by Brynn Ford
Chapter 3
Anya
My new partner’s name is Ezra, though of course I call him mal’chik. Not because I want to, but because I know it’s what Nikolai will call him and he will insist I do the same—just as he insisted with the other men who came before him.
I despise my native language for no reason other than the fact that it has been used to degrade me for the past three years. I was born in Russia, raised there by my single mother until I was eleven years old before I was shipped off to New York and immersed in training to become a ballerina.
I was happy in that life, but I was stolen away from it three years ago, just after my twenty-first birthday.
I force thoughts of that life away, back into the dark corner of my mind, seal it, and wrap it shut in a black box that reads do not open on the side. My eyes narrow at the thought that I had opened it at all today. It was dangerous to remember life when I was free because I knew I would never have that life back.
The lid of the box had cracked open when my eyes fell upon Ezra in the dance studio for the first time. I think it was the emerald-green of his captivating eyes that did it. It reminded me of the fresh and bright green plants I kept in the two-bedroom apartment I shared with a roommate in New York. I had always surrounded myself with shrubs and greenery. I took pride in tending to them as they brought me a sense of brightness, of happiness, of life.
I haven’t seen such bright green life in years. Though a vast forest surrounds the estate, it’s full of dead trees in the cold of winter that never seems to come to an end. Life is shrouded forever now in cold, lifeless gray.
But Ezra’s green eyes brought back the reminder of vibrant life against this cold, ongoing death march. It was as if he reached inside me and pulled out the dusty box of remembrance and hope that I had kept safely tucked away.
Nikolai had given me three dance partners before Ezra. Three men who hadn’t met his expectations in performance for the Mikhailov family’s turn to host the quarterly meeting for the four families.
Thus, the men before Ezra had disappeared. I presume they are dead. I can’t afford myself the luxury of hoping they made it out alive because that would give me hope that I might someday do the same.
Hope is a dangerous thing and Ezra’s spirit still thrums with that electric spark of lightness. I could feel it when I touched him. I could sense it pulsing from his soul. But because I’m forced to dance, I have to force Ezra to dance with me. That means I need to control him, and not just because Nikolai expects it.
I have to control him to protect myself. If he can’t dance to my master’s expectations, then this may be it for me. I’ve felt Nikolai’s patience with me waning, his frustrations growing, and he takes it out on me.
I will remain in control.
I will make Ezra submit.
I will train Ezra to perform with me in the perfection that Master requires.
I will do this by being the woman to strip his hope from him piece by tiny piece until he has none left. Only then can I control him, use him. Only then could I even consider the possibility of a predictable, complacent survival in this nightmare life. I don’t even consider the possibility of escape anymore. I don’t believe it’s possible outside of death.
I swallow and pinch my eyes shut, steeling myself as I approach Nikolai’s master suite. The door is open because he’s waiting for me.
It’s been hours since I brought Ezra to his new room and I know Nikolai has been there as well. I’ve since showered, styled my long, dark chocolate colored hair so that it tumbles in wavy tresses, reaching down to the middle of my back. My master prefers it down when we’re alone.
I wear a simple, black silk chemise for him under the long oriental-style robe that covers me. I’ve tied the robe shut tightly around my waist, double knotting the bow. I know it will prove to be no barrier for Nikolai because he takes what he wants but it makes me feel better all the same.
The silky floral fabric feels soft against my arms and I make a useless wish that it will remain on my body tonight. The softness of it is a comforting embrace that, once removed, will expose me to be used.
I cross my arms over my body, stepping over the threshold into his suite, shielding myself from what is to come.
Nikolai is sitting on one of the two oversized armchairs in front of the fireplace, his back to the door. The fire burns orange and bright, and I can feel the heat of it from where I’m standing. I can see he’s still dressed in his usual attire—a button-down rolled up at the sleeves and open at the collar, covered by a tweed vest, tan slacks, and sleek dress shoes. There’s a glass of whiskey in his hand and one ankle is crossed over his knee.
With a soft voice, I announce my arrival, “Moy khozyain.”
My master, in Russian.
I hate the words and it feels so much worse to say it in his language than in mine. I’m fluent in both, but I was building an American life when I was taken and forced to live in his world.
He allows me to speak with him in English, a small grace he granted me after my first year of obedience. It’s something so simple, but it gives me a small amount of power. I refuse to let go of it and choose to speak English whenever I can. Still, I am required to address Nikolai in his native tongue, though he’s fluent in both languages as well.
“Close the door and sit beside me, moya rabynya.”
Moya rabynya.
My slave girl.
“Da, khozyain,” I say, pressing the door shut behind me and crossing the room.
I walk around the armchair beside him. It angles toward him, facing the fire, and I slowly lower to sit.
He takes a sip of whiskey from his glass and speaks without looking at me, “Ezra Bell is impulsive and reckless. He’s overly confident and sarcastic. But I’ve watched him perform, and I know he is more talented than the other partners I’ve given you.”
