Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(53)

“I’m not going to sleep with him,” I say assuredly. “Even if he wasn’t your cousin, I’m not remotely attracted to Dimitri.” I’m just saying whatever feels right, and surprisingly going with the moment helps.

Nikolai’s tense shoulders lower some, and he faces me. Saying nothing else. He seems conflicted, confused, knee-deep in a gray area that I’ve grown accustomed to.

I clear my throat to break the silence. “Yeah…so there’s that.”

“You have better judgment than most then.” He searches my eyes for clarity. I have no more answers than him. When he realizes this, he adds, “I’ll see you in the morning, Thora.”

Then he hesitates for a moment, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. Even my cheek or forehead. Something. He leans closer like he may.

At last second, he simply releases my arm, and he leaves my side. My life has never felt more complicated, but this is a complication that I’d rather exist than not have at all.





Act Nineteen



I am sweating.

Not the sexy sweat that glistens with a thin beautiful sheen—if that’s even real. I’m starting to question television and movies and humanity. My red Ohio State shirt is soaked.

In two hours—I’ve done pull-ups, sprints, kettle balls, curls, a plethora of weight lifts, dead lunges, jump rope, and now I’m staring at a vertical beam that resembles a stripper pole, but it’s ten times higher and covered in rubber. I already know I’m going to have to climb the pole, my muscles shrieking at me to stop now.

Nikolai breathes heavily like me, hands on his sides, his bare chest glistening with sweat. He joined me on the torture-filled workout. It’s a hellish version of what I would’ve done this summer for gymnastics conditioning.

He really is the devil.

But he claims this is his normal routine, only modified for my height and size and discipline.

“When do…we practice…” I pant and gesture to the aerial silk light-years away from me. “…on that?”

His rolled red bandana collects his sweat, damp strands of hair hanging over it. “When you’re strong enough.”

I’ll be soaring forty-feet in the air without a harness, so I understand his concern. But… “You forget that I do an aerial hoop act every night, and I’m strong enough for that.”

He takes two lengthy strides near me and seizes my bicep. He lifts up my arm and points at the reddish burns that mar my skin, from armpit to elbow. “If you were strong enough, you’d be able to support your entire body weight to avoid this.”

“Hoop burns are normal.” I think. The friction of the metal and my skin is like a version of a rope burn—not the most pleasant sensation. “The other girls at Phantom have them.”

“The other girls at Phantom aren’t trying to join Aerial Ethereal.”

He makes a lot of sense.

“No complaining,” he adds, dropping my bicep. “Rule number one.”

“I was just kindly mentioning…something.” My mind travels away from me, especially as he rests a firm hand on my shoulder. My chest falls more deeply than before—and he seems to notice, eyeing my ribcage. Yet, he keeps that hand in place.

“Use your core.” He rests his other palm on my abdomen. “And climb halfway up. If you can support your entire body weight with just your hand, extending your body away from the pole, we’ll move onto aerial silk.”

I blow out a breath. I can do it. Even though I’ve never done that before—I can still do it. My cheerleader sounds less assured than usual.

When his hands fall, I near the pole, clasping it firmly. One more breath and I make the ascent, using the tips of my toes but mostly my arms, my muscles pulling tight.

Up.

And up.

You can do this, Thora. It’s the lamest mantra in the history of mantras. I know this. But it’s the best one I have. It’s the one I always use, clearly. And still, the overuse doesn’t diminish its effect.

I keep my swift pace, the ceiling closer.

And closer.

Then halfway up, my quads spasm.

No. I try to block it out.

Don’t think about it.

I climb a bit higher, and the spasm clenches my entire muscle, spindling towards my ankles.

A cramp.

Two cramps. They’re not the little ones that I can shake off. It’s the crippling kind—from too much strain and maybe not enough hydration.

“Thora!” Nikolai calls.

I’m hugging onto the pole, my legs wrapped around it. “Just give…me a second!” I shout back, a wince contorting my face. You can do this, Thora James. Climb this fucking pole.

I use my hands to pull my body higher, my legs worthless beneath me. One handhold extra and I stop. There’s no way I can support my weight with one hand. My body is out of commission. At least until the cramping ends.

“Climb down!” Nikolai shouts, his voice pitching in worry, but the severity—the strictness, chills my bones.

I inhale. “One more—”

“Now,” he forces. “I’m not playing the fuck around, Thora.”

When I glance at him below, he braces a hand to the pole, standing right underneath it like he’s prepared to catch me if I let go and accidentally drop. His whole no-nonsense demeanor sways me. And I slide down the pole like a fireman or little kid in an indoor playground.