by Brynn Ford
Ezra
The girl who thinks she’s my master walks in front of me as I’m half-dragged behind her by the same men who first brought me to her.
I can walk, but I’m tired and sore.
My wrists burn from the cable ties and the rope.
My throat aches from the pressure of her pointe shoe.
My gut throbs from punches thrown.
My ass stings from being beaten by her cane.
Apparently, my pace isn’t good enough to keep up with Her Majesty, so the men pull me along by the elbows. My hands are tied in front of me with the rope that suspended me in the dance studio.
She glides ahead of us with a dangerous kind of swagger. Her steps are commanding and intentional, yet lack a certain sense of conviction.
I take in my surroundings as I’m led through an audacious mansion estate. The dance studio is on the ground level and leaving that space is like crossing into another world entirely. While the studio had been modern, sleek, and simple, the manor it’s attached to is traditional, dark, and cold.
From the west wing, we move toward the center of the home. The hallway we follow surrounds me with burgundy-colored walls decorated with ostentatious gold portraits of people who were more than likely dead. It opens onto a grand entrance, a vast space which allows the ceiling to stretch high above me, two stories high.
To the right is what I assume is the main entrance of the home. The tall, wooden doors have intricate designs carved into long, etched-out rectangles that stretch from nearly the bottom to the top. To my left is a grand staircase, the ends of which curl out at the bottom landing, opening wide across the marbled floors, beckoning us forward to climb the steps.
She takes us toward it and as we ascend, the image of it makes me think we’re crossing the tongue of some ancient monster. We scrape its taste buds as we walk up each step and tempt it to swallow us whole.
God, I’m fucking tired.
We turn right at the top of the staircase and follow another long hallway, this one just as dark and looming as the one downstairs. I’m taken all the way to the end, to the very last room in the dead end hallway.
The blue-eyed girl unlocks the door with two different keys in two different keyholes. It’s a simple barrier, but an extra step to delay my escape when I attempt it at the first reasonable opportunity. I watch as closely as I can manage from several strides behind but my eyelids droop from sheer exhaustion.
She steps inside, holding the door open for us, pressing her back against it and holding out an arm as if I’m a guest in her medieval castle turned gothic tourist destination hotel.
“This is your room,” she says.
The guards give me a good shove and I land on the floor with a thud. I grunt and wince, feeling all of my various pains roar to life at the same time. I swiftly roll onto my back and rise to a sitting position, grimacing from the burn across my backside where the cane struck me the hardest. It’s the best I can do to put myself in any form of defensive position when my body and brain are screaming at me to rest.
“Is there room service?” I do my best to play it cool. “I’d love a steak right now.”
The side of her mouth twitches and I nearly think she’s going to smile. It turns into a sneer instead.
“Your confident charm will be gone within days. If I had any feelings left, I might think I’ll mourn the loss. But I don’t. And I won’t.” She blinks, and her eyes stay closed a beat too long as she sucks in a deep breath.
“If you think beating me on the ass with a cane is going to break me, then you’re going to be disappointed,” I tell her.
“I know that won’t break you. What will break you is yet to come.”
She looks down at her hands, which are now raised in front of her stomach. Her fingers clutch together and she wrings her hands around the keys she holds. My eyes narrow, zeroing in on the anxiety that she seems to be washing her hands with.
She’s still looking down at them when she speaks again, “I think my master will come to see you tonight. I expect you to be on your best behavior,” her head lifts, turns toward me, “for both our sakes.”
I glance down at my own bound hands before looking back up at her. She’s moving toward the exit.
My tone is gruff with irritation, but I try to sound patient because, for some reason, I feel compelled to be. “Are you ever going to tell me your name?”
She halts and turns back to face me. Her eyes rake over me, scraping across my form from my tied wrists up to my face and I shiver.
“Yes, mal’chik. When it’s been earned. I’ve already told you that, so quit asking.”
My eyes manage to catch hers just before she slams the door shut between us. I hear her turning the two locks on the door before she leaves.
I let my head fall back, though there’s nothing behind me to catch it like I wish there were. Instead, I tilt it side to side, stretching my aching muscles before deciding I need to get on my feet. I shuffle them beneath me and steady myself with my fastened hands, pushing my fists down into the cushioned seat of a cream-colored armchair. Dust and flecks of dried blood from my knuckles smear the sheen of the embossed fabric.
I spin and take stock of my room.
Ugly forest-green walls with the same over-the-top gold picture frames and crown molding as the rest of the mansion make the oversized room feel like close quarters. There’s a king-sized bed next to the door with a headboard carved as intricately as the front doors in the grand entrance. The pristine white comforter looks untouched, as if it was just freshly laundered, or perhaps, brand-new. I swallow, remembering what the blue-eyed girl told me—that I wasn’t her first partner here.
There are no windows.
It’s just a cleaner, more comfortable prison cell.
Wandering around the space, I find a small bathroom on the opposite side of the bed and I’m thankful for that, at least. It’s bright white inside and it smells of bleach.
I swallow, feeling an odd pang in my gut at the smell.