His head turns slowly, and I lower my gaze toward the floor before he can make eye contact. I haven’t yet determined his mood tonight and know it’s better safe than sorry.
He prefers my submission.
Perhaps that’s why I’m so insistent on maintaining control over my dance partners. One of the many reasons among simple survival.
He continues and I can feel his eyes take me in. “If you can break him, he will be a good partner for you. If you train him well, you may win back my favor this year.”
I knew his enchantment with me was fading, but the way he reminds me makes me feel cold inside.
“Da, khozyain.”
“Look at me, Anya.”
I lift my chin and meet his gray eyes. The side of his mouth twitches, attempting to form a small smile.
Happiness isn’t a feeling he’s accustomed to.
“Come here and let me look at you,” he says.
He has trained me not to hesitate, so I don’t. I come to stand in front of him and he nods his head toward the floor, so I fall to my knees as he uncrosses his leg and sets his whiskey on the side table. He spreads his legs apart and leans forward, reaching out with both hands to hold my face, his fingers landing softly against my cheeks.
“You look beautiful, Anya.”
“Thank you.”
Nikolai sighs on a low growl as he shifts closer in his seat. “What do you think of Ezra?”
I try to breathe deeply, but the air catches in my throat. I swallow and harden my exterior shell before responding, “If you’ve selected him for me, I’m sure he’ll make a fine partner.”
“That’s not what I’m asking you.” His grip tightens against my jawline. “Do you find him attractive?”
With a flip of a switch my shields are up, armor on. This little game of entrapment is a favorite of his when he’s feeling particularly brutal, when he’s feeling particularly weak.
“I’m not concerned with his appearance, only in
his ability to perform.”
His right hand slides back along my jawline and his fingers dig into my hair. “Answer me truthfully. Do you find him more attractive than the others?” His jaw clenches and his eyes narrow in on mine, digging deep.
He’ll know if I’m lying so I have no choice but to answer truthfully, “Da, khozyain. But I belong to you.”
He bends, leaning in close. His lips are a mere inch from mine, his breath hot against my face. When he exhales, I smell his whiskey.
“Prove it to me.”
I close my eyes, but only for a moment. “Tell me how and I will.”
His fingers curl into a fist around my hair at the side of my head. Nikolai bares his teeth at me as he yanks my head sideways, growling out a command, “Take off your robe.”
I inhale a breath of courage and reach down to loosen the knot. It slips apart, removing the barrier of my armor.
It already feels like defeat.
It always feels like defeat.
I remain strong, though, because I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
I let the silk glide down my arms and it falls to the floor, encircling me as though it knows it’s my only protection. One of the thin straps of the barely-there chemise has fallen, and Nikolai’s eyes are drawn to it. His head dips and he presses his lips to my bare shoulder before sinking his teeth in.
He is the predator and I am his prey.
Always.
The bite makes me flinch and groan, and he mistakes the noise for wanting. Nikolai hears what he wants to. He wants me to want him, so I let him believe it if it keeps the peace.
I have the scars to remind me why that peace must be kept.
He pulls back and moves his hands to grip my shoulders and starts to push me sideways. “Get on your hands and knees, rabynya.”
I turn and fall on my hands as he’s forcing me to the ground. I’m on all fours beside the crackling fire with only the small sheath of silky fabric to hide me. He drops to his knees and climbs up behind me. He grips my hips with both hands, fingers digging into my sides as he slides up behind me. His knees are inside my legs, nudging my thighs, encouraging them to spread wider for him.
I let my head fall forward in defeat as one of his hands trails up the back of my thigh, creeping over my rounded backside to lift the hem of the short nightgown. Internally, I whimper at the touch, knowing the pain that’s to come from this position, knowing which part of me will be violated tonight in front of the fire.
He reaches out to fist my hair behind my neck and pull my head upright. His hips thrust against my bottom and I feel the bulge of his erection through his trousers.
“I wanted to give you pleasure tonight, but you were disrespectful to me when I brought you a new partner, questioning my choice. So, instead, I’ll take my pleasure from you and fuck you until you bleed for me. I want your tears tonight, Anya. Give them to me and I’ll spare you the pain of being burned.”
He holds my hair so tightly that I can’t turn my head, but my eyes flicker over to the flames burning beside me. My eyes burn just as hot, and though the determined woman inside wishes to deny him those tears in favor of flames, I can’t, and he knows it.
This has happened a thousand times before and it will happen a thousand more before I’m given the gift of freedom or death and it damages me still.
When he fucks me in that forbidden entrance from behind, it always hurts and it always brings me tears and it always gives him power.
“Tell me who you are,” he growls.
I struggle to keep my voice steady. “I am slave to the Mikhailov family. I am your belonging.”
He suddenly lets go of my hair and my head jerks forward. I don’t look over my shoulder when I feel his hands move between me and him, his buckle coming undone, his zipper being pulled. I retreat inward and try not to think too much. I try to listen only enough to follow his commands and move on from this vile moment as he’s sliding my underwear down to expose me.
