Page 48 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

It has been fifteen days since I woke up tied to a bed here on the farm. Fifteen days in which no one has touched me or hurt me, and it leaves me in a constant state of panic, wondering when the torture will begin.

Surely, a man like Ilya Baranov will not wait long to make a point to my father. Surely, he is not patient enough to wait this long to send a message. Still, he left a strong message when he left. I am his and his only, and the other men are not to touch me.

While I wait for whatever horrible fate Ilya Baranov will bestow upon me, I have been given tasks to perform on the farm. I was surprised to learn that it is an actual, working farm with cows, chickens, and horses. I suppose not having the farm in working order would attract attention. It is a much better cover to keep the farm running.

Despite the relative safety I feel under Ilya’s “no touch” instructions, I still see that the men here are violent, used to taking what they want. Elena doesn’t say anything, but the haunted look in her eyes tells me that there is no such order from Ilya on her behalf.

I took a butter knife from the kitchen and I keep it on me even when I sleep now, just in case.

Today, my job is to take care of the horses. There are five of them, all beautiful and richly brown with shiny coats and marble eyes. Elena has taught me how to muck their stalls, brush their coats, and feed and water them. They have many acres on which to run, and there is a riding ring, though I have never even been close to such a big animal, let alone ridden one. Perhaps I will learn someday. It seems like it would feel very freeing to ride atop such a beast, to hold on while it runs, the wind in my hair.

After my first day managing the horses on my own, my muscles hurt in ways they have never hurt before. Good ways, honestly – ways that help me to fall into the single bed in this old farmhouse and sleep, rather than stay awake with anxiety and fear.

Over the next few days, I spend as much time as possible with these beautiful animals. One of them seems to take a liking to me – probably because of the apples I bring each morning. It nuzzles me, its warm breath in my hand, as I stroke its soft fur. It is a therapeutic experience; one that almost makes me forget that I am in what could very well turn into a nightmare.

Early one morning, the late spring air is still cool and the grass crunches under my feet, still stiff with frost. I wrap a thick, men’s coat around me, my breath crisp as I breathe the chill into my lungs. I start with food and water, as the horses will need to come out of their stalls for exercise while I muck them out.

There is a broad expanse of trees near the end of the property, while the other three edges of the vast farm are wide open, only split rail fences marking the borders. Men patrol the area, all heavily armed but looking like regular farm hands in jeans, jackets, and hats. Early in the morning, a few hang out at the tree line and a few meander along the perimeter, usually inspecting and repairing fencing, clearing weeds, and doingother activities that look “farm-like.” It would be comical if I did not know that they would easily shoot me to death, or do something worse than death, should I try to run.

As I go about my morning tasks, I hear just the slightest noise from the forest line. I peer at the trees and just the slightest movement catches my attention. I stare for a moment, then decide it must have been a bird or a deer. I turn my head back to the horses and notice they, too, stare into the dark forest of trees. Then I hear a soft pop-pop sound and the animals spook, rearing and running away from the sound.

A few more popping sounds accompany quick burst of light, and then smoke appears through the trees as Ilya’s men race from their posts to assess the situation.

It takes way too long for me to realize what is going on as I stand, frozen, watching a siege operation unfurl. Ilya’s men start to shoot their weapons and I simply cannot move from my spot. I turn and see Elena standing on the back porch of the house, her face pale, and her mouth slack with shock.

There are other men sleeping inside the house and in one of the outbuildings. Surely, they will wake up soon, will dress and grab their weapons. Even if the men at the tree line manage to take out the first wave of Russians, there will be another group soon.

The sounds of fighting continue as a man comes forward in military fatigues and a Kevlar helmet. He beckons for me to come to him, but I cannot make my feet work. I am terrified – and not just for myself. And for good reason, it turns out, because the man at the wood line fixes his weapon on the back of the house, where Elena had been standing. I turn quickly to find that one of Ilya’s men, still in his pajama bottoms, holds a sharp knife against Elena’s neck.

I look back and forth between my would-be rescuer and my would-be friend. I cannot leave her here alone. She has enduredway worse than I have at this point. She deserves freedom, as well.

When I lock eyes with the man in camouflage, I project these thoughts, hoping he can somehow read my mind.

He does, and then the world moves very quickly. The pop of his weapon. The scream of a man just shot. Elena running.

She grabs my hand and pulls me from my spot, and we run as fast as we can, but then another series of pops from all directions and I am falling, a white-hot pain blooming in my calf. I let out a surprised sound, but before I can come to grips with the fact that I have been shot, Elena is pulling me to my feet. One hundred feet. Then fifty feet. Then I am in the arms of a huge and heavily armed man and he is running.

Elena and I are shoved into the backseat of a large truck, which starts moving as soon as the door is shut behind us. The truck seems to travel at breakneck speed, over bumps and through trees as Elena and I cling to each other.

The driver tells us to hang on, that medical attention is coming. My leg burns and pulses and when I try to assess the damage, all I see is flesh and blood and I nearly pass out. Elena yells that I am losing too much blood, and the driver throws a box into the back seat and tells her how to make a tourniquet to slow the flow of blood.

“Stay with us,” she says as she works, calm as always, her brown eyes worried and warm.

But I am queasy and light-headed so I cannot even form an answer. I stay awake but not alert as the truck makes its way out to a main road. It feels like an hour before we finally pull into a private airstrip, a military-grade helicopter waiting.

I’m on the verge of passing out as we get out of the truck. Someone picks me up and carries me. I hear men talking about torn muscle. Hard to see through all the blood.

“Am I dying?” I ask. My vision is blurry, and I realize I’m crying.

“Not on my watch,” someone says. “Not for the payday we’re receiving for getting you out alive.”

My eyes are so heavy but I have some sense that these men are not Russian. They are American, and military trained. My thoughts are a jumble and I know I am about to pass out, but I have one last thought before I do.

Vasily got me out.

CHAPTER 22

Vasily

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