Chapter 3 ZARA POV

ZARA POV I stared at him for a long second. "Excuse me?" I said. "You heard me." "I heard you, I just wanted to give you a chance to rephrase before I turned around and walked back out that door." He didn't rephrase, just watched me with that same stillness that had been irritating me since the stage. "Sit down," he said. "I don't take orders." "You do tonight," his voice didn't rise, didn't harden, just landed flat and certain like it had never occurred to him that I might not comply, "sit down." The audacity was genuinely breathtaking. I pulled the chair out and sat, crossed one leg over the other, kept my back straight, not because he told me to, because I decided to, there was a difference and I knew it even if he didn't, "So you're the one Marcus is scared of." "Marcus is smart," he said. "Marcus is a lot of things," I reached forward and poured myself a drink from the open bottle on the table, "none of them are particularly impressive." "Don't touch that," he said. I stopped with the glass halfway to my mouth, "I'm sorry?" "You drink what I pour for you or you don't drink at all." I put the glass down slowly, looked at him, looked at the glass, looked back at him. He picked the bottle up, poured a clean glass and slid it across the table toward me without breaking eye contact. I wanted to throw it at his head, Instead I picked it up and drank because the alternative was letting him see that he was getting to me, and that was not happening. "What do you want Mr. Blackwood." "Zion." "What do you want Mr. Blackwood." Something shifted in his expression, not irritation exactly, more like a man filing information away for later, "I come here twice a year, I've seen every girl in this building." "Congratulations." "I've never asked for a private booking before tonight." I kept my face completely neutral, "So what made tonight different." "You already know the answer to that." "I really don't." "You felt it on that stage," he said, quiet, no performance in it, just flat simple fact, "the same way I felt it from the floor, don't tell me you didn't." "That's called doing my job," I said, "whatever you felt, that's what you paid for." "Is it." "Yes." He leaned forward, closing the distance between us without moving from his seat, and I held my ground because I did not flinch, I had never flinched, I was not starting tonight. "Dance for me," he said. Eyes glued on mine. "That's what I'm here for." I stood and moved to the pole in the corner of the room, and the second I started moving his voice came again. "Slower," he said. I stopped, "Excuse me." "You heard me." "I dance how I dance Mr. Blackwood, you don't direct the performance." "I do tonight," he leaned back, completely relaxed, "slower." I moved again, slower, not because he told me to, the music called for it, that's what I was telling myself, gripping the pole and rolling my body around it, hips moving in a slow figure eight, dropping low and letting my back arch on the way up, hooking my leg around the pole and spinning down to the floor, letting my knees fall open for exactly one second then closing them and rising back up, rolling my body against the pole from hip to shoulder, slow and deliberate. I could feel him watching, the way you feel a change in temperature. I turned my back to the pole and worked my hips forward, slow, controlled, dropped into a squat and popped back up, rolling my waist in one smooth circle that made the room feel smaller. I heard him stand up. I kept dancing, kept my face forward, kept my breathing even, because I was not acknowledging that he had stood up, I was not giving him that. His footsteps were slow and unhurried crossing the room toward me, and I kept moving, kept rolling my hips, kept my eyes on the middle distance even as he got closer, even as I felt him stop directly behind me, close enough that the air between us had its own temperature. "Turn around," he said, quiet, right behind my ear. "I'm in the middle of a dance." "Turn around Zara." Something about the way he said my name did something I was choosing not to examine, I turned around. He was right there, close, looking down at me with those green eyes completely steady, and he reached out and took my hand, pulling me away from the pole toward him in one smooth movement, one hand settling on my waist, firm and certain. "I didn't say you could touch me," I said. "I know," he didn't move his hand. I started moving again, slower now, close, his hand staying on my waist as I rolled my hips, and his grip tightened just slightly with each movement like he was fighting some internal argument and losing it one second at a time. "You're good at this," he said quietly. "I know." "That's not a compliment about the dancing." "I know that too," I kept my face neutral, "whatever you think this is, it isn't." "You keep saying that." "Because you keep not hearing it." "I hear everything you say," his hand on my waist pulled me closer, "I also hear everything you don't say." Before I could respond his other arm came around me, pulling me fully against him, his hand coming up into my hair, gripping the back of my head and tilting my face to the side, stepping forward and walking me back until my back hit the wall, his body against mine, and his face dropped straight to my throat. "Mr. Blackwood," my voice came out steadier than I felt, "let go." He didn't let go. His breath hit my neck first, then his lips, then his tongue, slow and deliberate, running along my skin, and he inhaled deep like he was looking for something specific, his hand tightening in my hair, holding me exactly where he wanted me. "Mine," he whispered against my neck. Everything stopped. His hand gripping my hair, holding my head back, and suddenly it wasn't his hand, it was Gerald's, Gerald's grip, the couch, the dark, please Gerald please please just stop, and my lungs locked completely, the room tilted, I couldn't breathe, I could not breathe, I could not breathe. "Get off me," it came out broken, not my performance voice, the real one, raw and cracked and seventeen years old all over again, "get off, get off, GET OFF ME." I shoved him with everything I had. He stumbled back and I moved quickly, grabbing my bag off the table, four steps to the door, handle in my hand, hauling it open. I looked back once, I don't know why but I did. His eyes were red. Not a trick of light, not a reflection, red, vivid, burning, nothing like the green that had been watching me all night, and he was standing completely still, staring at me with those impossible eyes. Without a second thought, I ran.