Page 46 of Stripped

Chapter 23

They covered her head in a cloth sack, so the only things visible were light and dark shadows, making it impossible to tell where they were taking her. However, she recognized the sensation as an elevator went up and concluded at least she hadn't left the building. She was led down what she assumed was a hallway and through a door, to where she was deposited in a chair. The covering was removed, and she found herself sitting at a table. A crystal decanter of wine and two glasses were the only thing on it.

A man entered, wearing a white dinner jacket. He adjusted his black bow tie as he sat down. His features were crisp and clean, deceiving to his advanced age, which was noted in the spots and wrinkles on his hands. With a baldhead, straight nose, tight goatee and cunning hazel eyes, there was an air to him that reminded Pim of her grandfather. He sat down, crossing his legs elegantly, and set an old-fashioned gold lighter on the table, flipping open the lid. Pim clasped her hands under the table, anchoring herself in reality. The man's presence didn't match the squalor of the room or the situation, creating a schism in her mind. She needed to remain present. He pulled out a cigarette case, offering one to Pim. She shook her head. His hand hovering above the lighter, he snapped his fingers, and a flame magically shot to life, and picking it up, he lit his cigarette. "Illusions, they distort our senses, misleading our brains. We think we know something when we really don't. Then, of course, there are delusions. Especially those of grandeur when one has a false belief about one's greatness or skill. Most people make the mistake of calling them illusions of grandeur, but they're delusions." He took a deep pull on the cigarette, the tip lighting up bright orange as he studied her. "Primrose McNeil," he said as he exhaled. His speech was refined, as he exquisitely emphasized her name. Though Pim could still detect the slight Russian accent, he seemed to work hard to hide it.

She didn't answer him.

"Will you have some wine?" He didn't wait for a response but poured them each a glass, the color such a deep red, it verged on black. "Chateau Lafite Rothschild Pauillac 2010, excellent vintage."

She continued to stare at him, her heart beating so fast in her chest, she thought it would start skipping as the dull ache in her stomach intensified.

"I'm afraid I insist you join me in a toast. I promise you it's not drugged." He picked up his glass, waiting for her to do the same. Her hand shook as she raised hers. "Behind every beautiful thing, there's some kind of pain." His eyes narrowed as he spoke. "Slange."

"Slange," she repeated. The words of her tattoo resounded in her mind as she set the glass down. Words that had so much meaning to her she'd had them permanently etched on her back, now perversely being used against her.

He pursed his lips, frowning. "Manners, Primrose. I know you were raised properly. You always take a sip after a toast."

She brought the glass to her lips, the wine rich and dense, quenching her parched throat. Part of her hoped it was drugged, so she could escape from this nightmare.

"Your grandfather and I are…" He paused, grimacing slightly and held up a finger to emphasize his point. "Were. Sorry, we were associates. My condolences on your loss." He spoke as though they were acquaintances, forgetting the fact that she was his captive. "My name is Viktor Sokolov."

"Associates in what? Sex trafficking?" she asked sharply.

"Sex trafficking. You offend me. I am no sex trafficker." He lit another cigarette, repeating the same trick with the lighter, and took another long draw, filling his lungs and acting as if he were put out by her accusation.

"Explain those girls to me, in the room where you were holding me against my will. They're children."

"Those girls' parents paid me to take them, to give them a better life. Most of them come from very poor villages. There's no hope for a future, no education."

"They're being molested and raped." She spat the words at him. "What you do is vile."

"They are loved. They will be offered a life they never could have had. I give them a chance. Opportunity. You wouldn't understand the disadvantage and destitution of the villages they come from." He spoke the last sentence with bitterness.

Her stomach heaved, his words repugnant. "Why am I here? What do you want with me?"

He stood up and walked around the table, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Your grandfather took something from me. Something very special." His caressed her neck with the back of his finger, causing goosebumps to erupt on her skin.

"Natasha?"

"No." He sat back down. "He paid for her. And he's given her a great life. One she never would have had."

Fucking bastard. "Then, what?"

"He owed me a debt, and now you need to repay that debt." He rang a small bell on the table and a man entered, setting a silver domed tray down on the table before leaving. He lifted the lid, revealing a pair of black pointe shoes. "I believe they are the brand and size you wear, and they have been de-shanked as you like."

How long had he been watching her to know that? "You want me to dance?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that." He ran a well-manicured finger over the tip of one of the shoes and proceeded to recite a stanza from a Lord Tennyson poem, his voice calculated and as thin as a razor's edge.

"The Dying Swan," she said when he finished, dread filling her. The poem was the inspiration for the ballet variation. The dance was based off the whole dramatic arc of the poem, representing only one thing. The end of life.

"That's my girl." He gave her a knowing look, malicious in its intent, leveraging his power. "Clever."

That's my girl. The three words tore at her heart. How the fuck did he know? It was like he'd climbed into her mind. She bit her lip, pushing down thoughts of Wraith. He wasn't coming for her. No one knew where she was. She was going to have to step up and play his game. "I know my art, but The Dying Swan is not from Swan Lake," she countered, hoping to throw him off kilter.

"No, it's not. It's much better and do you know why, Primrose?" He stood up and started to pace, not giving her time to answer. "Because it's not a fairytale. There is no happy ending. It is about the everlasting struggle in life and all that is moral. You owe me a debt, a life for a life. That is your dilemma."

He picked up the shoes and handed them to her. "Do you know the variation?"

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