Page 11 of Dance with Death

I feel something resembling peace.

I shut my eyes again and begin to count until I finally fade away into a dreamless, painless sleep.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five—

Chapter 4

Ezra

“Open your eyes,mal’chik.”

Somethingthwacksagainst my cheek and my head rolls on my shoulders. Anotherthwackand my eyes snap open.

I lift my head with a gradual wobble, coming out of an awkward sleep where I’m sitting upright. As my head rises, memory creeps in from the corners of my mind. I recall that I was in my room before, pacing and panicking about Anya being left alone. I remember Nikolai coming in with Kostya. I remember yelling, throwing a few punches, then going down hard after a blow to my head and a stun gun into my side.

Now I’m in a room I don’t recognize.

The space is large and open—it’s probably about half the size of our dance studio—with a high ceiling. There’s a picture window across the room from me that spans the entire width of the space. The crisscrossing muntin divide it into smaller square panes, slicing across the sunlight which shines in from low on the horizon. Sheer, ivory-colored curtains hang open on either side of the vast window, framing the light in the way they stretch from floor-to-ceiling.

The room is neat, its openness broken only by a few pieces of furniture. Off to my left is an oversized, wooden desk—there’s a stack of papers resting on top and an expensive-looking executive chair behind it. There’s a seating arrangement in front of me with a couple of cushioned armchairs, angled toward each other, across from a brown leather couch. In the far corner of the room, near the window, sits another matching armchair.

And then there’s me.

I attempt to lift my hand to run through my hair, but it’s trapped. I look down to see that my arms are tied behind a tan, cushioned chair and I’ve been positioned with my back to the corner of the room, in line with the door. I’m situated in such a way that I can see everything happening in the room. There’s something unsettling about that and it rolls nausea through my stomach.

I pull on my arms, but they’re tied tightly at the wrists behind me. Coarse rope is coiled and wrapped around them, irritating my skin. My shoulders ache from this position with my arms wrenched behind me. I try to move my legs, but my ankles are bound to the chair legs. I tug against my restraints, but they don’t budge. I only earn myself more rope burn in the process.

My muscles feel tired when I move and my head aches. The way they knocked me out succeeded in wearing me down enough that I hardly have it in me to fight to get free.

Nikolai moves in front of me, looming above, looking down upon me with his arms dangling at his sides and his fists clenched in annoyance. I tilt my chin to look up at him and his gray eyes catch mine.

“I’ve brought you here for one reason and one reason only,” he says. “You deserve to be punished for your indiscretion with Anya. Now you’re going to witness the consequence of her actions.”

“Where are we? Where’s Anya?”

“We’re in my home office.”

“Where’s Anya?” I nearly shout at him.

“You’ll see her in a moment,” he tells me.

A shadow of movement behind Nikolai catches my attention. I blink, making sure I’m seeing clearly as Vigo Vittori dissolves from a grayed-out blur into clarity. He moves to sit on the armchair in the far corner. He crosses his ankle over his knee and leans back, laying his arms casually on the rests—calm and cocky as fuck—as if he’s here to enjoy the festivities.

My neck muscles tug instinctively, bunching with tension as I drag my eyes away to look up at Nikolai.

The way Nikolai’s face contorts in a strange mixture of rage, hurt, and heartache, I know something’s not right.

When has anything ever been right here?

My heart skips a beat, then begins to pound roughly, bringing me from still resignation to caged-animal status with only a few pumps. I jerk, throwing my entire body forward against my binds, but it’s useless.

Nikolai doesn’t flinch.

My binds don’t loosen.

All I’ve managed to do is force the coarse fibers of rope to rub into my raw skin just a little bit deeper. The door clicks open and my head whips toward it.

---