She danced her way through the following weeks with a heart and mind gradually stepping back into the light. She didn’t have to run and hide anymore. That in itself gave her a new kind of freedom, even though David locked her in the cabin each time he left. He didn’t handcuff her again, for which she was grateful. He left for supplies about once a week, warning her not to leave the cabin. He told her the mountain was dangerous and she could be easily hurt. She was not stupid, so she had simply nodded her acquiescence and went back to her precious studio. She spent all of her time in there when she wasn’t in bed, eating or showering. Even when she wasn’t dancing, she still curled up on the floor to read or watch the lazy snowflakes falling through the long windows.
She danced in a way she’d never danced before. She didn’t have to perfect each step for the sake of an audience. She didn’t have to hone her body to sleek precision to meet the impossible standards of a brutal industry. Nor was she on the run from a husband determined to hunt her into the ground. She no longer had to dance with one eye to the shadows, fatigue her close friend because sleep was her enemy. She now danced for freedom, for herself.
It was the beginning of her fourth week in the cabin, three weeks had passed since David had given her the studio. She was standing at the free bar in the middle of the room, one leg up in a stretch and her arms arced over the same leg. She bent forward keeping her back perfectly straight, then swept forward to the floor. She smiled as the ends of her dark ponytail touched the floor. She was never allowed to leave her hair free at the Bolshoi. If even a strand was out of place the dancer would be in so much trouble!
But how she loved the feel of her hair whipping around her as she leapt and twirled. It just added to the freedom of movement. David used his laptop to download some music for her onto an iPod he’d bought for her on one of his trips into town. He’d even purchased speakers for her. She’d thanked him gratefully for the gift. Somehow the music meant more to her than all the jewelry he’d ever bought her. It was like he’d learned about her as he stalked her over the past few years. He somehow discovered that his young wife didn’t need or want expensive things. What she craved was the freedom of music and dance.
Now, Tasha easily pushed her free bar to the side using the pads he’d placed on the bottom and strode on her toe shoes to the iPod port to switch her music. She smiled widely, enjoying the sense of naughty freedom that flooded her bloodstream as she pressed play on “Dog Days are Over” by Florence and the Machine and took her place in the center of the room. Though she still enjoyed the flow of classical ballet, she absolutely adored putting together modern dance compilations and spent most of her days composing her own numbers. The song was fast-paced and energetic. She leapt and whirled, throwing herself into each spin and kick with grinning enthusiasm.
She finished with a sweeping bow, low to the floor. With a laugh, she jumped to her feet and twirled around until she faced the door. She gasped and clasped a hand over her racing heart when she saw David standing in the doorway. He stood watching her, his normally serious face softened by a small smile. He was so breathtakingly sexy in that moment that all she could do was stand and stare. She wanted to say something; to invite him into the studio. To thank him again for the hundredth time for her gift. But the music continued to pound throughout the room, drowning out anything she would have said. Besides, she was certain her heart was in her eyes.
He nodded toward her and gently closed the door, leaving her alone in the sound-proofed room. Tasha smiled at the door, warmth suffusing her. They had been growing closer over the past weeks. He was gradually loosening up around her. He didn’t stop her from speaking in his presence when she forgot herself and started talking about nonsense. He even encouraged her chatter once or twice, adding his own comments that would occasionally end in her laughter. It occurred to her that he might have missed her laugh during their time apart. He used to say that her smile and her voice were two of the things he liked best about her.
And their nights… David’s touch, while still aggressive and intense had become more controlled and not painful anymore. He sought her pleasure much the way he used to at the beginning of their marriage. Though she still sensed the darkness underlying his every action, she now suspected this was a part of his character that had always existed. Something she had been naïve to as a young virgin, in love for the first time. Now she understood the barely concealed savagery her husband held beneath the surface of his civilized exterior. She was not fool enough to believe that he had forgiven her completely. But he seemed to understand that if they were to remain together as husband and wife, that they would have to get past… well… the past.
