by Jane Henry
I freeze when my eyes come to one man, one thought crystal clear in the jumbled confusion of my mind.
Nicolai.
But why would I think Nicolai? He wouldn’t be aboard this ship bidding on women to buy. He’d kill the men responsible for such depravity, not become party to it. He looks my way, but turns away just as quickly.
For one moment, my breath catches in my throat. Is he? But no, he can’t be. He doesn’t look a thing like Nicolai, and yet he reminds me of him so much I’m shaken. This man is large, with broad shoulders, but he isn’t bulky like Nicolai. He’s thinner. He’s strong but lean, sinewy. He’s wearing tinted glasses so I can’t see his eyes, and I quickly let my gaze wander down to his neck and arms.
This isn’t him. Of course it isn’t him.
He doesn’t have the tattoos Nicolai did. My Nicolai had tattoos all along his neck, arms, shoulders, and back. This man wears a dress shirt, but there are fewer marks on his neck or hands than Nicolai had. He also looks so much older. Years older. He has short-cropped dark hair and a scruffy beard. Nicolai was clean-shaven and had a shaved head.
He isn’t him at all. He can’t be. Still, the resemblance makes my heart flutter in my chest before it sinks to the floor once more. He gives me one long, haunting look. And then he’s gone.
I can’t think about this right now. When I’m being led to a man who just bought me, I can’t think of Nicolai. I’ll never be able to get through this if I think of him.
We’re marched along a hall, and I realize as we walk that this ship is massive, some sort of luxury cruise ship, with multi-levels of floors, decorated with gleaming hardwood and crystal chandeliers. There are bars attended by formal bartenders on every floor, and brilliant outdoor lighting highlights a pool and several circular hot tubs outside on the main deck. After my months of captivity, this feels luxurious, with one caveat: I’m still someone’s property.
We’re brought into a large ballroom, and instructed to sit on the chairs lined in rows. Then one by one, the women are brought out, three guards to each woman. One on the left, one on the right, one behind her to make sure she doesn’t get away. I turn away in disgust. How could she? There is nowhere to go.
An eerie, utter silence descends upon us as our number dwindles. I was the last one auctioned. Will I be the last to be delivered? I can’t anticipate what will happen next, so instead I watch, as one after another, my companions are taken from our midst. Some still openly cry, but most of us sit in resigned silence. Punishment awaits defiance, and it seems foolhardy to earn that.
“You all should be proud of yourselves.” I look up to see the man from the office earlier standing in the doorway, smiling like an approving father. “You all fetched a pretty penny. You behaved very well.”
Proud? Of being worth more than the other stolen slaves? Is he mad?
I shiver in disgust, but my thoughts come to an abrupt halt when guards suddenly stand before me.
“Let’s go,” one says, as another silently reaches for me. I follow meekly. One holds my left arm and the other my right.
My legs won’t work. My knees knock into one another, full body tremors taking over my body.
“No,” I whisper, even though I know I will regret resisting. I shake my head, unable to move forward of my own accord.
“Yes,” one guard spits out angrily. “You should know by now what we expect.” His fingers cut into my arm, his too-long nails scraping my skin. I pull involuntarily away from him, but he only grips it tighter. The man on the other side steps closer to me. He, too, holds tighter than before. Between the two of them, they drag me away from the group of women. My toes drag along the floor, and I whimper. It hurts to be dragged by the arms, my shoulders and upper arms screaming in protest.
“Release her.”
I don’t look up. I can’t look up.
“Do as he says. He owns her now.”
It’s my future master addressing the guards, and I can’t risk anything at this moment. He stands a few paces in front of us, the very tips of his shoes the only thing I see.
The guards let me go as if I’m hot to the touch.
“Don’t you harm her, you fools,” the man in front of us snaps. “Do you wish to lose your job?”
“No, sir,” one says. The other falls silent.
Is my future master a kind man?
Dare I hope?
