Counts of Eight (The Four Families Book 1)

by Brynn Ford

  Ezra reaches out and takes my other hand in his and for whatever stupid reason, I let him. The gentle contact feels nice. It feels good.

  “A month later, we were moving to New York at the expense of a benefactor. That’s all my mother ever told me—that there was a benefactor who funded our move. I never questioned it. I went to public school but spent all my free hours training, practicing. All my dance activities were determined by this benefactor who I knew nothing about.

  “Then three years ago, just after I turned twenty-one, he came for me. It all seemed very innocent. He found me one day coming out of the studio after a long rehearsal and introduced himself as my benefactor. His face did seem familiar when I first saw him, and once he explained who he was, I was certain it was the man I had seen observing my dance classes all those years ago. He offered me an opportunity to come back to Moscow with him—a unique training opportunity which would ensure my promotion to Principal at the New York City Ballet. That was everything I’d been working toward, so I didn’t even stop to think about how strange it all seemed. I went with him willingly.

  “He took me on a private jet, won me over with his wealth and power, and I thought I was safe. It was seduction and I fell for it. He brought me here and I haven’t left since, except for the quarterly meetings. I’ve attended all of those with Nikolai. He chose me when I was a child, Ezra. He controlled my life from the age of eleven. He trained me, groomed me. And my family never knew. He paid my mother under a false name in a secret account. There’s no way anyone could track him in connection with my disappearance, though even if they could, it wouldn’t matter. The four families are more powerful than any political party, than any government. I’ve never had a life of my own, not really.”

  He doesn’t reply. He just watches me as if waiting for me to say more.

  “I think you may be my last partner, Ezra. My last chance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said it yourself, he’s impatient with me. He’s always been cruel. He’s always been controlling and hateful, and he’s always hurt me. But he’s never been so impatient with me as he has been since you arrived.”

  “Why is it different now?”

  I sigh. “I worry…I think I’ll be the next to disappear. I think that if you and I don’t do well in our performance that he might get rid of me this time.”

  “You think he’d get rid of you and keep me instead?”

  I nod and let go of one of his hands to draw circles on the bench, looking down at my fingers as if they’re interesting to watch.

  “I think,” I begin, but hesitate, knowing I shouldn’t be telling him so much of my speculation, “I think he’s ashamed by his preferences. There was pressure on him to choose a beneficiary when he found me as a child. I think finding a female talent was just easier. And a female beneficiary is far and above the standard among the four families.” I tilt my head. “I think my dance partners have been the only male talent slaves. I think the Vittoris have some male slaves, but they serve the lady of the house. I don’t think there have ever been any other male beneficiaries.”

  His jaw ticks and he nods. “I get it. He doesn’t just want to watch a beautiful woman dance…”

  “He wants to watch a beautiful man, too,” I complete the thought for him. “You’re more beautiful than the others. He’s been kinder to you.”

  He laughs. “This shit is his version of kindness?”

  “Yes. This, what you’ve seen from him, is kindness. You have no idea what he’s put me through.”

  His brow wrinkles. “I have a little bit of an idea. Are you telling me it’s been worse than him drowning you?”

  I meet his eyes and I know mine have glazed over with ice, the way they always do when thoughts of my various traumatic incidents with Nikolai jump back into my brain.

  “Much worse.” I sigh. “Things have been changing since his parents and his brother died a year ago. He’s become arrogant, bold, self-righteous. Downright vindictive. And he takes his anger out on me.”

  He pauses in consideration. “I won’t let him do that anymore.”

  “I’m afraid he will come after you, too. There will come a point when he wants you as much as he wants me. You’re the first partner since his immediate family died. There’s no one here to judge him, and I’m terrified of how he will use us. And when he decides he’s done with one or both of us, then he’s done. You see the control he has over us now? We can’t escape this place. Like it or not, we are his slaves. We belong to him. Our lives are in his hands. But there is one thing we can control.”

  He says it so I don’t have to, “Our performance.”

  “Yes. And it’s the only thing, the only singular thing that makes me feel like I can wake up in the morning and go on.”

  My palms dampen with sweat and I immediately pull my hand away from his. I untie, adjust, and retie my wrap sweater, just to give my hands something to do.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you all of this. Not now. Nikolai expects us to rehearse,” I stand and move to the stereo controls, “so we need to rehearse.”

  “Okay,” he concedes with a sigh, though the tone of it is dripping with sarcasm. “Then let’s rehearse. But he wants my style, right?”

  Ezra comes up behind me and reaches around me to scroll through the music options. He’s looking over my shoulder to do this, his chest pressed against my back and I hold my breath. He lands on a song, starts it, then steps away, moving into the open space.

  “Yes,” I finally confirm once I can breathe again, “your absolutely reckless, untamed contemporary style.” I roll my eyes.

  I turn to face him, expecting to see him as depressed and angst-ridden as I feel, and though I can feel those emotions vibrating from him through the air, he’s somehow managed to shove them down low enough for me to step over.

  He gives me a charming wink. “Reckless and untamed are absolutely my style, babe.”

