Counts of Eight (The Four Families Book 1)

by Brynn Ford

  It feels like something else he’s taken from her.

  “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” he adds, just as I reluctantly turn to walk toward the door.

  I stop and swing back around to face him. “Lesson?”

  “Anya is mine. You are hers, but she will never be yours. It’s undeniable she has a soft spot for you. She’s impressed by your talent and that’s all it is. You’ll be disappointed if you read further into it than that. You are her dance partner and nothing else. Make sure that remains so, mal’chik. It doesn’t faze me to hurt her in order to control you. I would sooner kill her before letting her fall for a boy like you. Now you’ve seen the proof.”

  “Why the fuck am I here?” I turn my palms up. “Why do you even need me?”

  An evil smile spreads wide across his face as he latches an arm around Anya’s waist. I know she’s passed out again because her body is limp as he pulls her back against him.

  “You’re here for entertainment.”

  “You want me to dance,” I express with annoyance, “I get it. But she’s a perfect soloist, why give her a partner?”

  “Why? You assume there’s a meaningful motivation for my actions.”

  “Isn’t there?”

  “Ezra,” he says, “Anya is mine. She’s belonged to me longer than she’s been held in this manor. I claimed her a very long time ago. But even I grow weary with boredom. The drama a partner brings excites me. It’s as simple as that.”

  As simple as that.

  Our captivity is as simple as boredom.

  Chapter 14

  Anya

  I was required to spend two full days in Nikolai’s room after he killed me—though he hadn’t actually killed me this time. He told me my heart never fully stopped beating like it had the two times before, but we both know it would have given another handful of moments under the water.

  There’s a strange cycle I’ve come to expect now with Nikolai. His rage and violence slowly build over time. His frustration begins to grow when he brings me a new partner, and I think that must be the triggering event for his circular pattern of behavior.

  His frustration grows into anger, anger grows into rage, rage grows into violence. All of it culminates in my punishment—whether I deserve it or not.

  Once the punishment has been dealt, once his violent urges have been satiated, he finds a way to mold himself back into something that almost resembles a human being.

  This is why it doesn’t surprise me that Nikolai cares for me delicately in the aftermath of such a brutal punishment. I recall him doing the same before and for the life I me, I don’t understand why. Part of me likes to believe its remorse that makes him behave that way, but I know it’s not.

  He doesn’t regret hurting me.

  He just knows how badly he’s hurt me. He knows if he doesn’t give my body the rest, care, and nourishment it needs to recover, then I won’t be able to dance. That’s why he insists that I stay in his room.

  It hasn’t been entirely awful to be held here for two days. There’s a television I can watch, books to read, a small space behind the armchairs where I can do some barre work. He doesn’t hurt me, he doesn’t rape me, he brings me three meals a day and even sits to eat two of them with me.

  It’s nothing like the beginning of my captivity with Nikolai. I’m not chained to the bed. I’m not left alone and starving for days at a time. I have things to entertain me. Belonging to him is normal now, and there’s a strange kind of comfort to be found in that complacency.

  I hate that I think this way now.

  Captivity has altered my frame of mind and being aware of that makes no difference.

  By the third morning, I’m itching to get out of here, to move, to stretch my legs, to dance. I’m pacing the small space behind the armchairs when the door clicks open and Nikolai enters.

  I spin to face him, stopping in my tracks.

  Coming toward me, he asks, “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m well.”

  He reaches for me and I step forward into his embrace as he wraps his arms around me. He strokes my hair with one hand.

  Almost as if he cares about me.

  “Do you wish to dance today, Anya?”

  “Yes,” my tone is eager, but not urgent, “please, khozyain.”

  “If I let you dance today, I expect you to keep a firm hand with Ezra. He’s agitated with his concern for your condition. He’s worried.”

  My chest thumps unusually hard at the mention of him.

  “I will, khozyain. I promise.”

  He kisses the top of my head. The foolish half of me mistakes the gesture as affection, though my wiser, hardened half knows it’s nothing more than possessive posturing.

  I’m his possession.

  “He’s in the studio. Kostya’s with him. He’s been practicing while you rested.” He pulls back and holds me by the shoulders at arm’s length. “I’m afraid to tell you that you have quite a bit of catching up to do.”

  I meet his gray eyes, wanting to ask a question but knowing to phrase it as a statement to keep from upsetting him. “We’ll be dancing his style now. Contemporary, not ballet.”

  “Yes. I expect you to let him teach you, but you must not let him have control. I know this will be a challenge for you, Anya,” he strokes my hair again, “but your skill will improve if you can find that balance with him. Perhaps you’ll have a partner for more than one performance if you can pull this off together.”

  All the air leaves my body in a rush.

  It’s relief, but also fear.

  Relief that Ezra might not be taken from me like my partners before. Fear that I won’t be able to balance controlling him and learning from him…we both might see the consequences of that. Maybe it won’t just be Ezra who disappears forever. Maybe I’ll disappear right along with him.

  But even in that way of thinking, there’s an odd beat of relief.

