Dance of Ruin: Chapter 9

There was a moment right as I reached the door at the address on Nico’s card where I thought about running.

Spinning on my heel, sprinting down the stairs and out to the street, melting into the city until the sky fades to black and my legs give out. I pictured myself catching a bus to anywhere, getting off without a plan, changing my name, erasing every trace. Disappearing.

But the image that followed—one I couldn’t shake and that made my stomach twist—was Nico chasing me.

Not running. Just walking, calm and unhurried, already knowing where I’ll end up.

So instead, I opened the door and went up.

The ground floor was occupied by a Michelin-starred French restaurant, the kind where you need a connection just to get a reservation. The second floor was a tech startup…something to do with “AI-streamlined efficiency congruence”, whatever that means.

But the third floor—the one I’m now on—is something else entirely. And it feels…old, like a time capsule to an earlier New York, especially contrasted against the elegant restaurant and the glass-and-neon tech bro haven below.

The door is solid wood, with a framed sign affixed to it that announces in very 80’s font Lickity Splits: Hottest Girls in the Big Apple!

I stare at it for a full thirty seconds.

A fucking strip club?

For a moment, I think this must be a joke.

Then I remember the look in Nico’s eyes last night. The quiet commanding tone in his voice.

He wasn’t joking.

I place a trembling palm on the door, my whole body coiled so tight I feel it might snap in half, and push it open.

The inside is all dark wood floors, vintage leather furniture, and lots of old bookshelves filled with…well…old books.

No neon. No strobes. No poles. No lap dances, thank God.

But there is him.

Nico.

He’s sitting behind the desk at the far end of the large room, flanked by those high bookshelves on one side and a vintage bar cart on the other. The shades are drawn, giving the space a low, sultry, somewhat smokey-gauzy feel. Just a few dim, golden lights are on.

A cigarette dangles from his perfect lips, smoke curling lazily into the air. He doesn’t say anything when I enter. Doesn’t greet me. Just watches me with the same expression he had that night he caught me on the rooftop—cold, indecipherable, something I can’t quite place.

Detachment?

I step inside, and the door clicks softly shut behind me.

The air is warm. I’m already sweating beneath my hoodie.

‘You’re late,’ he finally says.

I glance at the wall clock. Two minutes past eight.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper. “The subway⁠—”

“I wasn’t asking for an excuse.”

Nico leans back in his chair, the leather creaking underneath him. ‘Take off your sweatshirt.”

I hesitate.

His brows lift slightly, and something in my stomach plummets. I shrug off the hoodie, turning to drop it onto a chair next to the door. I’m left standing in just my long-sleeve t-shirt and leggings. I’m not cold, but I shiver anyway.

‘Hmm,’ he murmurs, his gaze running over me. ‘Ballet Barbie reporting for duty. Though I did say to look pretty.‘

I flush. My fists clench. I’m not sure if it’s out of anger or shame.

‘But you didn’t come here to look pretty, Naomi. You came here because you belong to me now. Isn’t that right.’

I… I don’t know how to answer that.

He doesn’t wait for me to try. He stands, slowly walks around the desk, and leans back against it.

Silence fills the room, building to an uncomfortable, noiseless crescendo.

“So…” I trail off, looking at the floor as my fingers pick at my cuticles. “What did you want me here for?”

I won’t lie. I debated this heavily all night, and all morning before I came here. I wondered if the address was a location where he was going to straight-up torture or murder me. I almost expected to walk in and see chains and hot irons, or a firing squad of mafia hitmen.

“I think I was very clear last night when I said you were mine now,” Nico growls.

I tremble.

That’s another thought I had: wondering if there was something equally dark but in a totally different part of the forest waiting for me here today.

“You’re mine now.”

The tone of his voice and the dark black hunger in his eyes had made it pretty clear what that might mean, even to someone like me.

“But in case I’m mistaken,” he purrs, “and I was not as clear as I could have been, let’s start with something simple.’ He takes a final drag of his cigarette and turns to stub it out in a crystal ashtray on the desk before turning back to me. His lips don’t move, but a hint of amusement sparks in his cold gaze.

‘Strip.’

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach.

I blink. ‘W-what?’

“I’m quite sure you heard me.’

He can’t be fucking serious.

“Nico—“

‘You’re wasting my time. And I know you’re not stupid, which means you’re doing so purposefully. It’s starting to piss me off.”

He rolls his neck, exhaling slowly.

“Have you ever seen someone you love almost blown to pieces in front of you?”