  My heart stops.

  Reckless and untamed are the exact opposite of what I need for survival.

  I know that.

  And still, the promise lights a fire around my cold, dead heart.

  Chapter 15

  Ezra

  “Oh, shit…Shit, I’ve got you,” I grunt.

  Anya reaches her arms out, ready to brace against the hardwood dance floor as she tumbles headfirst out of the lift above my head.

  My arm latches around her waist and I grip her side with one hand. Her weight shifts both of us forward and I’m falling with her, though I’m determined to keep her from hitting the ground. I promised her I wouldn’t let her hit the floor and I won’t, but I’m going down, too.

  I’m bringing her down to the floor sideways and I twist to grab her waist with both hands, rolling forward over her, and taking the fall for her. I land on my back as I twist her and bring her down on top of me, chest to chest. Thankfully, I slowed our momentum enough that it’s a light landing.

  She keeps rolling until she’s off me and lays on her back by my side. We’re both huffing and puffing because that was a fucking rush.

  I turn my head to look over at her and smile. “My bad.”

  She turns her head to look at me, too. “You swore you wouldn’t let me hit the floor,” she says with all the seriousness in the world, but she can’t hide the amusement that tugs at the side of her mouth.

  “You didn’t technically hit the floor, I did.” I grin.

  She shakes her head and looks back up at the ceiling, but I see the smile she was trying to hide, though I don’t have to see it to know it’s there. Every time she smiles, I feel it creep down my spine and threaten arousal that I just can’t deal with in this shit storm of a situation.

  We’ve been rehearsing a new routine for three weeks now. We’ve danced together nearly every day since Nikolai—in all his medical wisdom—determined A
nya was recovered enough from the drowning. The more time I spent dancing with her, the more time I wanted to spend with her.

  Something about Anya twists something inside me with every interaction.

  It’s a good twist.

  A spine-tingling twist.

  But it’s a deep down, knife-in-the-gut twist, too…because we aren’t living in the real world.

  It’s not like I can date her or something. I can build a friendship, flirt, dance with her, but that’s where it all ends. Anytime I so much as think of the possibility of being anything more to her than the man who will help her survive another year in captivity, the reality of our life or death circumstance comes crashing down on my head.

  It’s the heaviest fucking weight in the world to carry, because honestly, I could fall for this blue-eyed girl. And it’s not just that she’s literally the only person around.

  It’s her.

  She sits up abruptly and looks down at me. “Should we try a different lift? We’ve been working on this one for a week. If we can’t nail it every single time in rehearsal, we can’t bank on nailing it in the performance. And we have to nail our performance. You know how important this is.”

  I reach over and touch her arm. “Hey, I know. But we also have to push the limit a bit. You told me he wants mind-blowing talent. Well, he’s not gonna get it from us wussing out for an easier lift.”

  Her nose wrinkles as her face scrunches. “It’s not wussing out…” She tilts her head. “What does that even mean?”

  I laugh. “It means giving up because of fear.”

  “Oh. I’m not fearful, Ezra. I just want a perfect routine.”

  “Perfection is boring. Besides, I really don’t think Nikolai or any of these other assholes would know dance perfection if it bit them in the ass.” I squeeze her wrist before letting go and I sit up, leaning back on my palms.

  She sighs. “That’s what I hate about this contemporary shit. Classical ballet has structure, form, technique that I understand. I don’t understand the flexed feet and the hard mixed with the soft, and the constant shift between grace and…and…”

  “And?”

  Her expression ticks then falters into self-amusement, with the smallest hint of a smile. “I don’t know. Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” I’m just smiling at her.

  She swallows. “Like that. Like you know something I don’t. Like you know more than I do.”

  My eyes widen. “Well, whoa. That’s definitely not true. You know way more than I do about the technique, the form, the grace.”

  “That’s true,” she agrees, and I laugh.

  I hop to my feet and hold out my hand to her. “Come on.”

  She takes it without hesitation and shoots icy daggers of longing straight through to my heart as I pull her to stand. The song we’ve chosen to perform to is playing on a loop and is about mid-way through playing for the fifth time in a row.

  I hold up my palms in front of her. “Okay,” I tell her, “forget the routine for a minute. I wanna get you out of your head and help you understand what you’re missing.”

  “What I’m missing?” she feigns a disheartened shock, but I know better by now.

  I tilt my head at her with a grin and she mimics me to jab right back.

  “Hands on mine,” I tell her, smiling.

  She places her palms against mine and automatically adjusts her feet to stand shoulder width apart, naturally mirroring my position.

  I blow out a breath to push out the playfulness I’m feeling and take in another to center myself. “Close your eyes.”

  “Okay,” she says easily, pressing her eyes shut, trusting me immediately.

  My chest puffs out proudly at the fact that I’ve earned that trust from her. She doesn’t give it easily and I take it seriously.

  “My eyes are closed, too,” I tell her and wait a beat.

  She opens one eye, to see me staring and smiling at her. We both laugh and she slaps my palms.