What Tasha didn’t quite know, was how she was going to reconcile his career choice enough to stay with him. She could now admit to herself that she was helplessly, irrevocably in love with her husband. Always. The love never stopped. Even when she feared him. She wanted to beg him to stop killing people. She even found herself approaching him several times over the past few weeks, when he seemed in a better mood. But every time she opened her mouth and he turned to her, a question in his eyes, she would back away and shake her head. She simply couldn’t bring herself to introduce such a volatile subject when things were finally settling into a hopeful pattern of happiness for them. Even better than what she’d known before she’d disappeared from his life. Because there was truth between them.
Tasha finished dancing for the morning and cooled down, stretching out her muscles. When she opened the studio door and wandered into the kitchen, heading toward the washroom for a shower, David stopped her.
“Come here,” he grunted from his place at the table.
She pivoted and redirected over to him. He was sitting in a deceptively relaxed position with a coffee cup in front of him, facing the door she had just come through, as though waiting for her to emerge. She plopped down in the chair next to him and gave him a questioning look. “What’s up?” she asked a little breathlessly.
His shirt stretched deliciously across his hard chest and shoulders. Dancing always made her a little horny. Something about the blood flowing through her veins, the twisting and flowing of limbs and the imaginary voyeuristic audience. His light brown hair was messier than usual, as though he’d run a hand through it while he was waiting; a lock landed near his dark eyebrow. His eyes rarely gave away what he was thinking. She could never tell if she was in trouble or if he was just going to comment on the weather, which was usually either a steady mix of sleet and snow or grey skies. Tasha glanced toward the window. Gloomy as usual.
“Give me your feet,” he demanded.
Tasha frowned a little, but shifted her butt in the chair to automatically give him her feet, lifting to place them in his lap. She sighed a little on the inside and rolled her eyes at herself. She really was an obedient little woman. Life in rural Russia has been tough, but not unkind. She had been carefree. As a young girl, she had been taught to listen to her elders. Then, at the Bolshoi she had been committed to obey every demand without hesitation. It was the price she paid on her way to principal. A girl did not disobey if she wanted to be a star. She smiled pretty and danced even prettier, submitting to every command with flawless precision. Then David had come along and she had gone from one master to another. Handing her heart over in perfect obedience, like a lovely little puppet on its strings.
She held her breath as David ran his fingers gently over the bloody calluses along the tops of her toes and then the backs of her heels. A slight frown wrinkled her brow as his dark eyes met hers, dissatisfaction clearly evident at her pain. She dared him to say anything, to tell her she must stop dancing so much. Or stop dancing with such passion. Because Tasha was not a perfect puppet at all. Tasha had a temper. Perhaps she kept it boxed tight inside, but she would let it free. Especially if he threatened the one thing that brought her solace when her future still felt so unclear.
Instead he pressed his thumbs deep into the arches of her feet, massaging her, unti
l she was moaning and squirming in her chair. Tasha couldn’t help herself. It felt so incredible, she actually gripped the table, tilted her head back until her dark ponytail brushed the top rung of the chair and moaned out loud. When she finally looked up, her eyes hooded with lust, he was staring back at her with equal intensity.
“Much as I’d like to take you up on that invitation,” he said gruffly. “I need to get us more supplies before the snow falls tonight. Wanted to ask if you’d like to go down the mountain with me this time?”
Tasha squealed in excitement, snapping out of her momentary stupor. She jerked her feet out of his lap so quickly that she damn near unmanned him where he sat. He looked amused as she flew toward the washroom, yelling over her shoulder, “Five minutes!”
He hadn’t let her off the mountain once since their arrival a month ago. Tasha was starving for any kind of outside stimulation. Though she didn’t mind her own company or even isolation, she was starved for the sight of another face. They didn’t have a TV and there was no proper internet signal besides the satellite connection that David used, so she had no way of connecting with the outside world. Tasha grinned as she took the fastest shower in history and threw on some clothes before meeting him at the door.
