Page 47 of Stripped

She nodded. "Yes."

"That's my girl." His hand caressed her cheek, his hazel eyes boring into her. "You'll dance it for me. And we'll see if delusions of grandeur fill your head too."

She looked down at the shoes. She needed to buy herself some time to think. "The dying swan was a white swan," she said softly, fingering the black slip she wore.

He stood behind her and bent down, whispering in her ear, "But you're not. You know you're not. You're dark and dangerous, a little slut, haunted by nightmares of Daddy's death, seeking out solace—or is it punishment—in the arms of strangers. Nothing more than a dirty flower trying to be something she's not. You are no white swan, Primrose McNeil." His words were ruthless. "Now put the shoes on."

Pim put them on, tying them around her ankles. A man entered and sat down at a piano in the corner. "Now, you will dance for me, and depending on how well I think you do, one of your little friends in the other room will either live or die."

"You can't do that," she begged. "Leave them out of this." Tears streamed down her face.

"Stop crying," he said calmly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping her face like a child. "It's not up to me. It's up to you. A life for a life." He sat down, adjusting the legs of his trousers, and poured himself another glass of wine.

Her blood turned cold at his cruelty, leaving her body stiff. "I need to warm up. I can't just dance."

"You have five minutes, Primrose." He turned to the pianist. "Play Stravinsky's Sacrificial Dance, The Chosen Victim, from the ballet The Rite of Spring. It should be appropriate."

A shiver went up her spine. He was playing with her, drawing out his torture both mentally and physically. The man began to play. The music was made up of short fragments that repeated, the sound unsettling. It was harsh and jarring, producing a quality of dissonance that only added to the tension in the room. She didn't want to do this and wasn't sure what he expected. She rose up on her toes several times, her ankles popping in bitter objection, and felt the nail bed on her big toe split open, the pain immediate. While highly developed technique was necessary for The Dying Swan, it wasn't the purpose of the dance. The only time she had performed it was in her last year at the academy. Her teacher wanted to push her artistically and chose the variation for her, calling on her to draw from her experience with the death of her father. He told her every movement and gesture should signify an action emerging from someone trying to escape death. Her teacher had no idea at the time how horrific her father's death had been or the terrifying images Pim had seen. Every time she danced it, she relived the pain of his loss. She turned to Sokolov, unable to take the raw sound of the piano and the disorganization of the music with its chaotic collage of rhythms any longer. "I'm ready."

"So be it," he said, the emptiness of his eyes filling with an anxious eagerness, greedy and expectant. "Take your place."

She went to the corner of the room, adjusting the strap on the backless slip, and turned so she faced the wall. Bowing her head, she put her feet in fifth position and waited for the music to start. Hypnotic, like a heartbeat, it began, dark and emotive. Pim circled the room on her toes in tiny bourrées as her arms floated and folded like the wings on a swan. It was a cry for beauty in the most fragile of moments. Death was more than the destination, it was the journey of grief that accompanied it, penetrating the soul. Her hands glided through the air, bent down at the wrists and turned, hoping to see one last flight, but it wouldn't be so. Death was coming. Death was near. The pain, both subjective and visceral, was at hand. She fell to her knee, and there, transfixed with agonizing grace, she bowed down as the swan, to die.

Pim lay on the ground, overcome with the emotion of the piece and the toll it took to dance it. The enormity of everything came crashing down on her. She curled into a ball, exposed and wounded, not knowing whose life she spared as tears ran down her face. Sokolov came over and untied the ribbons of the pointe shoes, removing them. He helped her stand, putting his arms around her. He held her from behind as he slid the straps of the slip down, letting it fall and puddle around her ankles. "That's my girl," he crooned, his hands running down her breasts and across her bruised stomach. "You did well. Tomorrow, you will dance it for me again."

"No," she cried softly.

"Yes, you can do it," he said, as he pulled the black thong down until she stood stripped bare, exposed, with no place to hide. "You can take it."

The door opened, and the man whose face looked as if it had been hit with a shovel, came in with Ivanna, a knife to her neck.

"No, God, please, no." Pim struggled, but Sokolov grabbed her around the waist, pinning both her arms down. His other hand held her forehead, pressing the back of her head against his chest so she had to watch. "It will make you a better dancer. Isn't that what we're striving for? What Daddy wanted? Perfection."

"Fuck you."

Ivanna whimpered from behind a gag, tears streaming down her face.

"Watch her eyes," Sokolov whispered in her ear. "See the fear. Focus on the fear she's feeling. She knows death is coming, and it scares her. She's terrified."

The man slit the girl's throat in one clean stroke. Ivanna's eyes opened wide as she reached for her slender neck. A thin red line graced her lily-white skin before blood poured out.

"See her struggle for breath. She's trying to fight off the inevitable, panicking as she begins to suffocate. Watch—" Ivanna collapsed in the man's hands, falling forward, unconscious, and he let her drop to the ground. "Did you see the moment of acceptance?" Sokolov turned her, so she faced him. He shook her until her teeth rattled against each other. "Did you see it?"

"Y-y-yes," Pim sobbed.

He pulled her in close, and she folded into him as he rubbed her back, murmuring sweet endearments. The horror of what she just witnessed beyond all thought and reason, she accepted what comfort he offered. "Shh, that's my girl. Take what you've learned, think about how you can improve for me." She nodded. "I can't hear you," he said.

"Yes."

"Good. Your awakening has started. We'll try again tomorrow, when we wager another life."

"No. Please, no, not again."

He ran his hand down the side of her face and tilted her chin up. "Don't say no to me, darling, and don't ever tell me to fuck off." For a second, she thought he was going to kiss her until he drove his fist into her stomach and she crumpled for the second time that day.

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