MAVIS

ballet had been like a story to Mavis. Words and fluent movement, twining into an elegant song―music and misery, bound by blood and sweat and her swelling breath. A story, trapped between the lines of her arched toes and her pointed fingertips, contained in the flex of her muscles, the rhythm of her heartbeat.

It had been worth it. The bruises on her toes, the wounds that never healed. The permanent bloodstains on the inside of her shoes.

It had always been worth it.

She remembered, once, the time before a recital. Her parents had come all the way from Chicago to the Academy. This had been before they pulled her out, took her back home. We can't afford this anymore, they had told her.

But this―this was the last show of the season.

The Nutcracker.

Behind the stage curtains, it had just been her and Marcy. Her friend.

Marcy's high ponytail had swung excitedly behind her. Her hands had clasped together. She was kneading out the muscles in her thighs, preparing herself for the show.

"This is going to be so much fun!" Marcy had said.

Mavis shrugged, but secretly, her chest had felt like it was glowing. This was her chance to shine. She was playing the Sugarplum Fairy.

She was finally one of the main characters, and now Mama and Papa could see how good she was.

Stupid, really. That she had thought this performance would change their decision in the end.

That she had thought, if she was only good enough, they would let her stay at the Academy.

But they had never seen her dance, not like she had been dancing here, and so she hoped.

Against all reason.

Stupid.

"Did your parents bring you flowers?" Marcy asked. "My parents brought my flowers. I asked them for orchids and they brought me roses. I was kind of upset, but then Archie―that's my brother―he gave me white chocolate. He knows that's my favourite."

"That's nice," Mavis said.

The hum of violin music was seeping into her core, her fingertips. The ache, the yearning, to dance―it hugged every nerve, coiled around every vein.

It was her time.

"Oh, look!" Marcy said. "It's your turn, Mavis. Oh, isn't Xander so cute? I can't believe he gets to do the lift with you. I'm jealous."

Mavis was twelve, and she hadn't known how quickly this world of hers could dissolve.

Marcy blew a kiss good luck, and Mavis rose onto her toes. When she danced onto the stage, the crowd burst into applause.

"We love you, hija!" her father had shouted above the noise.

Then the music swayed around her, and she became nothing. Nothing and everything.

Xander had been waiting. The Mouse King.

His arms were ready. Braced for her.

This lift would be epic. They had practiced it, over and over, for hours every day.

She couldn't have known that this would be the one time they got it wrong.

So she dove into his arms, as trusting as she could be at twelve years old, and she imagined she would fly.

For a moment, she did.

The applause of the audience was loud. Wild. The violin music soared, higher and higher, an ever-reaching crescendo, climbing towards the peak of a mountain.

She closed her eyes and saw the world below her.

And then Xander's arms jerked. And when she crashed, the world disappeared.

Just for a single blessed second, nothing hurt.

She felt the cold, smooth ground of the stage beneath her.

The blinding white lights above.

Her heavy breathing. In and out. In and out. Shallow bursts of air.

Just a single blessed second before everything came crashing down around her.

her out of the Academy two weeks later. It was dangerous, they said. See? We never should have let you go in the first place.

Mavis hadn't broken anything, but she was bruised in a thousand different places.

And the fall had ruined the show.

Maybe it had even ruined her chance of getting accepted again into the Academy next year.

She would never know.

After knocking Ace unconscious, Mavis couldn't help but feel as if she was still in the moment where nothing hurt. Where she was breathing in, breathing out, a shallow little rhythm. Just her and the stagelights and the cold ground.

She was on an airplane to Moscow, Russia, and she would never see Ace or Isla again.

"Pochemu ty plachesh?"

"Sorry?" Mavis said to the passenger in the seat next to her. An old, white-haired woman. "I don't―um, I don't understand Russian."

Was she sniffling? Why did her voice sound like that?

Mavis touched her fingertips to her face, and they came away wet. Tears?

"I asked," said the old woman gently, "why you are crying?"

"Oh," Mavis said, smearing at her face quickly. "I'm―I just punched the girl I love in the face. And―all I really want to do is just go back home."

The old woman stared at her blankly.

Mavis laughed shakily. "Forget all that. Please. That was stupid of―"

"No, dear," said the old woman in a Russian accent. "It is not stupid at all."

And this was it. This was the world crashing down around her.

Mavis began to cry in earnest, her last thread of sanity unraveling in this old woman's arms. There were fifty-three minutes until they touched the ground in Russia, and when they did―

There was no looking back.

No going back.

She had just given up her life with Ace and Isla, and it hurt. It hurt like broken bones and bruised knuckles and betraying the girl she loved.

There would be no dinners with Mavis swearing at the pot of sauce on the stove, Ace setting their painted plates on the table, and Isla running excitedly in circles around the kitchen.

There would be no parent-teacher conferences with Mavis and Ace together. Ace probably would have boasted about Isla's intelligence to all of her teachers, and if any of them had dared to say a word otherwise, Mavis probably would've had to stop Ace from killing them on the spot.

