed, and he stares at me with such intensity that my knees tremble.

  I rescue my posture at the last moment, strengthening my limbs. I cannot mess this up. Not more than I already have.

  By the time we leave the barre and step into the center, I feel one thousand years older. Every fumbled step, every wobble of my ankle, and misery churns worse in my gut. The worst part is Monsieur Dupont’s heavy gaze, settled like iron weights on my shoulders.

  I idolize this man.

  The clips of his performances have stolen my breath; have brought moisture brimming in my eyes.

  And now he’s playing witness to what is quickly becoming the worst moment in my career. Why won’t he show mercy and look away?

  “Enough.”

  We freeze as the first bars of music stutter to a halt. Spaced in three lines in the center of the studio, we hold our breath as one. Even Madame, with her hardened eyes and pursed lips, seems to falter at Monsieur Dupont’s tone.

  “A moment, please.” The way he says it, it’s not a request. It’s a command wrapped up in manners.

  “Of course, Monsieur.” Madame’s hand flutters at the base of her throat. She marches to the piano, her palm slapping down on the wood. “Listen, class. Give Monsieur Dupont every scrap of your attention.”

  As if we would not. What a nonsensical command. Monsieur Dupont’s eyebrow twitches, like he too finds the notion insulting, but he spares her further embarrassment.

  No. All the humiliation is saved for me.

  “Girl.” His eyes fasten on me. “With the ladder in her tights.”

  Shame floods hot over my cheeks. I nod slightly to show I’m listening.

  “Come here.” He points to the front row. “In the center.”

  I dart a nervous glance at Madame, flinching at her scowl. The front row is reserved for her favorites. For the dancers she’s ear-marked for greatness. But even she does not dare to contradict Raphael Dupont, so I inch forward, my heart pounding against my breastbone.

  Monsieur Dupont strides forward to meet me. He takes me by the arm, placing me in the center of the row. His grip is warm and firm, his face unreadable as I gaze up at him, lips parted.

  A hiss echoes through the studio as he lowers his head. Murmurs in my ear, just for me.

  “Your nerves are terrible, pretty dancer. Torn to pieces, just like your tights.”

  The reminder of my threadbare clothes makes my cheeks burn. I duck my head, so ashamed, but the warm pad of his thumb draws light circles on my forearm.

  “Ah, no. No tears, sweet girl. Only deep breaths and beautiful dancing. Yes?”

/>   I draw in a shuddering inhale and nod. He smiles, faint and brief, then steps back. Glares around the class like their stares offend him.

  “Well?” He claps twice, hard. “Get to work.”

  Two

  Raphael

  There is an angel in this class. Her soft hair glints golden in the sunshine spilling through the windows; her rosebud lips part on a sigh as she dances the arabesque, her movements like the slow spread of honey. I frown at her, transfixed, as the students progress through their exercises, trying and failing to pinpoint why she captivates me so.

  She’s not the most technically perfect.

  She does not have the highest extension or the most arched feet.

  She does not even have the best focus, her attention slipping regularly from the dance and landing on me. Usually, I would snarl in frustration at such lack of focus.

  But I find I like this—her distracted gaze on me. The pink flush on her cheekbones when I catch her looking; the way her nipples bead against her thin leotard. I begin to will her to look, to miss a step again and glance at me with those big, wistful eyes.

  What do you want from me, angel?

  Whatever it is, I do not think I would mind giving it.

  “Paige!” The old woman scolds my pretty dancer for the dozenth time, exasperation crackling through her voice. I can’t blame her, not with how distracted the girl is, and yet my spine stiffens.

  Perhaps it is my imagination, but I suspect Madame is harder on Paige than the others. She picks out more flaws and speaks more curtly. And Paige cringes in response, conditioned and ready like she is used to harsh words in this studio.

  Harsh words are part of a ballet dancer’s training.

  Even so—I do not like that.

  With her new position in the front row, it is more clear than ever that Paige is far beyond her peers. Though her technique needs improvement in some areas, she dances with so much feeling that I forget to breathe.

  Her every movement aches with emotion. She is lightness; ethereal grace.

  “Paige! You are a two ton elephant!”

  I do not hide my fury when I turn to Madame. She cringes back against the piano, her fingers scrabbling over the wood.

  “Perhaps we have different ideas of greatness.” I snap. Madame swallows hard, her powdered throat bobbing.

  “No, Monsieur. Of course not! But the girl—she is losing time, she lands like a sack of bricks—”

  “We are watching the same class,” I tell her coolly. “Though I confess, I am not sure what you bring to the room.”

