Page 10 of Dance with Death

Has he come to take me to Nikolai?

I wait.

But he doesn’t command me. He doesn’t grab my arm and pull me away. He doesn’t do anything at all.

A few breathless moments pass before he reaches into his pocket. He steps toward me, and though I want to step back, I can’t. I’ll fall if I try.

He slams his palm down on the corner of the countertop and leans forward. “Hide them. Only one a day.”

He tilts his head down in a nod and as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone. It takes me moments to relax enough to let out the breath I’d been holding. I look down at the countertop to see three small, round, white pills in the spot where his hand landed.

My heart leaps. I reach for them immediately, plucking them from the marbled surface, and hold them in my palm. I turn my hand over to look at them and I hesitate. I don’t know what these are. My first thought is that they must be for pain, but I can’t fathom why Kostya would give me something for that on his own.

Nikolai was so furious with me. Hewantedto cause me pain. I can’t imagine him asking Kostya to give them to me.

What if this is a trick?

What if these little white pills are meant to drug me, hurt me, drive me into the depths of insanity?

But…what if they’ll make the pain go away?

My body forcefully rejects any thoughts of denying myself the possibility of relief. Though the rational and stoic part of me tells me I should flush them down the toilet and muscle through the pain, I know I just don’t have it in me to endure this any longer—no matter the risk of taking an unknown drug.

Without allowing myself another moment to think, I toss one of the white pills into my mouth and turn on the faucet. I cup my hand under the flow to catch some water and tip it into my mouth.

I swallow.

I close my eyes.

I pray for relief.

Where am I supposed to hide these?

I start my slow, strained hobble back into my room, crossing to the bed. I bend to open the drawer on the nightstand. I open the forever closed copy of Vladimir Nabokov’s “Lolita,” a book that has sat in that nightstand in all of its mockery since the day Nikolai first brought me to Mikhailov Manor. I place the pills on the pages within and close the book. I shut the drawer and let myself fall backward on the bed, scooting carefully and lifting my ankle to rest on the stack of pillows Ezra had arranged for me before.

As my eyes fall shut, my memory flashes with a lightning bolt of green, the brilliant color of Ezra’s eyes. I put my hand over my heart, feeling thethump, thump, thump,as I wonder what he’s thinking about and if he’s okay.

What will Nikolai do with him when I’m gone?

When, not if.

I start to cry, my emotions finally catching up to the physical pain, bringing about a whole new kind of ache.

Heartbreak.

Heartbreak for me, for Ezra, for us and what we had, what we could have been, what our lives would be if we’d never been stolen but had found each other all the same.

I gave him my heart and he gave me his, but it was all for nothing. We weren’t allowed our own possessions whenwewere the possessions. We had both let down our guard, gave into love, and in that love, we lost control.

But God, it had felt so good to lose control with him.

I turn my head, looking toward the center of my bed, and my mind tugs at memories of our love making last night. It was stupid and reckless to do it here, and now we’re paying that debt. Though I should regret it with every jolt of pain in my ankle, I find that I don’t regret it at all. Ezra had given me the best night of my life and my bedsheets still hold the smell of him. It’s a sweet peaches and cream sort of scent mixed with the raw masculinity of his natural musk—like summer and sunshine.

I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of him on my pillow, forcing my mind to wander through those memories of our night together. It isn’t long before I start to feel the effects of a foreign chemical running through my system, making the memories twist, shift, and morph into strange waking dreams.

I guess another thirty minutes or so pass before the pills truly start to take over. I spend that time internally screaming, hating myself, hating Nikolai, even at times hating Ezra for his very existence and the fact that he wasn’t here with me to ease this pain with pleasure.

Then, the pain begins to fade, not disappearing entirely, but dulling into the background. An invisible ring of calmness swirls around my brain, looping around my senses and corralling them together into a faraway cage inside my mind. Feeling is there—pain and emotion, love and anger—it’s all there, but it’s distant, secluded.

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