The next training session came sooner than Mirelle wanted.
She had already informed her mother that she doesn't want to continue training under Rafe. She had begged, carefully choosing her words, trying to maintain respect. But Celeste had only looked at her with those cold, calculating eyes and asked, "Are you questioning my judgment?"
The words struck like a whip, silencing Mirelle more from raw shock than wounded pride. The way her mother cut her down—cold, merciless—seared hotter than any protest she might have said.
She gritted her teeth and got ready for the training.
The moment she stepped into Studio Seven, she felt it—the coldness hanging in the air like a blade waiting to fall.
Rafe was already there, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable and hard. He didn't bother with greetings. No nod. No instruction.
Just a sharp, brutal, "Start."
Mirelle swallowed the lump in her throat and moved into her stretches, every muscle in her body stiff with tension.
But it wasn't enough for him.
He corrected her roughly, forcing her deeper into the poses, adjusting her with brutal hands that left her breathless.
"Pathetic," he muttered as he shoved her leg higher, almost wrenching her balance. "You think a few half-hearted pliés will make you a ballerina?"
His words hit like fists, and yet—
Heat bloomed under her skin.
Her cheeks burned with shame, but lower, deeper, something far worse stirred.
Why the fuck am I getting more wet the crueler he is? Mirelle screamed internally, hating herself.
Every word, every rough correction, every slight graze of his fingers against her skin made her body hum, her blood throb.
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself not to react, but she could feel it—the unbearable ache growing between her legs, shameful and heavy.
"Focus," Rafe snapped, grabbing her arms and forcing her into another brutal stretch.
Her body obeyed, but her mind was spiraling, drowning under the humiliating weight of her own desire.
Rafe circled her slowly, his voice dry and cutting. "Maybe if I slap you with my hands," he murmured, low and mocking, "your body will finally listen."
Mirelle's cheeks flamed with humiliation—and worse, with heat—as an unwanted image flashed across her mind: his hand striking her skin, the sting, the sharp correction.
Her stomach twisted painfully. She could feel herself getting wetter, the shame curling inside her like something dark and alive.
Rafe sneered, as if he could see right through her. "You're so pathetic," he said, his voice almost lazy with cruelty.
"Higher," he barked, grabbing her leg and forcing it into a stretch so brutal she whimpered.
But it wasn't just the stretch that stole her breath—it was the way his hands, rough and deliberate, brushed dangerously close to the most sensitive parts of her body. His fingers skimmed the inside of her thigh, lingering just a second too long, almost a dare.
Every nerve ending lit up, screaming at the contact. She could feel his heat through the thin barrier of her leotard, feel the way her own traitorous body leaned toward him without meaning to.
She bit her lip hard, desperate to hold in the small, broken sounds clawing at her throat.
Rafe's eyes gleamed with cruel amusement as he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against her ear.
"Pathetic," he whispered again, softer this time, almost intimate—and infinitely worse.
Mirelle tore herself away, panting, her cheeks burning. "If you touch me like that again, I'll report you to the higher-ups," she snapped, voice trembling with fury and humiliation.
Rafe laughed, low and dark, utterly unbothered. In a flash, he grabbed her by the waist and yanked her hard against him.
She froze, torn between fighting and the shameful thrill that ripped through her.
Her hesitation was all he needed. His hips ground into hers, slow and deliberate, the hard line of him pressing through the thin barrier of her leotard.
A shudder ripped through her body—and to her horror, a soft, broken moan slipped past her lips.
Rafe's laugh rumbled against her skin, amused and cruel. "Who's going to believe you when you're already dripping for me like a whore?"
Mirelle stumbled back, collapsing to the floor, her body betraying her completely. Her skin felt like it was burning with humiliation.
She glared up at him, rage and shame twisting inside her. "If you do that again," she hissed, "I'll take a knife and kill you."
Rafe only smiled, slow and mocking. "Maybe you should go change first," he said, voice dripping with derision. "Before everyone smells you."