Counts of Eight (The Four Families Book 1)

by Brynn Ford

  The more I try to connect my memory of her in my brain, the more I wish I could see her face. I think if I could look at her again after all this time spent trying to place her, that I’d know.

  It was something about her presence, the way she holds herself, the way she dances. Maybe I’ve seen her perform somewhere. More likely, she just reminds me of any number of dancers I’ve seen before.

  I know it’s more than that, though.

  It’s something in those sapphire eyes.

  Fuck.

  I’m grasping at straws, trying to remember things, to make connections that aren’t really there. It must be my brain’s way of staying active and keeping me sane.

  I laugh out loud at the thought of sanity. I feel like it’s right on the brink because at this point, I don’t know whether anyone is coming back for me.

  When will I eat?

  Will I starve to death in here?

  Is Nikolai Mikhailov’s the last face I’ll ever see?

  Fuck, I hope not.

  I don’t think it would bother me so much if the blue-eyed girl’s face is the last I see.

  He called her Anya.

  I suppose I should stop thinking of her as the gorgeous blue-eyed girl with the grace of an angel, but at least the thought of a beautiful face somewhere out there helps me feel a little less alone.

  I hear the locks on the bedroom door turn, but I don’t turn to look. I know I’m just hearing things because I thought I heard them before. A couple of times, actually, but no one was there.

  “Mal’chik.” The voice slices into the room and I spin to see her at the door, the blue-eyed girl.

  She comes into the room and sets a tray on the side table next to the armchair. I’ve stilled and I blink at her, unmoving because I don’t believe she’s actually there.

  Her hair is down and I can see how long it is, tumbling in perfect, coffee-colored waves down her back. Her eyes seem even bluer than I remember and her features softer. Perhaps I’m just happy to see another human because I recall hating her so fervently when I arrived, but at this moment, she’s truly stunning to look at.

  A sight to behold.

  An angel swooping down into my hell.

  I’m losing. My fucking. Mind.

  “Is your name Anya?” I ask.

  Her eyes narrow. She steps back and reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “It’s master to you, and I command you to eat.”

  The muscles in her neck move as she swallows, and I think I see hesitation before she leaves the room. As the door shuts behind her, I finally come back to life. I spring to my feet, but my chain prevents me from reaching the door before she turns the first lock, then the second.

  For a moment I’m pissed at myself for being so slow to act. But I forget quickly about the fact that I’m alone again when the smell of fresh, warm stew fills my nostrils. I go and lift the tray that Master left for me and sit on the edge of the bed.

  I flinch before I pick up the silver spoon with the intricately carved swirling design on the handle.

  I called her Master in my own damn mind.

  “She’s not my master,” I say out loud to remind myself that these people don’t own me, but it doesn’t come out very convincingly, so I say it again, “She’s not my master.”

  I have a fleeting moment where I think I should refuse the food and go on a hunger strike. After all, they want me to dance with her. I won’t be able to if I’m starved and malnourished.

  My mouth curls up sideways in the corner as I say to nobody, “That will show them.”

  But the smell of the soup is nearly intoxicating after being denied nourishment for so long. Steam curls as it rises from the dark broth. I dip my spoon into it and stir, noting the colors of the vegetables.

  Fresh orange carrots.

  Precisely green peas.

  Flawless white chunks of potato.

  Perfectly tender chunks of beef.

  It all looks freshly made and my mouth is watering.

  I scoop and lift the spoon to my lips and eagerly take a bite, hunger strike and scalding broth be damned. I devour the entire bowl before I even notice the warm bread and scoop of butter beside it, and I scarf that down, too.

  Now that I’ve eaten, I feel refreshed, renewed, hopeful I can survive this ordeal long enough to escape. I stand and set the tray back on the side table by the armchair and hesitate.

  I’ve already scoured the parts of the room I can reach. All the drawers and built-in cabinets are empty. Anything I could potentially use as a weapon or tool has been removed from the room.

  I’m still cuffed.

  I’m still locked in.

  I’m still captive.

  I look down at the empty soup bowl and suddenly feel deceived by the brief jolt of energy it’s nourishment gave me.

  I feel fucking betrayed by it.

  I reach down and snatch the bowl from the tray and hurl it across the room. It slams with a thud and bounces off the far wall, entirely intact.

  It doesn’t even give me the satisfaction of shattering for me.

  I think another day has gone by when the door finally opens again. This time, I jump up the moment I hear it, eager more than before to eat with the tease of food I was given yesterday. I spin to face the door and the blue-eyed girl enters the room.

  Her hands are empty and my stomach grumbles in disappointment. She’s hard and cold again, not the way she looked when she brought me the soup.

  “On your knees,” she commands, closing the door behind her.

  I waver.

  Her eyes pierce into mine and though no part of my psyche wants to bend for my captor, my knees fold all the same. I lower to the floor, but I keep my eyes on hers, my expression dark with the anger I feel at myself for obeying so quickly. I don’t even know why I did.

  “Good,” she says with narrowed eyes as she moves closer. “Eyes on the floor.”

  “I’m not taking my eyes off you,” I growl.

