Page 20 of Dance with Death

Oh, my God.

Why did I just say that?

Why am I being so stupid?

My love for Ezra has made me so fucking stupid.

His smirk ticks but doesn’t falter as he unbuckles his seat belt and rises to stand. We’re alone in the cabin, sitting across from one another in an arrangement of four, oversized, cream-colored leather seats. He could do anything he wanted without interruption from another. The awareness of that prickles beneath my skin as he steps toward me.

“Get.Up.”

I lift my chin to look up at him and instantly, I feel small…small and insignificant as he towers above me. The way he looks at me shakes me to my core. Without even making a conscious decision, my hands fall to my belt and unbuckle it, and I rise to stand.

He opens his arms. “Come here.”

I take one wobbly step toward him and the distance is closed. Chest to chest, I’m forced to let him wrap his arms around me. His feet shuffle him closer, pressing up against my body.

“Arms,” he says, his chin resting on the top of my head.

With great shame, I snake my arms around his waist.

“There’s a good girl.La mia piccola bambola Russa.”

I grit my teeth in frustration and fear as he speaks to me in Italian with a quick tongue. It terrifies me not to know what he’s saying.

“I don’t understand Italian,” I tell him, trying to soften the hard edge that keeps finding its way to my voice.

“You will learn some,” he says. “You aremy little Russian doll. La mia piccola bambola Russa.”

Oh, God.

I don’t want to end up like one of his dolls. I’ve heard Nikolai speak of Vigo’s habits before, his tendency to collect and keep women caged and at his mercy. I’ve seen first-hand how uncared for they are—malnourished, tired, unhealthy, fearful. Of course, I knew I would become one the moment I was sold, but the understanding of what that would truly mean hadn’t registered until now.

“Good girls do as they are told. Sì?”

I press my eyes shut and force out the reply he wants from me. “Yes.”

“Si,Papà,” he corrects me.

My gut clenches as nausea rolls through my belly.

I don’t need him to translate that.

I’d always known Vigo preferred younger girls. I knew he was depraved. But if this captivity was going to be a “yes, Daddy” situation, then I was fully unprepared for the sickness that might be waiting for me in his keep.

Somehow, I manage to repeat the words out of necessity, though my voice cracks, along with any defiant resolve I thought I had against obeying him like a good little slave.

“Si, Papà.”

His hands crawl up my back and his fingers spread my hair apart into two thick sections from the back of my neck. He brings the long ends over both of my shoulders, half on one side and half on the other, until it dangles in front of each of my breasts. As he steps back to look at me, his hands come forward over my shoulders. He grips each section of hair in his hands, fisting the parted lengths in his grip next to my ears. His hands form makeshift ponytail holders, clutching my long hair in two pigtails.

He grins that demonic grin of his. “You are older than my other dolls, but you still look young like this. You’ll be perfect.”

“Perfect for what?” I ask quietly as I stand still in front of him.

He clicks his tongue, tilting his head. “Papàdid not give you permission to ask questions,bambola Russa. Get down on your knees and apologize.”

Vigo turns and moves away. A few short steps take him to a couch, situated sideways along the outer wall of the cabin, just behind the cluster of four seats we sat in before. He lowers to sit on the matching cream-colored couch and leans back. Vigo spreads his arms wide and lays them dominantly across the backrest. He spreads his legs apart and beckons me with a tilt of his head.

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