Page 39 of Dance with Death

I start to suck in a deep breath to steel myself against whatever is about to happen to me in this room, but I only suck it in halfway before his hands slam against my back and shove me forward. I falter, stumbling past the threshold, but somehow manage to stay on my feet.

I whip back around to face him. I don’t want to have my back turned to him anymore.

I back away as I watch him shut the door and he engages another lock from the inside with another pin. This one is meant to lock meinwith him. I can’t just turn the knob and run.

My heart is racing far too fast to process anything other than the fear for the unknown. Vigo stares at me, honey-brown eyes pulsing lasers that burn across my skin.

He licks his bottom lip and my body clenches unpleasantly, wanting to curl in around itself, wrap into a ball, and hide away from him in a dark corner.

He points to a spot behind me. “Sit. Brush out your hair.”

What?

I look where he’s pointing. Beside two windows covered with thick, brown curtains, I see a small vanity against the wall. It has a cream- and tan-marbled tabletop and it sits beneath a rectangular mirror on the wall.

On the marble tabletop there’s a wooden jewelry box beside what is perhaps the most elegant-looking hairbrush I’ve ever seen—silver-plated and carved with some sort of raised design that I can’t see from where I’m standing. A small cushioned stool rests in front of the vanity, inviting me to sit.

I move cautiously, casting my eyes back and forth to watch his movements until I reach the seat. I lower onto the stool and catch his eyes through the mirror as he approaches from behind.

His command was clear. I know what he expects me to do, so I don’t bother questioning the odd request to brush out my hair.

I hear Nikolai’s voice in my mind.Good slaves don’t ask questions, they just do.

In a strange way, his voice is a comfort, only because it reminds me of a time when I knew the rules and the consequences for breaking them, a time when I understood.

I don’t understand this newness with Vigo and his odd family.

I pick up the handle of the silver-plated brush and examine the backside of it. I draw my fingers over the elegant swirled floral design within the chrome. The bristles are soft, the color of wheat.

“Brush,” he barks, and I jump from the unexpected harshness of his tone.

“Si, Papà,” I nearly gag on the words.

The words he wants in response to his commands make me sick, but I’m thankful for the clarity, a rule I’m capable of following.

I shake out my long, tangled hair, letting it fall over my shoulders, and I begin to brush. There are knots and I have to pull the soft bristles through with some force.

I brush and brush until my hair is soft and sleek and smooth, until he tells me to stop. He approaches my side and reaches out to open the wooden jewelry box, pulling out a pair of elastic hair ties and two lengths of white, silky ribbon.

“Part your hair,” he begins, and I lift my eyes to meet his in the mirror. “Tie each side just below your ears.”

Pigtails.

Oh, God.

He really does want me to look like a child.

My chest heaves with a heavy breath and I swallow hard. I reach to pick up one of the elastic ties. I gather half of my hair together over one shoulder and tie it off with the elastic just beneath my ear, exactly as Vigo had instructed. I do the same with the other side.

“Tie on the ribbons,” he says, and my hands shake as I reach for one.

With trembling fingers, I wrap the ribbon over the elastic, looping and tying it into as neat of a bow as I can manage, then I repeat it on the other side.

Looking at my reflection kickstarts my pulse.

The pigtails.

The innocent white bows.

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