by A. Zavarelli
I edge toward the door of the vault, and Sergei follows suit. “The girl is just collateral.”
“Pretty little thing.” He scratches at his chin. “She has a tight ass. I wouldn’t mind borrowing her—”
My fist collides with his jaw so fast that I have little time to understand what has come over me. Sergei reels back in astonishment, his teeth bloody and his eyes furious. I offer an apology in Russian while I try to come to terms with my actions. It would be in my best interest to smooth it over, but all I can think of is that I’ve just given him cause to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong.
“She is mine,” I declare. And this was not the thing I should have said because now he’s laughing.
“Yours? And Viktor has approved of this?”
“It’s nothing more than entertainment,” I correct. “A temporary distraction. But I don’t care to share her.”
Sergei strikes out at me like a snake, his fingers wrapping around my throat. “You might be Viktor’s little pet now, but don’t forget where you came from, syn. If you ever disrespect me again, I will take this news to Viktor and watch him destroy your plaything after she has been passed around to all of the brothers.”
As the spittle flies from his mouth, so do Sergei’s true colors. This is not the father who boasts endlessly of my accomplishments in false showmanship. This is the competitor. The man who sets the bar to impossible standards. The man who will offer his hand to save you, only to rip your throat out. And with a face so similar to mine, I wonder if he is truly capable of the horrors I have always questioned.
He had no reservations about ousting Alexei and his mother from the family home after tragedy reaped his hearing. It’s hard to conceive that a man who hates his firstborn so much could possibly harbor any love for his second. These things I know to be true, but I still hesitate to believe he sent my mother away.
It would be easier to accept if she left on her own. If she abandoned me to a year’s worth of tears, I could justify whatever fate befell her. But Sergei is not the type of man who would allow a woman to embarrass him by walking away. When I search his lifeless eyes, I conclude he is not the type of man I can respect at all. And when I pry his fingers from my throat, it’s with a new resolve.
I must find my answers, and I must do it fast.
9
NIKOLAI
“NIKA, the doctor would like to have a word with you.”
I hold up a finger to signal the interruption, and Alexei nods from the small video screen on my phone. Nonna is at the door with the therapist in tow. This is not what I want to deal with right now. It’s not what I want to deal with at all. I pay her good money to help Nakya, and she should not be bothering me with it when I have made it a point to avoid the situation altogether.
“I have some business that needs my attention,” I tell Alexei. “Will you come by tomorrow evening?”
He hesitates, but after a moment, he agrees. When I disconnect the call, I am left to wonder if it’s merely out of Vory obligation or familial.
My eyes move to the door again. “What is the problem?”
The therapist nods at Nonna, who shuts the door behind her as she steps inside and takes a seat across from my desk. “I would like to discuss Tanaka’s progress with you.”
“That is your concern,” I say. “Not mine.”
“You are paying me to give her the best possible treatment. Are you not interested to know if it’s working?”
I drum my fingers across the desk. Truthfully, I am better left in the dark. The girl means nothing to me, and in the end, she is simply leverage. The only leverage I have. I shouldn’t even be wasting my time or resources to fix the issues her father no doubt caused. It doesn’t make any sense, considering I told myself from the beginning I might end her life.
But the problem does weigh heavy on my mind. More than it should. I wonder if she’s eating on her own. I wonder about the current state of her health. I have been careful to avoid her, and I have kept myself busy so that the cameras don’t tempt me. All for nothing because now the doctor wants to discuss it with me.
I lean back in the chair and examine the therapist. Her name is Sarah, and though she was recommended as a trustworthy source by Dr. Shtein, she seems like too much of a greenhorn to me. Her face is young and hopeful, and I think she’d do better working with college students than criminal organizations.
“Do you need more money?”
She sighs. “The rate hasn’t changed. That isn’t the issue.”
“Then what is it? I am a busy man.”
“Tanaka is progressing well.” She fidgets with the hem of her blazer while she repeats the speech she’s prepared for me. “There have been setbacks, of course, which is only natural, but she’s doing much better. She is fully invested in the nutritional aspect of her meals and has been interested in learning the new program the nutritionist has set up for her.”
“So what is the problem?” I repeat.
“We can only do so much,” Sarah says. “Tanaka needs a support system outside of her medical professionals. If you truly want her to recover, I think it will give her the best chance.”
My foot beats an anxious tempo beneath the desk. “What would you suggest?”
“Tanaka has lived under a unique set of circumstances for the duration of her life. Essentially, she has never experienced basic human rights of passage. She has never dated a boy or gone to the movies or walked through a park on her own. Her schooling further isolated her, and even in her ballet company, she was kept separate from the other dancers. There is a deep sorrow inside her that she hides well, but it’s there. Every aspect of her life has been outside her control. Everything but her food and her dancing. It’s no surprise that she has taken them to the extreme.”
I lean forward, propping my elbows against the desk. “So she is starving herself to prove that she can?”
“It’s not really that black and white.” Sarah frowns. “But yes. Her ability to control something in her own way is a huge thing for her. The root of her issue is fear. In her mind, she thinks if she gains weight, she will lose what’s most important to her, which is dancing.”