  “I’m flattered, really, but you will obey if you want to eat.”

  Her challenge ignites my stubbornness. “Then I guess I won’t eat.”

  Her eyebrows slant down toward her tiny, round nose and she tilts her head as she regards me. A curious look spreads across her rosy cheeks. Boldly, she walks to stand right in front of me. I could reach out and grab her, tackle her to the floor, hold her hostage until Nikolai Mikhailov returns.

  If he ever returns.

  And what the hell would I do when he does?

  My heartbeat surges with the urge to do it—to toss her to the ground and pin her beneath me and force her into this captivity along with me. It burns heat inside my chest that coils and festers.

  She hovers above me and her chest rises and falls sharply with a quick breath. I can nearly feel the air rush out of her on the exhale, and I breathe it in. The cool, wintry breeze of her breath melts over the fire burning in my chest. It drips like a waterfall into my stomach, tugging unnecessary need into my belly. The feeling persists when her icy fingers touch my chin, grip me firmly, and pull my head up higher to look at her.

  Her voice is a low whisper. “Remember this while you sleep tonight, mal’chik. You made the choice not to eat.”

  I open my mouth to clap back at her with a snarky reply, but I don’t even get the chance. With a graceful spin, she releases me and turns, striding with sure steps to the door.

  She’s gone before I can even blink.

  It’s fuck all o’clock on the forty-second day of December in the grand old year of two thousand thirty-seven or some bullshit.

  I don’t know whether it’s night or day anymore.

  I’ve been fed three times since they brought me here and my interactions have been limited to brief exchanges with the blue-eyed girl. Each meeting ends
with me frustrated in my stubbornness and inexplicably more desperate to obey her, though I fight it.

  I don’t think I’m going to fight it when she comes back.

  If she comes back.

  God, I hope she fucking comes back.

  Chapter 5

  Anya

  Keeping my interactions with Ezra brief and cold has been more challenging than it was with any of the others. He was broody and sullen with me—understandably so—and it should have put me off.

  It does put me off, but in a fiery sort of way that makes me want him to keep fighting me for control.

  Of course, I don’t want that—my survival depends on his submission. I need his submission to be able to train him, but he hasn’t given it to me yet.

  He’s been locked in his room for five days, has earned meals only three times, and I’m concerned because I need him to be strong enough for the way I manage my rehearsals. Time is wasting away while I wait for him to cave and concede control, and I’ve finally come to my wits’ end. He’s not pliable and easily manipulated like the others had been.

  In my life before, I might have enjoyed that quality about him, but now, I find it infuriating. As I approach his room, I place a hand over my belly and take in a deep, steadying breath. The way he regards me whenever I enter his room is unsettling in a way that makes my pulse race. He’s not aware of his effect on me, or at least, I don’t think he is, but I have to be careful with my reactions.

  I meet his snarky tone with a snarky tone of my own.

  I meet the intensity of his eyes with my own piercing gaze.

  I meet his fire with my inferno.

  I know I must be careful not to fan the flame too high, though.

  Everything must be carefully controlled with him.

  I unlock the door and open it carefully, stepping inside and shutting it behind me. Ezra has just risen to his feet from sitting on the edge of the bed and whips around to face me. His shirt is off, though his jeans remain intact. I catch a glimpse of his defined torso at the moment his eyes narrow on mine and my fingers twitch at my side.

  I think with certainty he’s going to be difficult today, but then his face droops in defeat. He circles to the stand in front of the end of the bed as I walk across the floor to meet him and, without my directive, he lowers to his knees.

  I take in a sharp breath of surprise as he sits back on his heels and places his palms on his thighs, lowering his eyes to the floor. He is the chiseled statue of a man kneeling in worship and I am the object of his adoration.

  The part of me desperate for some semblance of control in this tortured life aches for him to be mine completely, hopeful that this submission is given beyond his desperation for food and comfort and connection. I know that kind of submission as I give it daily in exchange for the things I need for survival. For the first time, I want more than that from this partner. I just don’t know exactly why.

  I stand in front of him, close enough for him to reach out and touch. I stand there waiting, wondering if he is trying to trick me into complacency so he can attack, but he doesn’t move. I decide to test his obedience.

  I walk backward a few steps and stop. “Crawl to me.”

  His shoulders slump as he sighs, but he drops down and crawls to me all the same. My stomach clenches at the vision of his shoulder muscles flexing with the slow, crawling movement. My attention is drawn to his ankle when the metal chain clanks its insistence that he does not go any farther.

  I shudder, remembering the ache and irritation of the hard metal cuff. Mine was on for two weeks when I first arrived here years ago. It always bothered me to see my partners wearing it when they first arrived. But the reminder of it now, on this partner, triggers something more visceral within me. I can feel it on my ankle as though I am wearing it myself.

  “If I remove the chain, what will you do?” I ask him.

  He lifts his head, but he’s too close to me on his hands and knees and our eyes don’t meet. He doesn’t reply.

  “Will you obey me if I remove the chain? I’m not interested in being attacked. If Master finds me here injured or dead or held as your hostage, he will slice you open and mercilessly rip out your organs. So, if I remove the chain as a reward for your submission, what will you do?”

