Page 9 of Dance with Death

Pound by pound.

Before I can stand fully with my weight balanced equally on both sides, I’m cursing and lifting my foot back off the floor. It hurts too much and I just can’t bear it.

Will this heal?

Will I ever dance again, or has he ruined me for good?

Tears burn as they form a layer over my eyes and threaten to spill down my cheeks. But then I steel myself, straighten my spine, tap into my last reserve of strength, and force myself to take one single, goddamn step.

“Shit…” I tremble, trying to hold back an oncoming sob. “I can do this. I can do this.”

I hobble once, but I’m forced to step through the ball of my injured foot. I can’t flatten it on the floor and put weight on it at the same time. But I can do this. I can limp on my toes. I can get to my dresser. I can finally put on some clothes.

But then what?

I stagger, uneven step after uneven step, until I reach my dresser. I opt for a black, silk chemise nightgown—pants are far too complicated for me at the moment—and put it on quickly.

My stomach growls, hungry for the lunch I missed, but there’s no way I can make it down the grand staircase to the kitchen. Even if I could, I have to consider how Nikolai might react if he sees me.

The image of Vigo swinging his foot back and ramming it into my ankle pops back into my head. It’s an image that punches painfully in my gut. It makes me want to fall to the floor and crumble in fear. He wants to buy me and Nikolai walked away with him.

Would Nikolai really sell me?

He’d always told me that I would be useless to him without my talent, and he’d just taken my talent away.

Oh, God.

What if I never dance again?

The most unsettling thing of all is the fact that he hasn’t come to check on me yet. He hasn’t come to kick me while I’m down. He hasn’t come to soothe me while gaslighting me into believing this was all my fault. He hasn’t come and I’ve never been more terrified.

Everything is happening so fast. Last night, I thought I had at least another year with Ezra. Though it would have been another year of captivity under Nikolai’s control, it would have been another year of survival, nonetheless. I could have loved and been loved for the first time in years.

I gasp as I realize that being loved was what led to this. Ezra had made a mistake falling for me. It was a tragedy that I’d fallen for him, too. Now we are both going to pay the price, though I don’t know how high that price will be yet.

I make a slow trip to the bathroom and somehow manage to wash my face and brush my teeth. I force myself into utter denial of the reality of being sold to another and how that might change my life. My mind only presents me with a detached concern that Vigo may not grant me time to care for my personal needs in the way I’d grown accustomed to.

If I’m sold to him, will I have my own bathroom?

Will I have my own room?

Will I be stuffed into a box and shoved beneath his bed, only to be let out for his entertainment and abuse?

A cold prickle runs up my spine, causing me to shudder in fear of that possible reality. Then I let that prickle ripple away from my body and put that energy into caring for myself while I still can.

I just can’t face the idea of being sold. Denial may save my sanity. I allow my thoughts to separate from my reality and float through a pretend existence where my pain is only felt if I think about it; where the coming events of my day are going to be normal, business as usual. But every few seconds, my foot moves or my weight shifts, and the pain shoots through me all over again. As each jolt of pain ebbs, it pushes me down, the gravity of my emotion warning that I might soon be a sobbing mess, flat on the ground beneath me.

I use the toilet, but as I hop and turn to wash my hands, I hear the door to my bedroom fling open and it startles me.

Is it Nikolai?

Vigo?

I’m frozen as I hear movement just outside the bathroom door. It’s cracked open, but all I can see from where I’m standing is the shadowed outline of a man. They move forward and the shadow grows larger.

I jump as the bathroom door swings wide without warning and I nearly topple, swaying off-balance. I grip the edge of the countertop to steady myself and realize quickly that it’s Kostya.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there, still and brooding in the doorway.

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