  I am being unforgivably rude. Several dancers stumble, picking up the moves again with wide eyes. And though Madame gapes at me, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, she has no retort.

  I turn back to the class, chest tight. And find Paige staring at me, horrified, her face chalky white.

  “Paige.” I mouth her name—my lips move but no sound comes out. And something steely passes over her expression, her eyes hardening as her shoulders tense.

  Her message is clear as she finishes the class with a tight jaw, refusing to meet my eyes.

  My outburst was not welcome.

  And now my angel won’t look my way.

  * * *

  The second class I attend is no better. I should not even be here—one class was favor enough. But when I returned to my hotel suite last night, I could barely stand still with so much primal energy crackling under my skin.

  The way she danced…

  Those big, wistful eyes…

  Perfection.

  I am haunted by the little dancer from the class. And I will not leave until I see her again—I cannot. I tell myself that I won’t bother her, that I won’t stare so much as this morning.

  Just as long as I can see her again. Just one more time.

  Last night, I prowled the length of my suite so many times, I almost wore a track in the floorboards. And when I finally gave in to the vicious urges brimming in my chest, leaning one shoulder against the wall and choking my cock until I burst in my hand—

  It was her face I saw.

  Her name on my lips.

  Paige.

  “Monsieur Dupont!” To her credit, Madame does not turn me away at the door, despite my rudeness yesterday. She smoothes a nervous hand over her hair, steel gray and scraped back into the traditional bun. “We did not expect you again so soon.”

  “I wish to direct the showcase.”

  The words are a shock, even to me. Since when do I care about some little academy performance? I am not a recruiter nor a director; it means nothing to me how well these students audition for the ballet world.

  “Monsieur…” Madame trails off, lost for words. She swallows hard, her papery throat bobbing. But then she rallies herself again, pushing her shoulders back and down, and gives me a glowing smile. “How marvelous.”

  I’ve stolen her throne in this studio, but the canny woman knows what this means: her academy will receive far more interest with Raphael Dupont leading the showcase. More interest means more contracts for her dancers, more attention from wealthy parents. More money; more prestige.

  I haven’t even demanded a fee. Lovestruck fool.

  The dancers murmur quietly amongst themselves in the far corners of the studio, oblivious to our conversation. Only one has even noticed me here again, and she frowns at me with her big doe eyes. She’s sitting on the cold floor, tying the ribbons of one pointe shoe.

  Her tights are flawless pink, clearly fresh out of the packet.

  Something clenches in my chest.

  It doesn’t matter, I want to tell her. It doesn’t matter if your clothes are worn or your hair escapes its bun.

  She is still a revelation. My blood pumps hotter at the mere sight of her.

  “Which ballet?” Madame asks, her voice raised in a way which makes me think she has asked several times already. “Monsieur?”

  I tear my eyes away from Paige.

  “Swan Lake.” I hold Madame’s gaze. “The dance of the seductress.”

  Three

  Paige

  Why is he here?

  Raphael Dupont could be in any room of the art world. He could watch the star dancers of the biggest companies rehearse in their studios, casting a judgemental eye over their technique. He could attend galas and red carpets; he could judge competitions and give interviews.

  So what is he doing here?

  This academy is great. One of the best in the country, despite its small size. But it’s still a class of students, far below Monsieur Dupont’s pay grade.

  His dark eyes land on me again.

  I shiver.

  He seems different today. More agitated, like he didn’t sleep well. He can join the club—I went home last night, ranted to my roommates, then locked myself into my bedroom and tossed and turned until dawn.

  I even tried to soothe myself. To run my palms over my heated skin; to touch myself in those forbidden places.

  It didn’t help. The sensations built, fast and hard, but they left me hollow afterwards. Still wanting.

  Seeing Monsieur Dupont again this morning… those thrumming, tickly feelings below my navel come flooding back.

  I roll my head, wincing at my stiff neck, and smile politely as the girl next to me chats about a movie she watched last night. I’m trying to listen, honestly, but my eyes keep dragging back to Monsieur Dupont like they are pulled on two invisible reins.

  He smirks at me, secret and slow.

  “Oh god,” I murmur to myself, shifting on the floor to press my thighs together.

  “Huh?” The girl next to me screws up her face. “What is it?”

  I don’t even have to lie. “Monsieur Dupont. He’s back.”

  The girl’s head whips around, and my teeth clench at her breathless sigh.

  “He’s so handsome, isn’t he?”

  I say nothing.

  “He looks like he could pick you up and slam you against a wall.”

  I do not need that mental image, nor the answering pulse between my legs. I huff and shove my last pointe shoe on, tying the ribbons with vicious tugs.

  “You will cut off circulation.”

 

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