There would be no soccer matches in middle school with Ace and Mavis cheering on their daughter from the bleachers, yelling louder than the other parents. Ace as a soccer mom―Mavis wanted to see that more than anything in the world.

There would be no goodnights. Mavis would never tuck Isla into bed again, kiss her forehead goodnight. I love you, mi cielo. Her daughter, her everything. She had never even gotten to say goodbye.

And Ace. There would be no more kisses. Mavis would never look into those ice-blue eyes again and marvel at that half-curve of a smirk. She would never get to see Ace holding a box of Froot Loops or murder another man or wrap her into her arms.

When the plane landed in Moscow, it was snowing.

Snow. At least there was snow.

Mavis wanted to burst into tears all over again, but she set her jaw. These were men she would be dealing with, and she knew men. She knew how they worked.

She could do this.

She clutched the broken pieces of the dancer figurine in her palm, savouring the sear of the stinging blood.

"Moya dorogava," said the old woman. "My name is Lada. One day, we will meet again."

Moya dorogava. My darling.

It was what Ace called her, and Mavis―she wanted to scream. To take the next plane back. To forget about this stupid idea and the fact that she was going to die, that she would end up broken, like the shards of this tiny dancer.

"One day," Mavis said instead. Trembling.

"Derzhi golovu vyshe," said Lada. "Keep your head up."

Mavis clutched the broken pieces of the dancer tighter. Was she bleeding? Was that blood, dripping between her fingers, onto the leather seats of the plane?

She was going to give herself up to the Russian Mafia.

The mobsters with the most terrifying reputation for brutality. Torture. Pain.

But it was for Isla. It was all for Isla.

And she needed to be convincing. More convincing than this.

So she closed her eyes, and when she stepped off the plane, she breathed in the ice-cold air. Above her, the sharp blue sky swirled with white flecks of snow.

I am going to die.

She caught a snowflake on her tongue. She had always made it a game with Isla.

Isla. This was for Isla, who would grow up so beautiful, so brave. Who would get the chance to be happy, to be a ninja, to be anything she damn well wanted.

All she had to do now was put on the performance of her life.

her shoulders. Lifting her chin. She stood, flanked on both sides by bodyguards, in front of the grand doors to Prince Aleksi's suite.

The two men on either side of her were bald, with thick muscle and squared shoulders and heavy tattoos.

They spoke fast in harsh Russian. Giving her only a minute to prepare herself, to breathe in, to force herself into a trembling, sobbing wreck.

It wasn't hard.

The door opened, and―there he was.

The little blond bastard who had led the police right to Ace, who had pointed with a simpering smile at his sister and said, That's her, officers.

Prince Aleksi of the Russian Mafia.

"You killed my daughter," was the first thing that Mavis said to him. A deep, echoing sob, wrenched from her chest.

Believable―that was believable.

His pale eyebrows lifted. Sitting on a circular sapphire velvet bed, surrounded on both sides by two women in nothing but lingerie, he leaned back and smiled sweetly.

"Interesting," he said. "She killed the child. I didn't think she had the guts."

Mavis let none of the relief show on her face. He had believed that. Instead, she let out another harrowing sob. Another echoing, agonized cry.

Tears―tears and snot and messy, red-streaked grief. She had to convince him so thoroughly he would never even think Isla's name again.

"She was my baby, you fucker! You wanted her dead, and for what? To stop the American Mafia's legacy? Well, they're dead now. They're all dead. Are you happy?"

"Quite," said the prince. His cold blue eyes drifted lazily over her.

"Prince," said one of the women in lingerie. "She is disturbing me. I do not like it."

He grabbed the woman suddenly by the neck, so tight the blood left her face in a sudden rush. The lazy smile never left his lips.

"I do not care what you like, whore," he murmured with half-lidded eyes. "I did not tell you to speak in my presence. Did I? Alina, did I give her permission?" He turned to the other woman, who shook her head quickly. "See, baby, if you speak again when you are not allowed, I will snap this pretty little neck. And perhaps I will take off your hands as well. I know how you love to paint."

Ace had warned her. He made Calista sing until her vocal chords ripped. Until she coughed blood.

This was his threat. To find out her talent, to figure out what she loved most―and take it away.

When he discovered she was a dancer . . . what would he do to her?

What would he threaten her with?

Her feet? Her legs? Her arms?

Mavis kept her jaw locked. This is for Isla. If she ceased to exist now, if she disassociated, none of this had to be real.

"My daughter," Mavis said, sinking to her knees. "My daughter. My baby. My baby."

"But why didn't she kill you?" Aleksi sat up suddenly. "And where is she?"

Mavis had prepared this story on the plane.

"She killed my daughter and froze. Said she had crossed a line, that this was it―she couldn't do it anymore. She couldn't be a killer, or a slave to you." Was that convincing? "She left. She gave me money and left, said she was sorry. The bitch said she was sorry for murdering my baby."

Mavis dissolved into more tears, more crying, more wrenching sobs.

Aleksi waved his hand, exasperated. "Yes, yes, then what? How are you here?"

