The smaller studio felt colder than the others, tucked away in the older wing of the building. Mirelle sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting. Her body ached from yesterday, her cheek still faintly stinging where Celeste's hand had landed.
After that night she didn't join the dinner and no one had cared enough to bring her dinner or even ask her.
She felt nothing now.
Not anger. Not sadness.
Just a hollow, thrumming numbness.
The door creaked open. Rafe strode in, loose-limbed and lazy in his movements.
His eyes swept over her—and paused.
On her cheek.
He laughed under his breath, the sound low and cruel.
"Celeste's love showing again?" he said, mocking.
Mirelle stiffened, the numbness cracking at the edges.
She rose to her feet, eyes sharp as blades.
"You're just a coach," she said, her voice crisp with disdain. "Not important enough to forget where the line is."
For a moment, something flickered across Rafe's face—a shadow of amusement, or maybe something darker.
"I'm your only hope," he said, voice quiet but cutting. "If you want to make mommy proud."
The words sliced deeper than she expected.
Fury rose hot and fast in her chest.
"And you?" she snapped, the words slipping free before she could stop them. "Just another toy she tossed aside."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Rafe's smile faded. His gaze hardened into something brutal.
"Stretch," he said sharply.
No more mocking. No more lazy drawl.
Just command.
Mirelle dropped to the floor, forcing her body into the first punishing position, even as the room seemed to pulse around her with the weight of everything left unsaid.
Rafe knelt beside her, his hands rough but precise as he pushed her leg higher, forcing her into an overstretched split. The sharp pull in her muscles was instant, raw.
She hissed through her teeth. "Taking out your anger on me?"
Rafe's grip tightened just slightly. "No," he said, voice low and deliberate. "If I did, it would be more than that."
His gaze flicked to her reddened cheek, the corner of his mouth twitching with something unreadable.
He pushed her deeper into the stretch.
Pain lanced through her thighs, her back—sharp, burning—until she couldn't hold back a grunt.
Sweat clung to her skin, her breath coming shorter. She gritted her teeth, focusing on the pain—until she felt it shift.
A heat curled low in her stomach, unwanted and humiliating.
Her body, traitorous and aching, began to respond.
Mirelle squeezed her eyes shut, willing it away—praying he wouldn't notice.
She grew silent, hyper-focused on his hands pressing into her muscles, guiding every brutal extension. Each time his palms slid along her skin, correcting, adjusting, her breathing hitched.
She could feel her nipples tightening beneath her leotard, the fabric scraping almost painfully against the hardened peaks.
Worse, that dampness between her legs grew stronger, undeniable now.
Shame flooded her chest, hot and suffocating, but her body betrayed her all the same.
Rafe moved her into another stretch, guiding her into a deep lunge.
His hands clamped firmly on her hips, jerking them into position with no patience at all. "Lower. Deeper," he barked, his voice sharp enough to cut. "You're not here to half-try. Either give in to the pain or stay useless."
She grunted in reply. The pain killing her.
His hands slid dangerously close to her inner thighs, pressing, adjusting, firm but clinical—yet it made her shiver all the same.
The anger she had clung to earlier dissolved into something worse: pure, helpless humiliation.
"Straighten your back," he ordered, voice low and sharp.
She obeyed, her body trembling as his fingertips brushed dangerously near the most sensitive parts of her. Her nipples ached under the thin leotard, her thighs burning from the effort—and the mortifying heat between her legs pulsed stronger with every correction.
"Focus," Rafe said sharply, as if he didn't notice—or maybe because he did.
Mirelle bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, forcing herself to stay still, forcing herself not to break.
Rafe shifted her again, forcing her into another brutal pose—an arabesque en pointe, pushing her body to the limit. His hands slid along her spine, adjusting the arch of her back, then moved lower, steadying her hips.
Each time he touched her, it set off another cascade of shivers under her skin.
"Lift higher," he commanded, his breath disturbingly close to her ear.
Mirelle obeyed through gritted teeth, her muscles screaming, her body betraying her once more. She could feel herself slick with sweat—and worse—between her legs, her entire body trembling with effort and something she couldn't name without shame.
She focused only on his hands, on the cold burn of his voice, desperate not to let herself fall apart.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Rafe stepped back.
"You're done," he said flatly.
Mirelle lowered her arms slowly, her body aching, flushed with heat and shame she couldn't scrub away.
She wiped her forehead with trembling hands, trying to focus on anything but the wetness between her thighs, the stiff ache of her hardened nipples under the leotard.
Rafe's voice cut through the silence, sharper and colder than before.
"Go fix yourself," he snapped. "You reek of it."
She froze, her chest tight, humiliation slicing through her.
"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath, the disgust thick in his voice.
Her face flamed in horror, her hands fumbling for her towel, avoiding his gaze entirely.
He turned around dismissively, giving her space—but as he shifted, her eyes fell against her will to the front of his pants.
A thick, undeniable bulge strained against the fabric.
Mirelle's breath caught painfully in her throat. A fresh wave of shame broke over her, leaving her shaking as she turned away and hurried to clean herself, her body trembling in a mix of humiliation and unwanted heat.