Excitement bubbled inside Mirelle as she entered Studio Seven, a bounce in her steps she couldn't hide.
Rafe was already there, arms crossed, leaning against the wall, looking as bored and cold as ever.
"Good morning!" Mirelle chirped.
He lifted a brow but said nothing.
She rushed on, words spilling out. "Director Havel called me last night! I'm going to dance solo. And—and the choreographers said my body lines are really good!" She smiled brightly, feeling her cheeks warm. "I mean, they actually noticed!"
Rafe looked at her, unimpressed, as if her excitement were a buzzing fly in his ear.
She scowled. "You're such a jerk."
Without waiting for a response, she dropped her bag and went to warm up, chastising herself internally for even wasting breath talking to a cold man like him.
She pushed herself harder, stretching deeper, moving through her routines with mechanical precision. Yet she couldn't ignore the heavy weight of Rafe's gaze dragging across her skin like a physical touch.
Every movement felt magnified under his eyes—every flex of muscle, every arch of her back—until, like clockwork, the heat stirred low in her belly.
Her thighs clenched subtly. Her nipples grew taut under her leotard, her breathing shallower.
Her mind betrayed her worse.
She remembered—vividly—the last time he'd grounded his hard cock against her, so big and demanding she could still feel the ghost of it.
How would it feel, she thought shamefully, if he actually used it on me?
Heat flared through her, her breathing quickening even more. She stole a glance at Rafe, her heart hammering.
His dark eyes met hers across the studio, sharp and cutting—like he could see straight through her, strip her bare with nothing but a look.
She flushed violently, yanking her gaze away, mortified at herself.
It was humiliating how easily her body betrayed her, growing hot and bothered just from being watched. And worse, how somewhere deep down, she didn't want to stop it.
"I'm going to give you a prize," Rafe said casually, his voice sharp in the quiet room.
Mirelle turned her head suspiciously. "Prize?"
"For your little lucky event." He stood up from his chair and lazily walked to her. "The training's working, right?"
She eyed him warily, then nodded slowly, unable to deny that his brutal type of coaching was definitely yielding good results.
"Get into arabesque."
Grumbling under her breath, she obeyed, lifting one leg behind her, arms stretched gracefully.
"Higher," Rafe barked.
She groaned as her muscles protested. "What kind of reward is this?"
He didn't answer. Instead, as she struggled to hold the position, she felt his hand—deliberate, slow—brush lightly across her nipple.
Mirelle jolted slightly, her balance wobbling, eyes widening as she nearly lost her stance.
What was that? Was that an accident?
"Straighter," he barked again, forcing her back into perfect position.
Rafe's mouth curved into something resembling a smirk. "Let me see if you can stay in that position."
Before she could react, his fingers pinched her nipple, sharp and sudden.
She almost cried out, jerking instinctively—
"Position," Rafe snapped, his voice firm and cutting.
Her body obeyed before her mind caught up, confusion swirling inside her.
"Even with distractions," he murmured, circling her slowly, "you have to stay focused. Stay in your position."
Another pinch, harder this time.
A helpless moan slipped from her lips, the wetness pooling between her thighs as the heat rose embarrassingly fast.
Shuddering, she stumbled back, almost slipping, staring at him like he'd lost his mind.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" she gasped, trembling.
Rafe stared at her, uninterested, almost bored. "If you don't go back to position, I'm leaving."
She froze, heart pounding, brain spinning.
Leaving.
She thought of everything—how all the changes had started with him, brutal as he was. How far she'd come.
Could she afford to lose him now?
Mirelle weighed it quickly—his seriousness, the cold indifference in his voice.
"This is... inappropriate," she said, voice cracking slightly.
Rafe sneered, the expression dripping with disdain. "What's inappropriate is you dripping down your leg. Get back to position."
Burning with humiliation, need, and rage, she moved back into arabesque, her arms trembling, her body screaming for relief.
He moved closer, correcting her posture with clinical touches—but his fingers found her nipples again, pinching them, pulling lightly, making her thighs clench in unwanted response.
Time and again, he tested her.
Time and again, she held the pose, shame and need bleeding together into something dark and electric inside her.
Finally, Rafe stepped back, his voice cold and dismissive.
He leaned in close enough for her to feel his breath against her ear. "You look like a whore," he whispered cruelly, "wet through your leotard and just letting me touch your body."
She shook her head weakly, shame crashing over her in violent waves.
It felt like he was punishing her. Her mind grasped wildly—Is this about me getting viral?
Rafe looked unimpressed. "This is me training you," he said flatly, before pinching her nipples roughly, pulling hard enough to make her stumble, her knees buckling as she twitched uncontrollably.
"Pathetic," he said coldly, his voice devoid of any real emotion, staring down at her trembling body. "You come undone so easily. Only you would disgrace yourself like this."
Humiliated beyond reason, Mirelle stood up without bothering to grab her things, her face burning, fleeing the studio before he could say another word.