"I wanted―" Mavis looked him in the eyes now. "I want vengeance."

"Delightful." He seemed bored. Bored. "Now, where is she? My sister?"

Trick. Mavis couldn't possibly know Aleksi was Ace's brother if Ace had not explicitly told her.

He's smarter than he looks.

She let surprise flicker in her eyes. "Sister?"

Aleksi sat up straighter, more interested now. "And you say she ran?"

Mavis let out another wail. "The bitch ran. Said she was going to Alaska."

"Alaska." Aleksi hummed. "Ah. Where her whore of a mother is buried. I see. And you . . . came here. How?"

Mavis resisted the urge to say, A plane.

"I asked around for you. Prince Aleksi of the Russian Mafia. I knew you were a powerful man. I figured someone would know you, and they did. Your men escorted me."

Suddenly, Aleksi said, "Alina. Sofia."

The two women looked up.

"Get out," he commanded, and they didn't hesitate. They scurried past Mavis, giving her inscrutable glances, dressed in nothing but their lingerie.

They were alone now, Mavis and Aleksi.

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

What would he do to her, in the security of his own room?

If she screamed now, nobody would help.

Nobody would care.

Instead of advancing on her, though, he only leaned back against his headrest. His stomach rippled with abs. When he caught her looking, the corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Do you like what you see?" he asked in a low, throaty voice.

I'm contemplating how easily I could reach my hand into that chest and rip out your bare heart.

"You're the person who ordered my daughter's death," Mavis said in an uneven voice. "I will never like you."

"Too bad," he said softly, opening his phone.

Mavis debated strangling him. Could she do it the way Ace taught her? If she lunged for him, would he be fast enough to move?

But then he dialed a number on his phone.

And it was―

The air sighed out of her body in a rush. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe.

Ace's calm, cold voice said, "What do you want?"

"Where are you, sister?"

"I do not answer to you."

Mavis held her breath. This was something she hadn't considered. The possibility that Aleksi could just talk to Ace.

Would Ace understand Mavis's plan?

"You were supposed to kill Mavis Griffon," Aleksi purred. "That was your first task."

Mavis froze.

"I killed her daughter," Ace hissed in a low, rough Russian accent. "Is that not good enough for you, brother?"

"You left a trail. You are―how do the Americans say it―getting sloppy."

"Then kill her yourself," Ace said.

The phone beeped, and Mavis realized she had hung up.

Ace had hung up.

Kill her yourself.

Mavis hoped it was a part of the lie, too. It's just acting, that's all it is, she thought.

But what if it wasn't? What if knocking Ace unconscious had made Ace hate her?

No. No, she couldn't think of that now. She trusted Ace. She loved Ace, and the woman she loved―

The woman she loved was not the same woman on the phone. That was who Ace needed to be to survive.

"She hung up," Aleksi said in soft, mocking wonder. Then, in a colder tone: "She will pay for that."

For a moment, fear clenched in Mavis's stomach. But then she almost laughed.

Ace could handle anything. Anyone.

She was practically unkillable.

Aleksi set down his phone on the bed and slipped off. His pants were slung low over his hips, his blond hair tousled. His smile was sharp, his blue eyes bright, as though he thought he could seduce her.

She wondered what his face would look like if she told him that she was married to his sister.

"I sent one of my best spies after you."

"Ace?"

"Galina." The smile on his face was . . . somehow colder. "She was my fiancée."

Was.

Galina, the evil vampire queen.

Who Ace had killed in the parking lot of a country club.

Oh, boy.

"So, you see, we both have lost people we love to my sister."

Mavis bared her teeth. She wasn't about to give up her vengeance act so easily. "Haven't you ever heard the saying, Don't shoot the messenger?"

Aleksi's eyes only flicked away, as though she hadn't spoken at all.

"Take off your clothes."

"I―" That was unexpected.

"I do know about you," Aleksi said, amused. "Mavis Griffon, a stripper. I say, that's just the American word for a whore."

Mavis had seen how fast his fingers had tightened over the woman's neck.

She didn't want to give him a reason to put his hand on her throat.

Her clothes had puddled on the floor when Aleksi, at last, turned back to drag his eyes over her body.

"Very . . . round," he finally said. "Your chest will attract many men. Do you have a . . . talent?"

His eyes lingered on her, as though she might betray recognition of that word. Talent.

Mavis let nothing on her face show.

And it hit her. This was going to be her life.

She debated lying, but―he probably knew more about her than he was letting on. Any file on her would have her history at the American Ballet Company.

If she lied to him, what would he do to her?

"Dance," she whispered.

"Good girl," he murmured, walking leisurely towards his desk, hands clasped behind his back. "Now, how about a demonstration?"

Mavis imagined the satisfaction of sticking a knife into his back.

"What kind of dance?" Mavis asked. "There's more than one."

In less than a heartbeat, he was in front of her. A gun pressed to the smooth skin of her stomach.

Cold. It was so cold. She stopped herself from shivering.

"If you think you are going to be sarcastic with me," he said, smiling, "think again."