What even is kindness?
“Go to my room,” he orders me, gesturing down the long hallway. His voice sounds so familiar, I shiver with a visceral awareness. He sounds like Nicolai.
He stands to the side so I can’t see his face fully, but his instruction is clear.
I don’t know what’s the worse option, never again seeing Nicolai, or being forced to be in the presence of someone who reminds me of him.
I realize he’s dismissed the guards, and ordered me into his room alone. But he doesn’t come behind me. I walk into the open door, turn, and look down the hall.
I’m alone.
For the first time since my captivity, I’m completely alone. It feels… strange. No, worse. It feels wrong.
Unease floods me when I touch my wrists, free of cuffs. I expected I would feel different when finally freed from bonds. But I don’t.
My hands begin to shake and my breathing grows heavy. I try to still the trembling in my limbs, but I can’t. I look around the room for someplace safe—the metal bars of a cage. A confined space. A small piece of carpet for me to crawl onto. The room is beautiful, decorated in creams and golds, silken sheets and embroidered linens on the beds, but they may as well have thrown me in the middle of the ocean for all the comfort it brings.
I climb onto the middle of the bed. I don’t know where my future master is, but I can’t handle the vastness of this room, the freedom that makes me feel like I’m falling headfirst into a deep ravine.
I’m drowning. I’m being pulled under, unable to stop the way my chest constricts and air whooshes out of my lungs. I fall forward onto the bed, grasping at the silky sheets, but they’re foreign and luxurious. Nausea swirls in my stomach. I’m gasping for breath, my eyes closed, when strong arms come around me from behind.
“Stop moving.” The voice is deep and commanding and so beautifully familiar my skin prickles with instant awareness.
I freeze.
“Breathe,” the voice says. My eyes are closed, and I’m not here. I’m in another place and time, burrowed into the chest of someone strong and powerful, but the touch is only a memory. His hands are on my arms. Then why do I remember being held?
I’m so confused I begin to cry.
A door swings open and more voices speak over my head. I don’t know what they’re saying or why they’re here, but strong arms are lifting me and placing me back on the bed. I fall on my back, and as soon as I can, I bring my knees to my chest, hoping to still the incessant trembling. My eyes are closed as I rock back and forth, tears still sliding down my cheeks.
One voice commands the rest, and the other two fall silent. Footsteps fall, but I don’t open my eyes to see. Here, with my eyes closed and my knees pulled to my chest, no one can hurt me. No one can touch me.
Chapter 12
Nicolai
I will find the people who did this to her.
I will find the ones responsible for reducing her to tears and devastation when given freedom, and I will kill them.
They’ve hurt her. Abused her. She isn’t the woman they tore from my arms. The Marissa I know doesn’t cower in fear.
Yakov and Erik retreat to their adjoining rooms, but I barely register their absence. I lock the door behind them and pull the shades that look out onto the water, securing us as much as I can before I return to her.
The only person in my world, the only sun that shines, is Marissa. Every instinct I own screams at me to throw her over my shoulder and run.
But logic prevails, and I know that isn’t an option. Not yet.
My initial elation at finding her is temp
ered with the knowledge that the path to finding her has only just begun. Finding her physically is only the first step. I stare at the woman on the bed, her eyes closed and knees tucked up to her chest. She rocks back and forth, mumbling incoherently.
I reach over and touch her shoulder. Just a gentle touch, a reminder that I’m here and she isn’t alone, but she shrieks, her voice catching on a sob. My heart twists in my chest, a stab of pain slicing through me.
She won’t know who I am, not yet.
Does she even remember me, though?
“You’re okay,” I begin, but she only shakes and trembles.
“It’s alright,” I say in an even softer voice. Still, her anxiety seems to only increase.
I decide to take another tact altogether. One she’s familiar with.
“Stop that,” I order harshly. She stills.