Nikolai reaches around me and his fingers graze over my lower belly. “I need you wet for me if you want to lessen the pain.”
My stomach rolls in nausea.
His hand moves lower and his fingers glide across my sex, finding the spot that he knows will trigger my arousal.
My body always betrays my mind and my heart in these moments. Nikolai is talented in touch, an experienced, older man—fifteen years my senior. Though his soul is filthy with violence and coldness and brutality, he is still a physically attractive man. I hate him almost as much for being beautiful on the outside as I do for being so disgusting on the inside.
Though it sickens me that my body reacts to him at all, it’s a good thing that I do because it lessens the pain of his intrusion.
There was a time once when I felt something more for him, early in my captivity when I felt starved by loneliness and was desperate for human connection beyond his violence and hatred and the torment he caused me. It was a day when I was emotionally vulnerable and pathetically needy.
That day, I had come to him, sought him out in hope of comfort from my master. I came into his room as he was taking a shower. In my naïve despair, I went to him in the bathroom and stood waiting in the doorway. He saw me standing there through his glass shower door and watched me as he finished bathing. The room had filled with steam by the time he got out. I saw something different in his beauty that day, and I haven’t seen it since. I saw something raw, exposed, as broken as I felt.
He came to me, glistening with droplets of water. His damp hair, which he normally straightens and slicks back, was wavy around the edges in the steam, softening the severe lines of his predatorial features. He stood in front of me that day, his presence quiet and unassuming for the first and last time. He watched me and waited for me, and it was only moments before I bared myself to him.
I pulled off my clothes, piece by piece, revealing my body to him willingly, bit by bit ceding control in foolish wanting. I’d let down my guard, weakened my defenses, and opened myself to him. He kissed me sweetly, touched me softly.
He backed me up against the countertop and fell to his knees for me. That day, he made me come with his fingers. He studied me with attentive eyes, watching as I became aroused for him, watching my wetness shine as it slicked his fingers, exploring all my most private places. It was the first and only time I felt so connected to Nikolai that I felt like I wanted him.
I held onto that time he made me feel so good because it was the only recent memory I had of feeling worthy and worshipped. I pretended that’s all it was during moments like the one I’m experiencing with him now. I have to remember the way he touched me then, the way he made me feel, I have to think of it to become aroused for him now.
His touch is the same now as it had been then, but it doesn’t make me feel the same. This touch is different because it’s a lie, a manipulation of the truths he discovered that day when he made me come so completely undone for him. That day for me was a connection, but for him, it was a mere study and he uses his knowledge against me now.
I let him touch me, forcing my body to react, obliging him with the physical reaction he wants as he spreads my wetness all across me, dragging it along my crack, to the place he wishes to defile me.
He’s already pressing his erection against me, eager to force his way inside. I scream when he finally does, showing me no gentleness, no time for adjustment, no mercy. He buries himself to the hilt and I feel like I’m being ripped in two. Nikolai folds his body over mine and pushes me down to my elbows, forcing my ass higher into the air.
I’m enveloped by him, consumed by him, oppressed by him.
“Tell me how much I hurt you, rabynya. Give me your tears and tell me of your pain.”
“You hurt me more than anyone ever could, moy khozyain,” I say truthfully as tears slip from my eyes.
He wil
l never understand how true that is. I might have found a way to love him if he hadn’t abandoned his humanity.
I could have loved a monster.
But I could never love the Devil.
Chapter 4
Ezra
The skin around my fingertips is raw and peeling from my useless attempts to pry the metal cuff from my ankle. I’m weak, starving, lost inside the dark spaces of my mind.
“Nikolai Mikhailov,” I say into the desolate space of my room.
I won’t forget the name of the man who chained me to this bed and left me here alone. I’ve been without food, without sunlight, without company for a long damn time. I picture myself as a wilting leaf on a flower that is slowly wasting away and dying in a cold, dark space.
I’m losing my fucking mind.
There’s no clock and I don’t wear a watch, so I have to guess at how long I’ve been locked in this room. It feels like it’s been a week, but in reality, it’s probably been a little over two days.
For the first time in my life, my fight has drained out of me. I’m slumped on the floor with my back against the bed, my head dropped onto my arms that rest on my knees. My anger has been replaced by need, basic need.
All I want right now is food, a proper shower, a full fucking glass of water. All I can do right now is drink from the bathroom faucet and it runs slow with low pressure. I can reach the toilet, but I can’t even get to the shower with the chain shackling me in place.
I slept the first night, though the fight in me still existed, jerking me awake every now and then. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, and I’ve had nothing but time to sit and wait. It’s an agitated rest to be shackled, locked in a room with nothing to do but stare at the ugly walls and talk to myself.
And I’ve decided that I’m not that great of company.
Surprisingly, I’ve been thinking about the blue-eyed girl. She seems familiar to me, but I’ve been struggling to place her. For a while, I wonder if she just seems familiar because she’s the only person besides Nikolai Mikhailov that I’ve had any contact with in days.