“Her dancing career is over,” I say. “The doctors have told her as much. She is finished.”
“Then she will need to accept that in her own time. It’s too much for her to grasp right now. But in time, I am confident she will understand her limitations. The brace has been removed, and she is very excited about the prospect of exercising again.”
“Limited exercise,” I amend.
“Of course,” Sarah agrees. “Within reason. She understands she is being granted small freedoms but could lose them should she step out of bounds. Which brings me to my point. She needs something else to occupy her time. She mentioned she feels isolated here, and I believe it’s contributing to her obsessive state.”
“I told her to find another hobby.”
“Hobbies are good.” Sarah nods. “But making her feel useful, making her feel human, that’s important too. Perhaps what would be beneficial is for her to socialize more with you and your staff.”
I blink at her, still trying to wrap my head around how it came to this. Tanaka is not on holiday here. She is a prisoner. The doctor is well aware of her circumstances, and she freely accepted the payment for her services, but now she is trying to change the rules.
“It isn’t the way we do things. You could spend more time with her. I’ll pay you extra.”
“I’m afraid my schedule won’t allow it,” she says.
Well, fuck. What makes her think mine does?
“I’ll consider it,” I say, mostly to appease her.
She looks skeptical. “Just a suggestion … Tanaka longs for a taste of the real world, but she also fears it. Perhaps you could take her on the occasional outing if you find the time. Having a safety net to fall back on will help her.”
Safety net? I am the furthest thing from Tanaka’s safety net. Now this crackpot
of a doctor is adding outings to the agenda. I grunt a response and tell her I have work to do.
Sarah leaves, and I stare at the monitor. I’ve been careful to avoid it because I don’t need to know the details of her sessions.
But now I want to.
10
TANAKA
“ARE YOU BUSY?”
The rumble of Nikolai’s voice startles me. I was so absorbed in my stretches that I didn’t hear him enter the gym. With only an hour per day to exercise, I’m forced to make the most of it. His interruption is a hindrance, but I’m also curious about the sudden appearance, considering he hasn’t been to see me in weeks.
He’s dressed like he just came in from outside, wearing his black leather jacket and flat cap. The slight tint of pink on his cheeks betrays cold weather, but I can only imagine it myself. The seasons have changed since my arrival, but I have not left the walls of the fortress since.
“I’m stretching,” I tell him. “I still have thirty minutes.”
“I have no intention of cutting your time short, Nakya.” He bends down to dispose of the shopping bags in his hands. “But I brought something that might be of use to you.”
The gesture is out of left field, and I’m not sure what to do. So I say a simple thank you.
He nods. “I thought that perhaps this afternoon you could help Nonna in the kitchen. After your appointments, of course.”
“The kitchen?”
“Yes.” He rubs a hand over the scruff on his jaw. “We are having a guest for dinner tomorrow evening, and she will be doing some baking if you’d like to join her.”
It seems like an odd suggestion, but it’s not like I have anything better to do. “Okay.”
Silence is an ocean between us, and I don’t know what else to say. Neither does Nikolai, apparently. His eyes are hostage to my new figure, and I’m self-conscious of his attention. Before, he said I was too bony, but perhaps now he thinks the opposite to be true.
“You look much better,” he says roughly. “Healthy. Your skin is glowing.”
It isn’t what I expected to hear, and my answer is as awkward as I presently feel.
“Thanks. It’s all the fish. The doctor said it’s good for the skin … so yeah.”
This conversation is going nowhere fast. I’m out of sorts, and I don’t know why, but my cheeks heat when Nikolai’s eyes trace over my hips. I’m in the least flattering outfit I could imagine wearing—a pair of baggy shorts and a tee shirt—but it’s all I have left apart from the one leotard he didn’t destroy.
“Keep eating the fish,” he says. “It does you good.”
And with those words of wisdom, he departs abruptly, leaving me dazed and disoriented.
I’m tempted to check the bags now, but I wait until I’ve finished my practice. When the timer goes off downstairs, Nonna will be in to collect me and lock up the gym for the day. Since my release from the bed, I’ve been grateful to return to my practice. I was also surprised to find that Nikolai had a barre installed. Something I forgot to mention or thank him for while he was here.
It seems like an odd gesture of kindness from someone who has no interest in my returning to the stage. But I will take whatever small scrap he offers as far as my ballet is concerned.
“Time is up.” Nonna enters the room in keeping with her schedule.
“Okay.”
I finish my last set of pliés at the barre and collect my things, including the bags Nikolai left for me. Nonna locks the gym behind us but doesn’t bother to escort me upstairs. I’m free to roam as I like unless I break the rules again.
“The doctor will be here in thirty minutes,” she reminds me.
“Thank you. I’ll be ready.”
I trudge up the stairs to my room and set the bags down on the bed. The mystery of what’s inside gets the best of me, and when I peek, my breath falters.
Ballet clothes.
He bought me ballet clothes. Tights, leotards, wraps, leg warmers. Everything I could possibly need to return to my practice with renewed vigilance. Something thaws inside my chest, and I realize when a wave of emotion crashes over me that this is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.