I walk back into the bedroom and pull open the drawers of the old, sturdy furniture that probably costs more than a year’s worth of my New York studio apartment rent. The first four I pull from the bottom of the double dresser are empty. Only the top two drawers have something inside, but the contents are of no use to me for defense or escape. The drawer on the left contains an extra set of clean, white bedsheets. The drawer on the right surprises me.
I find neatly folded T-shirts which, on first glance, wouldn’t have made me bat an eye, except that a closer inspection reveals that they’re my T-shirts. They’re T-shirts from the luggage I had packed when I traveled from New York to Kyiv five days ago.
“Shit,” I mutter to no one.
I turn, frantically scanning the space for the simple black suitcase and I spot it, sitting in the far corner behind the armchair I’d smudged when I got to my feet.
I rush to it, tossing it down and tearing into it as quickly as I can with my hands tied together. I pull at the zippers, dig into pockets, hoping foolishly that I’ll find my pocketknife. I search the whole damn suitcase as if some magical pocket will appear and give me what I need to escape, to defend myself, to help me in any way at all.
But the luggage is completely emptied.
Why did they even bring it here if they’ve already emptied it?
To taunt me, of course.
I sit back on my heels, letting out a frustrated breath and wishing I could at least run my hands through my grungy hair. I wonder how long I’ll have to wait in this room with my hands tied together. The more I think about it, the more I realize how uncomfortable it is for my wrists to be forced so tightly together and it makes me squirm.
I grab the side of my suitcase and shove it hard into the corner wall with a grunt, “Fuck!” I shout. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I jolt, wh
ipping around to look behind me at the door when I hear the locks unlatching. At first, I think the blue-eyed girl who won’t tell me her name has returned, but then I wonder if it’s someone else. She told me that her master would be visiting me tonight, and I wonder if her master is the same man I caught a glimpse of in the dance studio.
I know I’ll find out soon enough as the door creeps open. It’s pushed just hard enough to swing wide without bouncing against the wall and swinging back to closed. Instead, it’s more like a curtain being drawn, revealing the villain to the captive audience for the first time.
The man stands in the doorway, legs planted strongly, about shoulder-width apart. His eyes are narrowed on me, as if he’s agitated by my very presence.
“My name is Nikolai Mikhailov. I’m your new owner.” He shares the same accent as the blue-eyed girl.
I push off the floor and get to my feet, trying to do it as steadily as I can so I don’t come off as weak. “As I told the girl, nobody owns me.”
He steps across the threshold into the bedroom. I feel the force of him moving toward me and I take an automatic step back. I immediately realize what I’ve done, giving him some semblance of power over me by my instinct to move away. I step forward again, twice, making up for the lost distance.
He stops once he reaches the end of the bed, tilting his head toward it. “Sit. Let’s talk.”
Without waiting to watch for my compliance, he reaches for the door, pushing it shut. I haven’t moved yet when he turns back around to face me. He doesn’t speak, just lifts a thick eyebrow, and the corner of my mouth lifts the same way in challenge.
He crosses his arms over his broad chest and cocks his head, and I literally feel the violent vibration of his soul slice through the space between us like a dagger. If the blue-eyed girl is winter, then this man is the fucking arctic circle. I strain every muscle in my body against the eerie feeling his presence imposes. My pride begs me to hold, to stay, to passively resist by remaining in place. But my instinct tells me to obey for now to spare my skin.
I leave the defiant smirk on my face while I slowly move toward the edge of the bed. I don’t let my eyes leave him for a second as I lower to sit, perched at the very end. Nikolai shifts to stand in front of me.
He reaches into his pocket and I shift backward as he flicks open a switchblade and moves toward me.
“Hold out your hands,” he says with no expression on his face.
“I don’t trust you with that thing,” I say honestly.
“Hold out your hands, mal’chik. I won’t ask you again.”
I believe him.
I slowly push my hands forward and he reaches out to snatch me, gripping the ropes that bind me where they wrap around my wrists and yanking my arms toward him. I flinch as he starts to saw away at the rope, but I don’t dare pull my hands away for fear his blade may slip and injure me.
“If you fight me, you will lose,” he tells me with a flick of his gray eyes from his blade to mine. “I’d hate to have to purchase a new comforter for your bed again. Anya’s last partner bled all over the last one before his time with us ended.”
My heart hesitates a little longer between beats before thumping painfully back into order.
Anya.
Is that her name?
The blue-eyed girl?
I dare to ask the question, “What happened to him?”
The rope separates and falls free and I rub my sore, chaffed skin.
Nikolai folds the blade and pockets it in his tan trousers, taking a slight step backward. “It’s of no matter to you. He’s gone and you’re here to replace him.”
With my hands freed, my fight reflex jumpstarts a new rush of adrenaline that forces my instincts to kick in. My head jerks back to look in the direction of the door. I immediately realize that I could slide off the side of the bed, throw the unlocked door open, and make a run for it. But some smarter, saner part of me wonders what the fuck I would do then.
I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know what or who might be in the hallway.
I haven’t assessed this man’s physical capabilities, though it’s obvious his intentions are nefarious and it’s unlikely he possesses an ounce of empathy.