I flinch, as if struck.

“Nico, I’m so sorry⁠—”

“You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t order a car bomb delivered to my front door. Unfortunately, the man who did is untouchable. Equally as unfortunately, you are the opposite. Which is why you’re mine now, to do with as I please. And if that is having you strip in front of me while I watch…” He lifts a shoulder. “I would start making fucking peace with that,” he growls. “Is that clear.”

I swallow, nodding.

“Then stop wasting my fucking time. Strip.”

Hands trembling, I reach down and grip the hem of my t-shirt. My chest tightens as I pull it over my head and toss it aside. Then I slip my fingers into the waistband of my leggings. I slide them down slowly, stepping out of them hesitantly, until I’m standing in my bra and underwear, breathing shallowly.

Cold silence hangs in the room for a moment.

‘That’s not stripping,’ Nico says calmly.

My cheeks flame, but I continue.

Every motion feels like a betrayal. Not of myself, but my idea of myself. I’m not shy about being naked. I change in front of other dancers every day, even in front of male dancers backstage during quick costume changes.

But this is different.

This is intimate.

This is my power being taken.

And the way he watches me makes it worse.

He doesn’t leer. Doesn’t ogle. Just…inspects me, like I’m a specimen under glass. Cataloging what belongs to him.

I stand there trying not to shake, my hands making a feeble attempt to cover my breasts and sex.

Nico pushes away from the desk and begins to circle me slowly. I flinch a little when he takes my wrist, pulling my hands away from my body.

“Hmm,” he murmurs almost to himself, gaze dropping to my pussy. “Next time, I want you shaved.”

My cheeks flame with heat. I keep it trimmed down there. I mean, with the light-colored tights, it’s just better. But I don’t shave completely either.

I swallow hard. ‘Why?’ I mumble.

‘Because that’s what I prefer,’ he growls. ‘More important, because I said so.’

He walks around behind me. I flinch when I feel his warm breath on my neck.

‘Desk,’ he murmurs. ‘Bend over it.’

My body locks up.

‘Now.’

I still don’t move.

He sighs, annoyed. ‘Need I remind you what happens if you say no? What I have?”

I die a little inside as the mere mention of that disgusting tape of my assault, which he still thinks is a fucking porno.

‘I—no,’ I stammer.

“Then go to that fucking desk and bend the fuck over it.”

Shame floods my body as I quietly walk over to his desk. I feel like I’m watching from outside my body as I stop in front of the heavy wooden desk.

“That’s part one. Now two…”

I close my eyes, my heart thudding an irregular staccato against my ribs.

“I—no,” I choke.

Nico sighs darkly right behind me. I can feel his heat against my bare back; smell his heady scent: leather, tobacco, masculine and clean.

“Why the fuck not,” he says darkly.

“Because it’s humiliating,” I blurt.

I gasp sharply when I feel his lips brush against my ear.

“Good.”

I shudder.

Finally, I do as he commands and bend over the desk, my bare breasts and my cheek pressing to the polished wood when I turn my head to the side.

“Arms up. Grab the far edge of it.”

My pulse hammers in my veins. My body trembles and shakes with a swirling mix of shame, fear, excitement, and horror at feeling that excitement.

My palms land on the desk, the cool wood biting into my skin. My spine tenses. My legs tremble.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Who the hell am I right now?

Behind me, I hear the quiet, unhurried tread of Nico’s shoes against the floor. I can feel his heat at my back again, feel his gaze drifting over my skin like smoke.

“Spread your legs,” he murmurs.

I don’t move. I can’t.

His hand comes down lightly on my lower back—not hard, not forceful.

But firm.

Commanding.

So I obey.

My whole body hums with shame and something dark I can’t name, and my cheeks burn as I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with nudity. It feels deeper, as if someone is peeling me open, layer by layer, displaying all the things I never meant to reveal.

Suddenly, his hand slides between my legs and cups my pussy firmly from behind.

I gasp, choking as my eyes snap wide, every muscle in my body clenching.

My skin is on fire. My heart is jackrabbiting. I brace for panic—expect it to rise up screaming after everything that happened to me not that long ago.

Strangely, it doesn’t.

His fingers slide over my pussy lips, exploratory and possessive. My knees nearly buckle as I bite down hard on my bottom lip.

“We need to be clear about something,” he says, his voice low and dangerous near my ear. “And we might as well get it out of the way now.”

His hand moves slowly and deliberately, fingers stroking up and down. I shiver, shame flooding my face as something else floods elsewhere at the tingling, dangerous, exciting feeling his touch on my most intimate place brings out.