  He shifts to sit back on his heels. “I’ll obey.”

  “Look at me and tell me again.”

  Ezra tilts his chin upward, meeting my eyes with that sparkling green that reminds me of life and sunlight. “I’ll obey. Please, just take it off.”

  I sigh. “Go sit on the bed and wait. I’m going to leave to get you food. If I come back and you’ve moved from that spot, the chain will stay and you’ll remain is this room for another night. Do you understand?”

  His eyes narrow with a flicker of hope, immediately replaced with fear.

  The fear is what I want, what I need to keep him under my thumb.

  I should be happy to have seen it cross the vibrant green, but it makes my stomach roil with nausea instead. I don’t understand the feeling because he’s just given me the obedience I need to control him.

  Watching me, he rises to his feet in front of me, and as he comes to his full height—probably a good six inches above me—I feel an urge to step back. I won’t step back, but regardless, the urge is there. The way he holds me with his eyes, the way his presence pushes heavy against my chest, my heart…it frightens me.

  I’m thankful when Ezra nods slowly and steps backward, watching me for two steps before he turns and lowers to the bed. I let out a breath of relief when he finally lets go of my gaze, letting his head drop as he rubs his palms nervously against his jeans.

  “Good, mal’chik,” I tell him, then clear my throat. “I’ll return within the hour.”

  His head snaps up to look at me again and I’m caught up in the fear his features hold. I feel a need to reassure him like I’ve never felt before.

  “I’ll return, Ezra. My word is good. I don’t have any reason to lie to you. I promise.” I leave the room and lock the door before he can respond.

  Why did I make a promise?

  I know better than to make promises here. Though it’s a promise I intend to keep, I know Nikolai could call for me and force me to break it by no fault of my own. I’ve never promised anything to any of my partners before and my forehead wrinkles at the thought that I’ve just done it now.

  I walk briskly to the kitchen on the ground floor, all the time wondering how I could do such a stupid thing. But more importantly, I wonder why.

  I make a quick lunch for Ezra.

  Mal’chik, I remind myself.

  I hurry because suddenly I’m terrified that Nikolai will show up and demand my time. It’s been years since I’ve made a promise to anyone and the thought of breaking it makes me want to cry. I have no right to make promises to anyone when my life is not my own. I feel tears well behind my eyes as I put his food on a tray and lift it from the butcher block island.

  I turn and a fresh kind of panic I haven’t felt since my first weeks here at Mikhailov Manor rushes inside me. I expect to see Nikolai standing there, but he isn’t. Still, the panic that he could have been ignites my anxiety all the same.

  It was always terrifying to turn and find him waiting for me when I didn’t expect it, but now I’ve gone and made a promise.

  A promise to be somewhere.

  To be there for someone else.

  And I can’t stomach the thought of breaking it.

  My chest tightens as all the air rushes out of my lungs. I take two steps forward but then halt because painful sobs stop me dead in my tracks.

  I spin back toward the counter, setting the tray down with a clatter, but at least I manage not to drop it to the floor. I grip the counter’s edge, lean forward, and sob over Ezra’s meal.

  It’s been so long since I’ve f
elt so much that I don’t even know how to handle my own outburst. I have no choice but to let it overcome me. I let go and let it grip me and it’s painful to relinquish control. My body trembles with the purge of emotions that I don’t understand.

  When I finally decide I’ve had enough of this bullshit, I stop.

  I stop crying.

  I stop wallowing.

  I stop fearing.

  I take back control, harden my heart, let ice freeze over the bits of my soul that just thought they could melt. I grab the tray and march back toward Ezra’s room before emotion can stop me again.

  I stop at Kostya’s door in the same hallway first. Kostya is one of the men Nikolai pays to protect me, or so he says. Really, Kostya is an escort, following me and my partner during the day, ensuring we don’t attempt escape or suicide or murder. He’s a distant cousin of the Mikhailovs, but that means nothing. At the end of the day, he’s just one of the hired help.

  Kostya is younger than Nikolai, but older than me. He told me he was twenty-eight when I was first brought here three years ago, when I was twenty-one. He opens the door after I knock, dressed for the day in a plain black suit and tie, as always. He’s starting to grow out his ash-colored facial hair, and it’s just a hint longer than his usual five o’clock shadow. His hair is styled nicely, thick strands that wave to one side from where they are parted.

  The cut on his cheek from wrestling with Ezra when he was first brought in seems to be healing nicely, but I don’t tell him that.

  I don’t talk to Kostya.

  I don’t think I can trust him.

  He comes with me and opens Ezra’s door. I don’t have to give him my keys because he has a set of his own.

  I walk in and my heart thumps hard once, twice, to find that Ezra has obeyed. He remains motionless as I bring the tray into the room and set it on the table beside the armchair.

  “Eat first,” I tell him, “and I’ll remove your chain before I go.”

  “Before you go?”

  “No talking,” I snap. “Eat and listen.”

  He stands to grab the tray and sits back down on the bed, digging in without hesitation.