  I shut my eyes. “Okay, okay, I’m serious now. Shut your eyes.”

  I wait until I hear her exhale slowly, calmly, steadily.

  “What you’re missing is the feeling. The emotion,” I tell her. “When you do the steps like you’re supposed to, it’s beautiful and graceful because…well, you’re just naturally beautiful and graceful. But you can get so caught up in the perfection of movement that you forget about the imperfection of soul. The rawness of feeling.”

  I hear her sigh, but I feel it more. I feel it where my palms touch hers.

  “Listen to the music. Really listen to it. And when you start to have a real, emotional reaction to it, I want you to move, but stay connected with me. I want you to move me with you so I can feel what you’re feeling.”

  “Okay…” I can hear the skepticism in her tone.

  “Hey, just do this for me.”

  “I’m doing it, I’m doing it,” she says.

  I sneak a peek because I can hear her smiling and I can’t help myself but to look. I only mean to look for a moment, but I end up lingering, watching her as she shifts into focus. I swallow, watching her breath slowly, watching her listen.

  Her face holds tension as she concentrates way too hard. She’s trying to think her way into feeling and it makes me want to laugh. She’s not naturally stone cold, she’s been hardened over time. I want nothing more than to see her crack that shell and watch it crumble beneath our feet, but I don’t hold out hope that it will actually happen.

  She’s not safe here.

  She’d need to feel safe to shed her armor.

  But then I feel a twitch.

  Her palms curve into mine just a little bit harder. I hold steady, giving her something strong and stable to push against. Her fingertips curl and my fingers are itching to curl right back.

  I squeeze, bringing my fingers down through the spaces between hers. Her eyes snap open to meet mine and all I can see is sapphire blue. Her fingers drop slowly and now our hands are locked together.

  Something inside her stirs.

  I can feel it.

  She can feel it.

  She starts to move and soon, I’m moving with her. It’s not our routine, but it’s as though we’ve rehearsed it a thousand times.

  Every movement is slow, drifting from one into the other. We’re apart at first, but gradually, she’s dancing closer and closer to me. Her dancing is soft at the beginning, just fading into emotion, but it’s changing, growing.

  Every move she makes is sensual and my fucking heart is racing.

  I need her.

  The intensity I feel dancing with Anya—even just being near her—is indescribable. The way I hated her in the beginning, that powerful feeling, it’s morphed and changed as we’ve gotten to know each other into an all new kind of intensity, a desire-fueled intensity. It’s the kind of intensity I want to feel all the time.

  It’s the splash of cool water on a hot summer day.

  It’s the rush of performing for a crowd of hundreds.

  It’s dirty sex on a public fucking beach.

  I’m just about to drag her into my arms, but the chance is taken from me. Just like everything else has been taken from me.

  Nikolai gives three slow, sharp claps as he enters the dance studio. Anya jumps out of her skin with a gasp, yanking her hands free from mine and spinning to face him immediately.

  He’s been gone for three days on business, so his sudden appearance startles us both. I lace my fingers behind my neck and stretch as I blow out a heavy breath, watching her walk away from me to go to his side.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were watching,” she tells him with a bowed head.

  Nikolai taps two fingers under her chin, and she lifts to meet his eyes. “I’m always watching, moya rabynya.”

  I shud
der.

  “You two dance quite beautifully together,” Nikolai says slowly, looking over at me. “You have chemistry.”

  You can’t fake chemistry and he’s right that we have buckets of it. It kills me how much chemistry we have. I drop my hands to my sides, worried what he thinks he saw and what he’s reading into it right now.

  “It’s part of the performance,” I lie.

  “I have something for you, Ezra. Come. Both of you,” he says and exits the studio.

  Anya and I share a look before we follow him. My look says, “Well, fuck,” and hers says, “Just do as your told, keep your smart mouth shut, and don’t make things worse.”

  Yes, her eyes speak volumes.

  Nikolai leads us upstairs to his bedroom and asks me to shut the door behind us. My shoulders immediately tense because this is unusual. It’s unusual for us both to be invited into his room, and even more unusual for the door to be shut. If this were going to be a quick exchange, there would be no reason to shut the door. The sneer on his face tells me to be ready for an attack.

  “Both of you, sit,” he orders.

  He gestures to the two armchairs that are angled toward each other, facing the fireplace. Anya moves immediately to do as she’s told, but I’m wary, hesitant. She turns her head back to look at me after she sits.

  “Mal’chik,” she insists.

  I move to sit, but not because he wants me to. I do it because she needs me to. She needs to maintain the image that she’s in control of me. In reality, she is. I’d do just about anything for this girl, especially if it ensures her well-being.

  Nikolai is somewhere behind us and it sounds like he’s pulling open a drawer, then shuts it. He comes back around in front of us and walks over to me, handing me a plain, manila envelope.

  “I do apologize we haven’t been able to provide these to you sooner. You’ve proven to be so detached from friends and family that it was challenging to find a suitable person for leverage. This is just the first. There will be more now that we’ve found her.”