  Nikolai dismisses me and I return to my room, changing into my favorite black, spaghetti strap leotard that crisscrosses over my back and gray, cotton shorts. I throw a pink wrap sweater on, tying it at the side against my waist, and I pull my hair back into a quick, low bun.

  I quickly walk to the dance studio, eager to stretch my legs and simply fall away from the world. Dance is all I have here at Mikhailov Manor. It’s all I’ve ever had. Two days without it may as well have been a lifetime.

  But there’s another reason I’m eager, too.

  A reason I don’t want to admit.

  A reason I can’t admit.

  When I reach the doorway to the studio, where Kostya gives me a nod of acknowledgement, I’m stunned into stillness by that very reason.

  Ezra is spinning, flipping, turning, truly and honestly floating through the air as if gravity itself were a chain he was bursting free from with ease. I’ve seen so many incredible dancers in my time, but I’m simply captivated by the way he moves so effortlessly, so gracefully, so emotionally. I swear I can feel what he’s feeling just being in the presence of his movement.

  He’s an artist and right now, he’s painting me a picture of fear and rage and desperation.

  I don’t want him to stop, I want to see the rest of this routine, so instead of walking into the studio, I lean against the doorframe. The floor creaks beneath my feet as I move, and that subtle movement is enough to draw his attention. I can actually see the green of his eyes catch mine mid-leap and there’s a shift.

  Everything shifts.

  Even I shift, as if the doorframe pushed me away from it.

  He lands hard on the floor and I know it wasn’t an intentional landing. I distracted him. I hate it so much when someone disturbs me in the middle of a dance, so I step inside, ready to apologize.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  He rushes toward me
, long strides bringing him swiftly into my space. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around my waist and pull me into his embrace, lifting me slightly off the floor.

  I’m frozen.

  His touch kickstarts my heart and my pulse quickens.

  My arms hang limply from my sides as he lowers me back to my feet, then holds me by the shoulders at arm’s length.

  “I’ve been so worried about you,” he says frantically. “Nikolai wouldn’t let me see you, he wouldn’t tell he how you were, if you were okay. The last time I saw you was after you drowned and passed out in his bed. I didn’t know if something had happened, if you…”

  “I’m fine. I’m well. No need to worry.”

  “No need my ass. My middle name is worry these days.”

  My smile betrays me, slipping out though I try to hold it back. A dimple appears on his cheek as one side of his mouth curls into a half-smile.

  “That’s a good look on you,” he says, letting me go. “The smile, I mean. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.”

  I swallow and purse my lips, trying to pull the happiness from my face. I’m supposed to be in control here. I can’t let him charm me into taking control for himself. There will be consequences for both of us if I can’t teach him what it means to be a slave of one of the four families.

  But then he smiles at me full-on. It’s a smile that takes over his entire face, his entire being, and it ticks inside my abdomen, coiling and tightening low in my belly.

  I put my hand on my stomach and breathe out slowly to steady myself against the bizarre and unexpected attraction I have to his natural charm.

  My face feels hot.

  I turn and walk away from him, hoping I haven’t already begun blushing. I stride toward the stereo controls in the corner behind the grand piano to turn off his music.

  “Are you really okay?” His voice is tinged with concern and now tiny wings are fluttering in my stomach.

  I don’t know why I’m having this reaction to him.

  I don’t like it.

  Really, I do like it and that’s why I don’t like it.

  I’d felt something like this toward my first partner, Jamal. It was just a simple attraction, a small spark of natural chemistry. But it had never evolved past that and I’m so glad it hadn’t. If I’d allowed myself to have felt something stronger for Jamal, it would’ve destroyed me when he disappeared.

  I try to shake off the thought of him, but it swiftly morphs into fear about Ezra’s future.

  No.

  I can’t think about this.

  I shake out my arms and the feeling along with them.

  “I’m really okay,” I finally respond to him, though I don’t turn to look. “I just need a minute, Ezra.”

  I’m angry at myself for using his name instead of mal’chik. But heaven help me, there is nothing boy-like about that man and referring to him as such just feels wrong.

  I need to get out of my head.

  I need to feel in control again.

  I need to dance.

  I spin around to face him. He’s standing in the center of the dance floor, his fingers locked together, pulling down from where they’re laced on the top of his head. His expression is narrowed as he studies me with concerned eyes.

  This stance he’s in puts his strength on display. He’s not wearing a shirt and with his hands up on the top of his head this way, his torso is lengthened and lean. The lines of his dance-sculpted abs are defined and glistening from the sweat of his craft and he looks strong.

  Impenetrable.

  Unmovable.

  Undeniably, irrefutably sexy.

  Oh, shit.

  He drops his hands and they land with a thud against his sides. That’s when I realize I’m just standing here, staring at him, not speaking, not moving. His eyes are narrowed as they regard me with worry, but there’s a hint of humor dancing behind the green of his eyes.

  “Well, fuck,” he says. “See? I really am gonna have to change my middle name to worry.”

  I lick my lips as they suddenly feel dry. “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make everything into a joke.”

  “Does it bother you? I really am worried about you.”

  “Why?” I feel my forehead crease in curiosity.