“Open your eyes.” With a sharp intake of breath, she obeys. She looks at me, and the world stops spinning in that one brief second. Does she recognize me? But the eyes that meet mine are distant and clouded. I realize she’s holding her breath, waiting for the next instruction. She’s become unaccustomed to conversation, her instinctive desire trained to obey.
My hands clench into fists.
I can’t risk even the most basic discussion about who I am or where we are. This room could be tapped. Literally anyone could be a spy. And I need the brotherhood to believe that I’m one of them.
“Get off the bed,” I tell her.
This isn’t the way I imagined our reunion. In my mind, I would gather her to me, hold her to my chest until our hearts beat as one. I would kiss her cheeks and run my fingers through her hair, reassuring myself that she was alive. I would hold her on my lap and kiss her, and tell her all the things I never said out loud. How much she means to me. How I’ll never let her be harmed again. How I love her.
She pushes herself out of bed and eyes me curiously, then casts her eyes to the floor, cringing as if expecting a blow from me.
I will kill them, painfully.
I sit on the edge of the bed and part my knees, crooking a finger silently for her to come to me. If I can get her near enough, I can whisper in her ear. We can begin the slow task of unearthing the identities that form us and forging new ones.
With her eyes cast to the floor, she walks to me until she’s standing between my legs.
“I’m a disappointment to you,” she whispers. It takes me by surprise. Why would she say such a thing?
“No,” I tell her. “Of course not.”
“I will obey you,” she whispers, wringing her hands. “They taught me that much. I will do as you command.”
It’s a start. A flicker of light in a cavern of darkness.
I keep my voice stern, commanding. It’s what she responds to.
“Good. You will do so. Come closer to me.”
She obeys slowly, her eyes still on the floor, walking toward me until she stands between my legs. I reach for her hand and take it between mine. When we touch, skin to skin, relief floods through me. I compose myself with effort, swallowing the lump in my throat as I take one of her hands in both of mine and bring it to my chest.
I have to tell her who I am. I have to see what she knows. I need to see what her reaction is when it’s just the two of us, with as much privacy as we’re allowed on this ship.
Her legs press up against mine, and I can hardly breathe. It’s Marissa.
My Marissa.
But she’s only a ghost of the woman she once was, and if I move too quickly she’ll vanish. Here one minute and gone the next.
So I don’t breathe. I don’t move. I observe every detail of her exquisite perfection. The light shines on her face, and I notice she’s got makeup on one cheek. I lean in closer. It takes me a moment to realize the makeup covers a bruise.
Without thinking, I raise my hand to touch her, and she flinches, as if she thinks I’m going to strike her.
Rage boils inside me so quickly, so viciously, I hiss out an angry breath before I can stop myself.
“What did I do wrong, master?” she whispers, cowering. She moves away as if to defend herself. I make a vow right then that whoever did this, whoever dared to raise a hand with her, will rue the day their hearts beat upon this earth. They will know pain the likes of which they’ve never known. They will suffer under the vengeance I’ll seek in retribution for the way they’ve treated her.
“Of course not,” I tell her, the effort at keeping my voice calm strangling me. “You please me very much.” I need to immediately dispel the notion that she’s displeased me if it causes her so much distress. I want her to know that she hasn’t done wrong, that my anger isn’t directed at her. “You please her very much,” I say, an understatement that kills me. She fucking makes me whole again.
When I touch her, she freezes. Gently, I tug her to me.
It’s taking all my self-control not to embrace her, to crush her to me and keep her away from anyone and anything that could hurt her. My sweet, sweet girl is within my grasp, but she’s not quite there. She’s just on the other side of the looking glass, beyond my reach.
“Marissa,” I whisper.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “That name…” her voice trails off and she doesn’t continue the thought.
“What is it?” I ask. “What do you want to say?”
“I-it reminds me of someone or, or something,” she says, still not meeting my eyes. “But I can’t place it… or who.”
Does she not remember who she is? Who I am? The thought fucking kills me, but I bat it away.