It seems paradoxical when he was the one to ruin my clothes in the first place, but my father never bought me clothes. Dante never bought me clothes. I was given an allowance to shop online, and every item I owned was chosen by me personally. Nothing was ever gifted. It’s a new experience trying on clothing that someone else chose for me. I’m left to wonder what went through his mind when he picked each piece out. If he imagined the way they would look on my body. If he felt anything at all when he contemplated colors or sizes or fabrics.
The clothing is beautiful. Every piece is expensive and well made. But my favorite is the pale pink chiffon leotard dress. It’s light and flowy and pretty. When I try it on, I don’t want to take it off.
Inside another bag, I find a pair of pointe shoes with a note taped to them.
For later.
My heart squeezes, and I have to take a moment to process this turn of events. I’m not naïve enough to believe that Nikolai cares one way or the other if I ever dance professionally again, but this feels like hope. It feels like someone believes in me, and I haven’t had that for a very long time.
I don’t know how he determined my sizes, but it seems like he went through a lot of trouble to do this for me, so the least I can do is thank him properly. I sit down on the vanity bench and slip the pointes on to get a feel for them before I start my work. Every pair needs to be modified to fit perfectly, but not every pair needs the same adjustments. I can only ever tell by walking in them, which is what I intend to do now.
Traveling the length of the hall, I throw in a petit jeté along the way. My ankle is weak, and even though the brace is gone, it still hurts to land on it. But I am feeling much more like myself again, if only for having the impediment gone.
Nikolai is absent from his office, so I use the opportunity to float around the hallway, tossing in small movements as I go. The shoes need work, but so do I. When I reach the end of the carpeted rug, it occurs to me that I’ve landed on the threshold of his bedroom. It should come as no surprise when I find him there watching me, but it does.
“You were supposed to go slow.” There is a hint of a smile on his face.
“I was just testing them. The shoes will need to be molded to my feet. I have no intention of going too fast.”
“I should hope not,” he says. “Another injury—”
“Thank you for the clothing,” I blurt.
His eyes move over the pink fabric before pausing to linger on my breasts. They have swollen over the past month, and I’m suddenly aware of the way they tug at my leotard. The house is always cold, and it’s always obvious. I should have worn a wrap, but I was so eager to test out my shoes that it didn’t occur to me until now.
“You forgot to remove the tag,” Nikolai informs me with a gruff voice. “Turn around, and I will do it.”
I obey, even though it would be easy enough to do it myself. A small part of me wants to feel his fingers against the fabric. To experience a man’s touch. It’s not something I thought I could ever want for, but sometimes, I wonder what it would feel like to be touched by a man. As men go, Nikolai falls in the top percent of his red-blooded class. From his Herculean build to his wild hair and sharp cheekbones, he is a deity among the male species. A mortal casted in the image of a Greek god.
And that would make me his concubine.
The idea makes me shudder as his strong, calloused fingers skim the hem of the fabric against my shoulder blade before dipping to remove the tag. I don’t feel a tug, but there’s an audible snap. Aware that he is using a knife against the sensitive flesh of my back, I should be wary, but I find that I’m not.
The deed is done, but he’s in no hurry to tell me so. Goose bumps skitter over my arms when he sweeps my long hair over my shoulder and traces along one of the shoulder straps.
“You should not have come here like this.” His breath tickles the base of my neck, bathing me in warmth and cinnamon.
I can’t find my words. Not when he’s behind me, close enough to touch. Close enough that his body brushes against mine and his scent stirs between us. Traces of warm leather and cloves soak the air … and something else I can’t quite identify. Acrylic paint maybe?
His fingers graze the length of my arm, and it’s not an accident. It’s no accident when he draws me closer, molding me to his body. He buries his nose against my throat, inhaling me, and it opens a flood of warmth between my thighs. I sag into him, a drunken awareness hijacking my senses. I’m comatose, strung out in his arms, and for the first time in my life, I don’t care. I want more.
I want to live before I die.
He will be the one to lure me to my quietus. Lulling me to an eternal sleep with his languid kisses against the space where my blood runs warm. For now, I am a slave to his touch. A servant to his commands. Another doll for his collection. Pretty and untainted by anyone but him.
Rough fingers bunch the fabric against my stomach, and blinding electricity hammers my synapses. His gypsy hands roam free, squeezing the flesh of my hips and strumming the tender flesh of my ribcage. But the beast in me isn’t satisfied. She keeps screaming for more, and my captor is so willing to oblige. He takes possession of my swollen, heavy breasts by dipping his hand inside the fabric to scrape over my nipples. My chest arches, and I cry out as I’ve just been shocked back to life.
“Zvezda.” He kisses behind my ear. “You are so lovely. So soft and sweet and pure. I want to ruin you.”
His feverish cock looms ominously against my spine, a cautionary threat to his quietly spoken words. I want him to ruin me too. I want him to crucify me. And it makes me a liar because I’m the one who’s dirty and filthy and wrong. When his hand comes to rest between my thighs, the word is already on my lips. Poisonous and intoxicating, I want to tell him yes.
