Page 16 of Dance with Death

When I firstcame to Mikhailov Manor over three years ago, I brought with me a single suitcase. I’d left New York with Nikolai willingly, not knowing that I was meant to be his slave. He revealed himself as the benefactor who had funded my talent development over the years, and he offered me a training opportunity in Moscow that I simply couldn’t pass up.

He told me to pack everything I would need for a two-week excursion into a single suitcase and leave with him right away. I should have known better when he told me I couldn’t contact my family, couldn’t tell my roommate or my friends.

He made it all seem so urgent. I was barely twenty-one at the time. I was naïve. I thought I was invincible. I convinced myself that this man—with his handsome face and charming smile—couldn’t possibly mean to do me harm. He’d been my secret benefactor after all—an attractive older man who wanted to give me his attention.

So, I did what he asked, packed my suitcase, and left.

Sitting in the backseat of the black sedan in front of Mikhailov Manor, I watch as Kostya brings that same silver hard-shell suitcase to the car. The trunk pops open and I spin in my seat to look, though all I can see is the raised trunk lid blocking my view. I hear a thud, as I assume the suitcase is tossed inside, and then the trunk is slammed shut.

I meet Kostya’s eyes for a quick beat and he tilts his head toward me in farewell. I pat unconsciously over the pocket of the jeans I had somehow managed to pull on. I have two more of the white pills Kostya had given me tucked away there.

My gut tells me to save them, to hide them somewhere safe as soon as I arrive at the Vittoris’ home. My gut tells me more pain is to come, which will be harder to endure than the pain swimming around my ankle.

I didn’t see Nikolai again after he stormed out of his office. He hadn’t even said goodbye to me. It shouldn’t matter, but in some twisted, warped way, it hurts my heart. The things he said to me when he signed the papers and sold me to Vigo had hurt.

Acknowledging that hurt reels nausea through my belly. His words shouldn’t matter to me. He hates me now, just as he always had.

At least, I thought he always had.

Somehow, what he said to me in his office makes me question everything I thought I knew about him. He called me a slut and a whore, but he had also said that he cared for me. He thought he gave me everything I needed to be happy.

Happy?

But it doesn’t matter anymore.

My life with Nikolai is over.

My life withEzrais over.

No. Stop.

Don’t think about it.

I gulp down my heartache as I straighten my spine, sitting up taller in my seat. I turn my head to look out the tinted window to my left, away from the manor, watching as the wide, white flakes of snow steadily fall to the ground.

Ezra melted the ice of my soul. His love warmed me, thawed me from winter to spring. He gave me hope where there was none, and I’m grateful for that. It was nice to live in that lie for what we had, but I know it’s over now.

If we’re lucky, the best we could hope for is a brief sighting of one another at the next quarterly meeting in three months. But I don’t know that either of us will survive that long.

Tears climb from deep within me, threatening to crash onto a shore of pain from the tidal wave of grief that swells. If I let these tears fall, if I let myself think about my love with even an ounce of hope, I will drown in this heartache. Falling in love dropped me into this sea of hurt andI will drownin it.

I can’t let that happen.

I have worse trials to face as Vigo’s new slave.

I let the slow snowfall inspire me, freezing a thin layer of ice over this grief-filled sea. It’s cold and the ice hurts me in other ways, but it provides a surface to stand upon, allowing me to walk above my grief as it churns and waves in a torrent of despair-ridden water below. Walking on this thin ice is a torturous way to survive, but it keeps me from drowning. The ice will thicken over time. The more Vigo hurts me, the more layers of protection I will add.

I have to.

It’s the only way to protect myself.

The car door to my right opens and I turn my head to watch as Vigo slides into the backseat beside me, slamming the door shut behind him.

I turn away and wipe the welling tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. I do it quickly, hoping he won’t notice, but I know he probably will. I can feel his attention on me, hot and oppressive.

The last of the guests from the four families—aside from Vigo—and their slaves and drivers left yesterday. Kostya slides into the driver’s seat and takes us to the helipad to meet the pilot.

Vigo’s eyes are on me as Kostya pulls away, starting down the long drive from the manor steps toward the gate in the distance. I spin in my seat to look behind me as we drive away and my heart stops.

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