He gave her a stern look, but before he opened his mouth she begged, “Please, David. Don’t ruin this for me by saying something horrible, like you’ll murder me or someone else if I try to run away.”
He frowned down at her, his shoulders stiffening under his jacket. She rolled her eyes, grabbed his hand and threw the door open. “Come on! I promise I won’t do anything stupid. I won’t try to run away. I will be the model of wifely civility or whatever. Let’s go!”
Chapter Seventeen
Blyad, he was fool for allowing the woman back into his head. Yet, he could not tear his eyes from her as she danced her way through the small mountain town. She smiled at every fuck that passed her by, easily giving them the pieces of herself he had to sneak in like a thief and steal. He wanted to put bullets in all of them and he might have too, except they were supposed to be blending in. And for some reason he didn’t want to ruin her good time. So instead, he trailed along behind her, like a lovesick idiot, picking up the scraps she tossed his way and hoping he was doing the right thing by letting her off the leash.
She had earned this bit of freedom. She had taken his anger those first few weeks at the cabin, submitting to his every command without complaint. She had become a shadow, jumping at every noise, taking his cock whenever he demanded and silently putting up with every vile name he’d called her. Finally, it had been her silence, the bruises on her fair skin and the absence of her laughter that had broken him. He would never tell her, but he simply could not go on punishing her. He wanted his wife back, not the pale, jumpy wraith he was turning her into.
It had been the last vicious fuck that had finally broken him. About two weeks ago, right before he’d shown her the dance studio. She’d been having a bath and he’d been silently brooding, watching the snow fall on the branches of the trees beyond, struggling for life in a harsh environment that wouldn’t release its endless death grip. So much like the country of his birth, yet also different. He thought about all the complications of having Natasha back in his life.
How was he supposed to drag her around the world to his various jobs? Especially now that she knew about him? The danger to both their lives would be exponentially worse if she didn’t obey his every command. And would she? He knew for a fact she didn’t approve of him and his choice of career. If she made one wrong move, she could so easily fuck them both. Hell, she could have tipped the mark in Versailles if she’d been noisier that night that she’d followed him. If she’d distracted David while he was working and the mark had gotten away somehow, the fallout would have been disastrous. Word would have gotten back to David’s contractor and likely ended in both their deaths at the hand of another assassin.
The thought of Natasha, dead from the bullet of a rival, had driven David to exert a form of cold domination on his young wife in the hopes of breaking her until she would never think to disobey him. He’d dragged her dripping from the tub and forced her to kneel shivering and frightened in the middle of the cabin. When she’d tried to speak, he had demanded silence and proceeded to give her a series of instructions intended to demean and dominate. She had pleaded and begged with her eyes, but terrified of his icy demeanor and painful retaliations, given him everything he wanted.
He had punished her for every perceived defiance or flinch until she had lain naked at his feet, unmoving in the face of his grim torment. He had attempted and nearly succeeded in breaking his wife that night, brutally fucking her into submission until she was a quivering mess. It was only in looking down at her bowed head and shaking shoulders, her tiny dancer’s feet, tucked under her pale butt as she hid cowering from him, arms wrapped around her knees, that his eyes had slid for a split second toward the door and his thoughts to the room beyond and the gift he had yet to give to her. Shame had hovered at the edge of his consciousness, warring with the deep-seated need to keep her safe in his world. He knew without a doubt that a broken doll was safer in his world than a tempestuous ballerina.
His eyes had snapped back to her, tracing the single tear that had dared to escape her eye, watching as it rolled off her chin. He should slap her for allowing it to fall freely, punish her for having a feeling he didn’t allow her to feel. He was supposed to be training her for the life they would be living together, darkness dogging their every footstep. But he couldn’t fucking do it. He didn’t want a broken doll. He wanted his wife back, he wanted Natasha, heart-whole and laughing. So, he’d bent down, ignored the way she flinched away from him and scooped her into his arms. He’d carried her into the bedroom, laid her on the bed and turned away.