“When I say you’re mine, I mean all of you. Every thought you have? Mine. Every inch of this body? Mine. This pussy?”

His fingertip parts my lips, sliding down to roll over my mortifyingly swollen clit.

“Mine. Do you understand?”

I don’t answer.

Because, again, I can’t.

I’m still trying to make sense of the fact that I’m not recoiling.

I’m responding.

My hips shift involuntarily. My breath quickens. Thick, hot, danger coils inside me.

And then suddenly, his finger plunges deep inside me, until his knuckles are pressed against my slick lips.

A soft, broken sound escapes my throat.

Oh God.

It’s a moan.

I just. Fucking. Moaned.

Nico lets out a low, quiet, cold laugh.

“I’d ask again,” he chuckles, “but I think we have our answer.”

My face crumples a little when he slides his finger out and then rams it back in; deep, hard, conquering. My eyelids droop and my nipples tighten against the glossy wood as his thick digit begins to stroke in and out of me. He curls it slightly against my front wall, stroking my g-spot as my legs tremble and shake.

“Are you fucking anyone right now, Naomi?” Nico purrs.

My breath hitches. I don’t respond.

The sharp crack of his palm against my ass sends me jolting forward with a yelp.

“Answer me.”

“N-no,” I whimper.

Not now. Not ever.

“Good.”

His voice is raw now, hungry in a way that scares me. How much my body wants to hear it again scares me even more.

Another finger joins the first, and I brace myself against the desk, biting down on my lip hard. The pressure, the stretch, the sheer wrongness of this situation—it should all horrify me. And maybe it does. But underneath that?

There’s heat.

Shameful, desperate heat, building with every motion of his hand.

My thoughts are jumbled. Part of me screams that I should recoil from his touch, especially since I didn’t ask for it. After what happened at that photoshoot, I know this should be making me shut down.

Instead, it feels like a balm smoothed over the experience.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growls. “Like you were made to take what I give you. I love that you feel you should hate it… But that’s a tough sell when your greedy little pussy keeps sucking my fingers back inside like you want more.”

My mouth drops open, but no words come out. Just panting, broken sounds. I grip the desk harder.

“Is that what you want, Naomi?” he taunts. “More?”

I whimper.

There’s no room for denial now. No space for thought. My body is trembling, slick with sweat and shame and something that I don’t have the words for.

Nico adds a third finger, and my world begins to blur at the edge. My eyes roll back like I’m possessed. My back arches, toes scraping against the floor and hips pushing back on their own accord.

It’s almost too much.

But, God help me, I want it.

“Look at you, taking these like you were made for them,” he growls, ramming all three of his fingers into my wet, eager pussy. “Don’t worry, Naomi. I’ll get this little hole nice and stretched so it can take my fat cock next time. You dancers are all about stretching, aren’t you.”

My whole body tightens. The breath leaves my body.

“Now: you’re going to come on my fingers, and then you’re going to thank me.”

It hits me like a bomb.

A storm surge that breaks inside me with a wave of pulsing, helpless release.

And suddenly, I cry out as I shatter.

The orgasm explodes through me, wrenching my body as I twist and writhe. Nico’s fingers plunge in and out of me, finger-fucking me all through the release until I’m shaking and gasping for air as my hipbones press tight to the edge of the desk.

Nico’s hand comes to a stop. My world is spinning, my vision still blurry as my lungs scream for air.

“Well?”

I blink, not quite able to form words.

“Say thank you, ballerina,” he growls quietly. “Thank me for letting you come.”

Hunger, vicious and raw curls inside me.

“Th—thank you,” I choke.

Slowly, he pulls out his fingers. My body collapses, wrecked and shaking, on the desk. I can’t breathe.

“You may get dressed now,” he says simply.

I stand on shaky legs and reach for my clothes with fumbling hands. I still feel like I’m outside myself, watching someone else move. Not me, but someone who just let this happen, who didn’t stop it, who moaned when he touched her.

I pull my clothes back on, fingers trembling.

He just watches me.

“We’re done for today,” he says as he lights another cigarette.

“But when I say you belong to me now…” He exhales smoke. “I hope you understand what that means.”

I say nothing. I still can’t.

“Next time,” he adds coolly, “be shaved bare. And if you don’t own better lingerie, don’t bother wearing any at all.”

I nod, my face flaming.

I leave, and the door clicks shut behind me.

I’m shaking so hard, I can barely stand.