  Ezra tilts his head, looking confused. “Why wouldn’t I be? Why would I feel anything but worried about you in this shit show we’re living in?”

  “Never mind.” I shake my head. “It really doesn’t matter. We should get to work. We need to learn a new routine and prepare for the performance. It’s only a couple of months away.”

  He starts walking toward me and my shoulders tense as he nears the piano bench, stopping just on the other side of it.

  “Anya, I need you to tell me what all of this is about it.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “What do you want to know?”

  “What’s with this performance? Why are we doing it? Why does he care? It’s a pretty ridiculous reason to have slaves, don’t you think? Just to dance for him.”

  “It’s not just for him. I told you, this is so much bigger than Nikolai.”

  He nods. “Okay, so tell me everything. I have a right to know what this is all about.”

  I lower my arms. “You’ll be disappointed to find out why our lives were stolen from us.”

  He huffs out an amused sound. He steps forward, straddling the piano bench before he sits down. My mouth falls open watching him and I inhale sharply, exhale slowly.

  “I have no doubt you’re right. I can’t imagine any reason being something other than disappointing. Though that’s probably not a strong enough word.”

  “Frustrating,” I offer.

  He shakes his head. “Nah. Discouraging?” he counters.

  “Aggravating?”

  “Infuriating.”

  “Provocative,” I say.

  He smiles. “Now that’s an interesting word choice.”

  “I don’t mean in a sexual context, I—”

  What am I saying?

  Thankfully, he cuts me off, “Hey, I knew what you meant.”

  “Right,” I say. “Right, I know.”

  I know I sound moronic and it’s really unbecoming for a woman who is supposed to be in charge here.

  Ezra pats the bench in front of him. “Can we just sit for a minute? Just talk to me. Tell me what’s up here.”

  I tilt my head, looking at the bench. I’m physically drawn to him. My body wants to be close to him and he’s asking me to sit and talk. I know I should remain standing, using the leverage of my height as he sits to re-establish my authority and certify my position of power over him.

  But I don’t.

  I straddle the bench facing him. “There are four families that run a multi-billion-dollar enterprise across the globe. The O’Sheas, The Campbells, The Vittoris, and The Mikhailovs.”

  “Selling slaves.”

  “Human trafficking. Yes. It’s quite the lucrative business for those involved.”

  “Christ,” he says, shaking his head.

  “You and I belong to the Mikhailovs, obviously. But the slaves belonging to any the four families are more symbolic than anything else. Our role is entertainment. Some talent slaves will belong to their family for years, decades, but when the family is no longer entertained, they might sell their slave or…”

  “Or they kill them?” he finishes the thought for me.

  I’ve been looking at my hands resting in front of me on the bench, but I lift my eyes now. I connect with his gaze and his interested stare holds me.

  I nod. “I think so, yes.”

  “You had partners before me.” He shifts, his eyes darting away then back to meet mine. “Do you know what happened to them?”

&
nbsp; “I don’t,” I hesitate. “I can’t think about that.”

  His gaze is soft and comforting as he reaches out to tap my hand between us. “I’m sorry, Anya.”

  I’ve stilled at the touch of his fingertips on the back of my hand. There’s just something entirely inexplicable about the way my skin reacts to his touch. It’s soothing but at the same time, stirring, fire-starting.

  Provocative.

  My fingers twitch and before I can stop myself, I turn my hand and open it, inviting him to take hold. I feel relief when he grips it without hesitation, holding my hand without reserve or question or expectation. He holds it confidently, in such a way that it makes my whole body tingle in light-heartedness to be so courageously touched. He’s not tentative or wary or afraid that Kostya or Nikolai will see. His touch is just there, it exists for what it is, and my soul feels the vibration of it.

  I feel like I’ve found my steadiness when I start talking again, “The four families meet quarterly to discuss business. I don’t know the details. But they rotate their meeting location for each quarter, each taking a turn to host. The family who is hosting is responsible for providing entertainment before business. Once a year, it’s Nikolai’s turn to host, our turn to perform. The last meeting was hosted by the O’Shea family.”

  My eyes pinch shut for a moment as I remember being Nikolai’s payment to Vigo Vittori for information at that very meeting, just after the O’Shea family talent slave performed.

  “So, Nikolai owns us just so we can perform for him and his depraved colleagues once a year?”

  “Yes, though it’s not that simple…” I look down at our hands because I feel his thumb brush over my skin, “Or perhaps, it really is that simple and that’s what makes it so demented.”

  “It’s fucked-up. This whole thing is fucked-up.”

  I press my lips together. “I know.”

  “Tell me why I’m here. Tell me why he gives you partners to dance with just to throw them away. Does he do it to torture you?”

  “I think that’s part of it.” I swallow and then lower my voice so Kostya can’t overhear from the hallway. “Nikolai chose me a long time ago, Ezra. It’s what all the families do. I first met him when I was nearly eleven years old in Moscow. He was observing a ballet class I was taking. He came every day for weeks just to watch. I don’t remember much about our meeting, but I remember that he spoke to my mother. He gave her a business card and he gave me a pink rose.”