I’m itching to jump and run, the urge to do it literally burns under my skin. My knees jerk up, ready to run and I clamp my palms down over them to hide my intentions. It’s too late, though, because this guy already knows what I’m thinking. In a flash, he’s got his switchblade out and open again, at the same moment my muscles flex to pull me upright off the bed. I’ve hardly moved toward the door before he comes after me.
He grabs me by the back of my shirt, tossing me backward and throwing me onto the floor with strength and ease. I’m strong, I have endurance, but the way he flings me with such a simple flick of his wrist puts me in check immediately.
I jump back up off the floor, ready to fight. But looking at his cold face, the same heartless expression he held from the moment he walked through the door, I hesitate. There’s no passionate fury, no violent rage, just cool, collected indifference and somehow, that’s more frightening.
“I told you,” he says, flipping the blade in his hand. “Fight me and you’ll lose.”
I’m taking in heavy breaths as my adrenaline crests over the peak and starts to fall. “Just tell me what the fuck you want from me. Why am I here?”
“Sit and we’ll discuss. Your incivility is unbecoming. It makes me want to shove this blade in the side of your neck and I just might if you don’t sit, mal’chik.”
I lock my fingers behind my head, stretching back before letting them drop with a thud against my sides. “Fuck, fine.”
Once again, I’m moving toward the bed, forcing myself to relax enough to sit, though I’m agitated, twitchy, fidgety. It’s not easy with him standing there between me and my freedom, threatening to stab me.
I’m not gonna die in this place.
As I lower to sit, he hovers above me. He smells like cigar smoke and whiskey. His prominent brow line shadows his gray eyes, emphasizing his permanently narrowed eyes.
“You are here for one reason and one reason only. I’ve brought you here to serve Anya, to perform with her.”
“Perform for who?”
“Mostly for me. You’ll learn more in time. Right now, all I want from you is to understand your place. You are in my home. It’s belonged to my family for four generations. You will respect me here as the Head of House. You know my name, but you will call me master. Anya calls me the same as you are both my belongings. But she will also be your master, and you’ll refer to her in whatever manner she deems respectable. You will obey her. You will follow her rules. You will not question or fight her. When she asks you to dance, you will dance and you will get it right. If you don’t, she may punish you and I will support it. If she can’t control you, I will punish her, so know that your actions will impact the entire household. Now, kindly remove your socks and shoes.”
“What?” I stare up at him like he’s just grown a second head.
He sucks in a breath and his lips flatten into a straight line. “Don’t make me ask you again.” His wrist ticks and light bounces off the blade, reminding me it’s still in his hand.
I shake my head in frustration, but bend all the same, untying the laces of my boots. I kick them off and pull off my socks. I sit back up and plant my hands on my knees, looking up at him with a sneer.
Nikolai side-steps and bends to one knee near the bedpost to my left. My brow furrows with concern as he reaches beneath the bed and I’m twitching to run again. He grabs something that clanks, the sound of metal against metal and I can’t sit still. I pounce to my feet and step away, but he’s quick.
His hand clamps around my ankle, pulling hard and I nearly lose my balance. I naturally try to kick him off, but he’s quick, latching a metal cuff
around my right ankle.
“What the fuck?” I shout at him, but it’s already locked in place.
I look down to see the cuff attached to a length of metal chain and I don’t know how I missed seeing it there before, attached to the bottom of the bedpost beneath the frame. It’s cold and oppressive against my skin and immediately, I bend to claw at it.
Nikolai stands and places his switchblade back in his pocket, satisfied with his safety now. I crouch and shove at the bedframe, trying to move the post, but it’s solid as a rock, bolted down to the fucking floor.
“I would have given you freedom in your own room with just a locked door, but you’ve proven you’re impulsive and can’t be trusted. You’re lucky I’ve seen your talent firsthand, otherwise, I’d end you now and find another to replace you. Anya will struggle with you. I can already sense it. But it will be all that much more satisfying to watch you break, comply, and still fail to satisfy me in the end. Your chains will reach as far as the toilet, but you’ll be confined here until I decide to release you. I’ll send her for you when I’m satisfied you’ve had enough time to know your place.”
“Fuck you. Both of you.”
The corners of his lips curve up ever so slightly and somehow, it makes his look even harsher, his nose more pointed, his jaw more angled and sharper. With his nearly chin-length, ash-brown hair slicked back and deliberately styled, the overall appearance of him screams wolf, predator.
“Get some rest, Mr. Bell. You have some trying times ahead of you.”
He slices out of the room, sharp and severe like the blade he carries, and the door falls shuts behind him. I chase forward after him, but my chains stop me before I can even reach the door to bang on it and beg to be let out. I hear the locks turn and I still.
I look up to the ceiling, lacing my fingers behind my neck, and huff out a heavy breath full of anguish, the angsty groan of a caged animal. Rabid vexation rips through me with the jolt of pain that reminds me of my injuries. I shout out my distress to the ugly forest-green walls when the realization finally hits that I am well and truly fucked.