If she doesn’t now, she will. Her memory’s been tampered with. She isn’t herself right now.
I place a gentle finger under her chin and raise her eyes to mine. Keeping my voice as low as possible, I instruct, “Look in my eyes.” I hold my breath, unable to even think while she slowly, so slowly, obeys, her long lashes fluttering as she raises her head.
Will she recognize me? Will she know me? But when her eyes meet mine, I see only fear, and none of the recognition I need. She quickly bows her head.
“Forgive me, master,” she says. “I can’t. It makes me too fearful.”
Fearful of what, sweet girl? Of what I will do? Or what they’ve taught you to be frightened of?
How could they have done this to her? Marissa was feisty and headstrong, full of life and laughter, not this cowering woman who flinches at every sound and move.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask softly, reaching for her hands. I run my thumbs along the tops of her hands, feeling her soft skin beneath my touch.
It’s a fucking risk asking her this, and I regret the question the moment I open my mouth.
“Of course,” she says with a soft smile, and hope flares within me for one second before she finishes her sentence.
“You are my master.”
Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, I like her response. I hate that I do. I can’t take advantage of her when she’s broken. It would be heartless and cruel. But I can’t deny who I am.
The memory of what I wanted from her and what she gave me plagues me. Her obedience to me is like a drug: the more I taste, the more I want. Every breath she takes satisfies a need I can’t deny, every act of submission a hit that feeds my addiction.
But she doesn’t state my name. She doesn’t know who I am.
I’ve changed my appearance, enough to throw off anyone who might recognize me. I hoped it wasn’t enough to shield my true identity from her. But even as I think this, I realize it isn’t my physical appearance that is unfamiliar to her. Intense trauma can affect one’s mental capacity, even rendering temporary amnesia.
Gently, I run my thumb along the cheek where the bruise lies hidden beneath a covering of makeup. “Who did this to you?” I ask softly, while plotting his painful, tortured demise.
But before she can answer, a sharp knock sounds on the door.
“Who is it?” I demand.
“Erik. Open up.”
> I will hurt this bastard.
“What the fuck do you need?” She flinches at the tone of my voice. Khristos, I have to watch my temper so I don’t frighten her.
Marissa stands in silence, her eyes cast to the floor. I still gently hold her hand.
“Tomas is on the phone. Wants live video footage of the girls we’ve found to give us approval. Says he tried to call you but you didn’t answer.” Tomas is the pakhan of the Boston Bratva.
Khristos.
I move Marissa aside with great reluctance, walk to the door, and open it. Erik and Yakov both stand in the doorway, holding chains in their hand. A quick glance shows the chains go to the necks of their slaves. Both women still wear simple sheaths. Erik glances over my shoulder with scorn, and even Yakov’s face is hardened, his eyes sharp as flint.
This is the first time we prove our worth to our new brotherhood.
“Come in,” I tell them. I have to assume the position as ruthless Bratva, the leader of our small group. I point to the floor. “Kneel by the bed,” I tell the women.
The girls obediently kneel, their heads bowed and hands in their laps, backsides against the soles of their feet. “All three of you,” I clarify, pointing to the floor for Marissa to follow suit.
She blinks and doesn’t move to obey.
“He’s calling again,” Erik says. He holds up his phone, flashing with a message from Tomas.
“On your knees,” I repeat, pointing to the floor. She looks from one to the other, then quickly steps toward the girls, falling to her knees just as Erik answers the call.
This is going to fucking kill me. I’m going to have to train her, to force her to obey me when she falters. If I don’t, someone else will, and I can’t allow that.
I walk to her and take her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “Do not hesitate again when I give you an instruction,” I order. “Do you understand me?”
Her wide eyes betray her fear. “Yes, sir,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Her response breathes life back into my heart and I can’t help but smile in approval. “Good girl.”
I release her, before I betray the intimate moment we shared.