Page 70 of Dance with Death

I whip around to look at him and his eyes blaze, narrowing at Nikolai.

“Excuse me?” Ezra says.

“Anya will be with me tonight. She and I will need our time…uninterrupted. But don’t worry, I’ll have Sasha brought down to keep you company.”

Ezra’s nostrils flare. “What are you going to do to her?”

Nikolai shakes his head. “That’s none of your business. Say goodbye to your pet,rabynya, you won’t be seeing each other again for quite a long time.”

“No,” I say and dash toward Ezra at the exact moment Nikolai reaches out to grab my wrist.

I fly into Ezra’s reaching arms and he clamps them tight around my body before Nikolai can touch me. The shackle of Ezra’s embrace is the only binding I want.

His lips brush across my ear. “Remember you promised me. Give me time. Please.”

I press my face into his shoulder, sucking in a long, deep breath to inhale the sweet scent of him one last time. Then I’m violently taken from him with Nikolai’s fierce hands gripping my waist and tearing me away.

I nod at Ezra, acknowledging my promise to him.

Nikolai drags me toward the steps by my wrist and I manage to twist back around to steal one more glance. Ezra’s brightness shines and threatens to knock me off my feet with the way he grins and winks at me. He could almost have me fooled that everything is okay. I smile in return before I’m pulled out of sight.

Oh, God…the way he makes me feel.

My palm crushes against my bloody chest, over my heart, and I mourn the rush of him fading with each melancholy beat of my hopeless, helpless heart.

I stand beside the locked door in the room Nikolai has been given for the evening. My back is pressed against the wall as I wait for direction on the manner in which I will be punished by my former master.

I was granted the unfortunate privilege of meeting my replacement, Sasha. A girl who looked similar to me, for all intents and purposes, but who was nothing like me at all. She bowed to Nikolai with a needy, desperate sort of submission, not in the way I had learned to submit over time. I learned it was best for my survival, but I had always abhorred my own behavior when I had to bow.

Unlike me, it’s clear this girl wants Nikolai’s approval, not for her safety, but for her self-esteem. I almost feel sorry for her naivety, but my heart just doesn’t have the space to concern myself with her. In any case, she was taken out of the room soon after I arrived and I’m left alone with Nikolai, locked in the room with no way out.

I watch as he pours a drink from a bar cart near an unlit fireplace. A sitting area with a couch and two armchairs separates us across the large space, and a traditional, mahogany four post bed sits threatening on the opposite side of the room.

He turns as he lifts a glass of whiskey to his lips and I’m surprised to find that his eyes aren’t immediately filled with lust and violence.

“Come sit, Anya. Let’s talk.” He tilts his head toward the sofa. “Would you like a drink?”

My eyes are wide as I subtly shake my head. “No.”

He stills, watching me, waiting for me to obey. Though I wish to stay right here, with my back pressed firmly to the wall, I know I must submit and do as he wishes. Slowly, I push away from the wall and walk forward. I circle around one of the armchairs with my eyes plastered to his. I reach the couch and lower to sit as he takes a long, slow drink from his glass, then sets it back down on the bar cart.

He moves swiftly, crossing to sit on the couch beside me, and I jolt at his sudden movement. There’s still a cushion’s length between us, but I’m wary for how long that will last. I’m sitting straight and stiff, my spine rigid and chin lifted, and I have to turn my entire body to face him. He settles into the corner, lifting his arm to rest along the back of the couch and crosses one ankle over his knee. Though I’m tense and terrified, there’s also some strange part of me that feels a sense of relief, only for the reason that I’ve been spared a night with Vigo.

But have I really been spared?

Boldly, I ask the question that begs to be answered, knowing he may punish me worse than ever simply for asking. But I need to know, and this silence is overwhelming.

“What is my punishment and why are you giving it?”

I brace myself for his violent outburst, drawing my body back toward the arm rest behind me, but it never comes.

His head tilts. “Do you wish Vigo were giving it?”

“No,” I reply truthfully.

His forehead wrinkles. “Why is that?”

“Because—”

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