Now, it amazed him watching her skip down the aisles of one of the homeliest most rustic stores he’d ever had the misfortune of entering, that after experiencing such humiliation at his hands, she could still look at him with a smile. She rushed toward him with a stuffed moose in one hand and a book entitled “Toilet Humour” in the other.
“May I please, David?” she asked breathlessly.
How could he deny such a request? His chest ached when she said his fucking name that way, a plea in her lilting voice. The only response he could possibly give her, “Of course, my love.” His worshipping gaze tracing the near ethereal beauty of her features surrounded by the waves of dark hair skipping around her shoulders as she moved.
“Spasibo!” she yelled excitedly, forgetting her English in a moment of shining excitement.
He flinched and glanced around. He didn’t have the heart to tell her she must never speak her birth language in public. The odds of an assassin lurking nearby were astronomically slim, but men of his profession could never be too careful. He watched indulgently as she put her moose and book down long enough to start trying on a series of hats. She whirled around and posed for him, making a new face with each one. He was beginning to realize what a treasure his little wife truly was. He’d known two years ago that she was exceptional. His body and mind had told him so. But now that he had her once more under his power, without the trappings and influence of the money he’d showered upon her, he was seeing a new side of her. A side of her personality that he liked very much. Too damn much.
At the cabin, she never complained about having to cook or clean. They both shared equally in the tasks. But his wife of two years ago had been pampered and indulged to the extreme. Granted, she had never complained back then either. She had simply floated through life with him, acquiescing to his every command, travelling with him, shopping and dining with him. He would never have expected that the young celebrated ballerina, dripping in expensive baubles, would or could be just as happy living in a cabin high up in the Canadian mountains, away from the glittering cities she was used to. He found he admired this bare-faced, carefree, legging-clad young woman even more than the expensive jet-setting p
rincess. Yet, he was forced to admit, both women were products of his own selfish demands. What did she actually want, he wondered?
Uncomfortable with his own thoughts, he instructed her to choose a hat and gather her purchases. She nodded and grabbed a woolen toque with a bobble on the top that looked silly, but comfortable. Between that and the stuffed moose, his girl was definitely going to fit in with the damn locals. He allowed her to drag him through two more stores, explaining to him the importance of supporting local businesses, while she purchased some new clothes and handmade lotions and soaps. It amazed him that she looked even happier to him in some tiny shop sniffing at each scent bottle while the saleslady explained her scent-making process than when he’d taken her to an original Parisian perfumery and chosen a $5000 bottle of perfume for her.
“Thank you, David,” she sighed happily from the passenger seat in the truck as they drove back to the cabin.
Her eyes shone in the darkness, but he could still see the flash of sapphire blue. He didn’t like the way his heart beat harder, like a dog on a leash, when she looked at him like that. It was… uncomfortable. He’d always had feelings for his wife, but convinced himself they were possession and want. Perhaps, when she was younger, more naïve, it was easier to tell himself those things. Hold her at a distance. Now that they’d survived a storm together, he felt the foundations of his world crumbling. The things he once knew for a certainty were no longer as certain and he couldn’t seem to stop these feelings from escaping the cage.
He gritted his teeth and took a breath, exhaling a little. He reached out and took her hand in a firm grip. “You are welcome, Natasha. It… was my pleasure taking you into town today.”
The smile she flashed him was worth every uncertainty he was made to feel. It was worth the future bullet he might have to take from the constant distraction his wife had him under. Fuck, she was worth everything he had to endure to keep her. He was suddenly very glad he had taken the path he chose a few weeks ago. The one that led toward her smiles instead of away from them. He wanted her love, not her subjugation. He might be a cold, selfish bastard, but Natasha was not. He would do whatever it took to keep her happy, just like this, for as long as he could.
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