Page 18 of Dance with Death

I’m forced to hop a couple of steps toward the back of the car so Vigo can slam the door shut behind me. Then he drops my hand and regards me with a lift of his thick, black brow. The corner of his mouth twists upward and there’s humor in his eyes as he turns and walks off toward the helicopter. He comes to stand beside it after fifteen or so paces, his strides long and quick. He turns toward me, still balancing precariously beside the car.

“Come,” he shouts to me, summoning me forward with a wave of his hand.

My eyes follow the path his feet traveled. Fifteen paces for his long legs would be twenty for me under normal circumstances. But I was trading strides for uneven limps and hops, half of them along bumpy gravel before shifting to black asphalt. My eyes trace the path I need to walk and find Vigo at the end. He’s smiling gleefully at the torment he’s about to witness. He wants to watch me struggle; he wants to view my pain, my disgrace.

I won’t let him have the satisfaction of watching the pain brush across the features of my face. I steel myself, inhale deeply, and force myself to take a normal step, with both feet on the ground. My ankle screams, aggressive agony tearing through my limb. It takes everything that I have to hide the fact that I’m screaming on the inside. I’m determined to walk to him without the humiliating limp, determined to hide my weakness, but my internal scream slips out to an audible whimper with only the second step.

I lift my injured foot from the ground as I huff out a few breaths, blowing out the urge to cry and sucking in strength to get there.

Just get there.

There’s no other way for me to do it but to limp on the ball of my foot.

I see the satisfied smirk adorning Vigo’s face as I concede to my injury. It pleases him to see me succumb to my shame, the ballerina broken so effectively that she can’t even walk.

Oh, God.

Will I heal? Will I be able to dance again?

Kostya walks past me as I move forward, and he catches my eyes before tapping the backs of his fingers twice beneath his chin.

Chin up.

I’m surprised for that brief connection with him, and I’m thankful for it. I never really trusted Kostya, but I recognize the kindness in that gesture—not to mention the pills he gave me. Perhaps I misjudged him from the beginning.

His gesture reminds me that I’m strong, proud, and determined. I lift my chin to show Vigo that truth as I continue onward. I force a subtle smile to my face, a look of determination meant only to anger him, because I want to wipe that look of amusement off his face myself.

The blades of the aircraft pick up speed as I come within reaching distance of Vigo. They whip the wind and dirt from the ground beneath me. He turns away and climbs on board, offering me no assistance, but I wouldn’t take it anyway.

I reach deep within to pluck out my stubbornly independent streak, giving myself the fortitude required to finish this part of my journey. I force myself to move, to push, to ignore my pain for the moments it takes me to step up and drag myself inside the fuselage.

Panting, I fall into the seat beside him, and he smiles at me, perfectly pleased with himself for being such an arrogant prick.

I feel some relief once I’m finally sitting, thankful that I have the weight off my foot. At least the seat is comfortable. The interior of this helicopter is extravagant, practically screaming that it belongs to one of the four families with its leather seats, elegant overhead lighting, hardwood-inspired flooring, and extra leg room.

I push down on the arm rests to straighten myself in the seat. Vigo reaches across me, his hand darting across my legs. I jerk backward at the brush of his fingers along my thighs, scooting my bottom back as far as I can. He shoves his hand down between my hip and the armrest, rooting around until he finds the latch for the seat buckle. He pulls it out, drawing the strap across from the other side of me, and secures me in my seat.

His hand drops and lingers on my thigh and I don’t take my eyes off it. I can feel his breath, hot and sticky, against my neck as he leans in close. His fingers slip up the inside of my thigh and I act on instinct, even though I should know better. I smack his hand and push it away, throwing his unwanted touch from my body with a snap—something Ineverwould’ve done with Nikolai.

And then, I flinch because I realize what I’ve done.

I brace for his anger, for new pain to come raining down on me.

But it doesn’t come.

Not as the fuselage door is shut behind me.

Not as the co-pilot climbs aboard.

Not as the helicopter lifts from the ground.

Instead, I’m met with the same sinister, knowing smile that’s haunted me since I was used by Vigo before, when Nikolai gave me to him as payment for the information he wanted about his family’s death.

I shudder at the look.

He reaches for me again, but this time he drags his knuckles down the side of my cheek. Again, I act on instinct, ignoring everything I’ve learned about being a proper slave. My gut tells me to fight Vigo, not to submit, and it goes against everything Nikolai has groomed me to become. I flip my arm around to toss him off, but he snatches my wrist in his hand, again with a smile.

He pries my fisted fingers open with his other hand and sucks my index finger deep into his mouth. I swallow as my body sinks away from him, my face scrunching in disgust. He pulls my finger out slowly, his teeth grazing across my skin. His silent, unwavering eye contact is unsettling.

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