The following Thursday, the atmosphere in Studio A was no longer ethereal; it was volatile. The sunset over Ontario was a bleeding streak of crimson, casting long, predatory shadows across the mirrored walls.
Noah stood at the barre, but the "Swan" was gone. In his place was something sharper, something forged in the mud of the rugby pitch. His shoulder was still taped under his leotard, a vivid reminder of the bruise Liam had given him, and his eyes held a glint of cold, calculated mischief.
When the heavy oak doors creaked open, Liam stepped in. He looked weary, his jaw tight, his Student Council blazer pulled taut over his massive shoulders. He didn't look at Noah. He went straight to the corner to change into his dance gear, his movements stiff and robotic.
"Ready to be 'useless' again, Mr. President?" Noah's voice purred, slicing through the silence.
Liam's back stiffened. He turned, his face a mask of granite. "Let's just get this over with, Valentine. I have a budget meeting at eight."
"Oh, we'll get through it," Noah said, stepping toward him with a slow, predatory grace. "But today, we're working on Adagio. It's all about control. Partnering. Balance. And since you're so fond of 'contact' on the pitch, I thought we'd see how you handle it here."
Liam took his place at the barre, his hands gripping the wood so hard his knuckles turned white. "Fine. Tell me what to do."
"I'm not going to tell you, Liam," Noah whispered, sliding behind him. "I'm going to show you."
The revenge began with a touch that was entirely too slow.
Noah reached out, his palms flat against Liam's chest. He didn't just correct his posture; he let his fingers linger, tracing the hard, ridged lines of Liam's pectorals through the thin Lycra. He felt the thunderous beat of Liam's heart—a frantic, wild rhythm that betrayed the cold expression on the older boy's face.
"Shoulders down," Noah murmured, his chest pressing into Liam's back. He reached up, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of Liam's neck, lingering on the pulse point. "You're so tense, Captain. Are you afraid I'm going to break you?"
"Get on with it," Liam growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. He stared straight ahead at his own reflection, his eyes wide and fixed, refusing to acknowledge the boy draped over him. He was a statue. He was a wall. He would not let this feminine, beautiful creature see the cracks in his foundation.
Noah smiled—a small, sharp curve of his lips. He moved lower. He knelt behind Liam, his hands sliding down Liam's thick, muscular thighs. He didn't just adjust the turnout; he kneaded the muscle, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive inner thigh with an intimacy that was a blatant provocation.
"Turn out from the hip," Noah whispered, his breath hot against the back of Liam's knee. He let his hands slide upward, his fingertips brushing the very edge of Liam's dance belt, a touch so fleeting and forbidden that the air in the room seemed to vanish. "You have so much power, Liam. Such heavy, brutal muscle. It's a shame you don't know how to let someone else direct it."
Liam's breath hitched—a sharp, jagged sound in the quiet studio. His eyes flared in the mirror, the blue of his pupils swallowed by a dark, hungry blackness. His body was screaming, every nerve ending firing as Noah's hands continued their slow, agonizing assault.
"Is this part of the lesson, Valentine?" Liam hissed, his voice trembling with a rage that was ninety percent desire. "Or are you just trying to see how far you can push me before I snap?"
"I'm just being a thorough teacher," Noah replied, standing up and sliding his arms around Liam's waist from behind. He locked his fingers over Liam's stomach, pulling him back until there wasn't a hair's breadth of space between them. He leaned his head against Liam's shoulder, looking at their joined reflection. "You look so good like this, Liam. Controlled. Owned. Does it bother you? That the 'weak' dancer has you pinned to a barre?"
Noah's touch became even more daring. He moved one hand up to Liam's jaw, forcing Liam to turn his head slightly. Noah's thumb traced the line of Liam's lower lip, pulling it down just enough to reveal the white of his teeth.
"Talk to me, Liam," Noah provoked, his voice a velvet command. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you hate this. Tell me that my hands on your body don't make your blood boil. Use that 'Presidential' voice of yours."
Liam's jaw was locked so tight it looked like it might shatter. He was staring at Noah in the mirror, his expression one of pure, unadulterated loathing—and yet, his body was betraying him. He was leaning into Noah, his hips shifting almost imperceptibly toward the heat.
"You're... nothing," Liam managed to choke out, the lie sounding pathetic even to his own ears. "You're a distraction. A toy. I'm only here for the scholarship."
"Liar," Noah whispered. He moved his hand from Liam's mouth down to his throat, his fingers curling slightly around the windpipe—not to choke, but to claim. He pressed his body closer, his voice dropping to a sinful, suggestive depth. "You want me to ruin you. You want me to take that 'Perfect President' mask and tear it off your face. You've been watching me for three years, Liam. I've seen you in the shadows of the theater. I've felt your eyes on my skin."
Noah leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from Liam's ear. "Do you want to know what I think? I think you picked on me because you were terrified that if you spoke to me like a human, you'd end up on your knees. I think every tackle on that rugby pitch was a confession you were too cowardly to make."
The verbal assault was more than Liam could take. The Straight Captain, the Iron Leader—was being dismantled by a boy who smelled like vanilla and spoke like a demon.
"Shut up," Liam breathed, his eyes closing as he fought the urge to spin around and devour the boy behind him.
"Make me," Noah challenged, his hand sliding dangerously low again, his palm cupping the heavy muscle of Liam's thigh with a possessive, agonizing squeeze. "Show me that 'Iron' will, Captain. Show me how much you don't care."
Liam's control snapped.
He didn't turn around with grace. He spun with the violence of the rugby pitch, his massive hand shooting out to catch Noah by the throat, pinning him back against the mirror. The glass rattled in its frame.
Liam was heaving, his face inches from Noah's, his eyes burning with a terrifying, raw hunger. He looked like he wanted to break Noah into a thousand pieces—or worship him.
"You think you've won?" Liam hissed, his voice a guttural, broken thing. "You think because you can make my heart race, you've changed anything? You're a dancer, Noah. You're a fleeting, beautiful thing that doesn't fit in my world. I am the President. I am the Captain. And I will never, ever let a boy like you own me."
Liam's grip tightened just enough to be felt, his thumb tracing the line of Noah's chin. His gaze was fixated on Noah's mouth, his own lips trembling with the effort of not leaning in.
"You want intensity?" Liam growled, his body pressing Noah into the glass, the heat between them reaching a fever pitch. "You want to know what happens when I stop being the 'Perfect President'? You wouldn't survive it. You're too soft. Too delicate."
"Try me," Noah whispered, his own breath coming in shallow hitches, his eyes defiant despite the hand at his throat.
For a long, agonizing minute, the world stood still. The only sound was their synchronized, frantic breathing. Liam looked like he was about to surrender, to finally fall and kiss the boy.
Then, with a violent, physical wrench, Liam tore himself away.
He stumbled back, his chest heaving, his face pale beneath the sweat. He smoothed his hair with a shaking hand, his cold, presidential mask sliding back into place like a steel shutter.
"We're done for today," Liam said, his voice cold, distant, and utterly hollow.
He didn't look at Noah. He grabbed his bag and marched toward the door, his footsteps echoing like a funeral march.
"Liam!" Noah called out, his voice cracking.
Liam didn't stop. He didn't look back. He vanished into the hallway, leaving Noah alone in the red light of the studio.
But as Liam walked down the hall, he had to lean against the lockers for support. He looked down at his hands—the hands that had been on Noah's throat, the hands that wanted to be everywhere else.
But as he let out a broken, shuddering sob in the empty hallway, he knew the truth.