Counts of Eight (The Four Families Book 1)

by Brynn Ford

  “I didn’t—”

  “I know you didn’t come. And you’re not going to. Learn to control him without gaining his sympathy. You don’t deserve any.”

  Chapter 8

  Anya

  My heart sinks.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  A sob overcomes me, but I pull it back inside, swallowing it down.

  Nikolai leaves us alone in Ezra’s room and it takes me moments to catch my breath and regain control of myself.

  Silent, sickening moments pass before I lift my forehead from the bed and sit back on my heels. I look down at the floor between my knees and the bed and place my palms flat against my thighs. I breathe in deeply through my nose, pushing air out through my mouth, over and over as I try to shake off the aching need between my legs.

  If I were cruel, I could become a master like Nikolai. I could use the slave boy beside me and make him finish what Nikolai had started. But even the thought of such a thing makes me sick to my stomach. It puts perspective back into focus. Nikolai hadn’t just brought me to the brink of pleasure, he used and abused me to make a point.

  “Hey,” Ezra says softly at my side.

  I turn my head to look at him. “Don’t,” I say. “Don’t speak. There’s nothing you can say right now that will make things any better.”

  I get up off the floor and reach between my legs to adjust the fabric of my leotard to cover me again. I look over at Ezra and catch his eyes, looking where I’m exposed, then darting away quickly as I cover myself.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I won’t use you in that way.”

  He looks taken aback. “I wasn’t thinking that.”

  I look at the bulge that’s straining against his jeans and he shifts, trying to hide it. He pushes off the floor and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. It’s curious that he’s aroused, though I suppose it’s not all that surprising. Perhaps all men are the same in their violent tastes.

  I’m slowly shielding myself with each breath I draw, steeling myself to protect against further emotional pain. “I trust you understand your place now.”

  I untie, adjust, and rewrap the black chiffon dance skirt around my waist, taking a step back as Ezra climbs to his feet.

  I don’t fear him, but my eyes narrow, considering that Nikolai left me alone with an impulsive slave who hasn’t been properly broken in enough to behave. He attacked Nikolai, after all, and I’m perplexed that Nikolai hasn’t taken more care with my safety, at least in sending Kostya back to the room. Once my skirt is straight, I shake my head slowly and straighten to my full height.

  “I remember who you are,” Ezra says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I remember you now. I’ve been trying to figure out where I know you from and I think I remember. You’re Anya Antonov, the soloist from the New York City Ballet that went missing a few years ago.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “And what difference does it make?”

  He shrugs. “It doesn’t. It’s just interesting.”

  “Interesting? Well, I’m glad my disappearance serves as entertainment for you.”

  “You were slated to be a principal dancer before you were twenty-five.”

  “I was, though that’s not my life anymore.”

  “They called you a legendary talent in the news when you went missing.” He pauses. “He kidnapped you?”

  “Do you think I came here of my own free will?”

  I feel like a liar when I say that. I didn’t choose to come here, to be his slave, but I did get on that plane with him all the same when he offered an opportunity to excel in my craft.

  How could I have known his intentions then?

  “Jesus.” He puts his hands behind his neck and the stretch of it emphasizes the broadness of his chest. “How long have you been here?”

  “Three years,” I tell him and wonder why I’m still here, rooted to the spot, having any sort of conversation with him.

  I cross my arms over my chest when I should simply leave the room.

  “Have you tried to escape?”

  My head falls to the side and incredulity mars my tone. “Is that a serious question?”

  A small smile tugs at his lips, though he’s trying to hide it. I wonder what it is about me that amuses him so much.

  “Where the hell are we?”

  I sigh, thinking again that I should leave. Instead, I move backward and lower slowly to perch on the edge of the armchair. I need a moment to come down from this spoiled high anyway.

  “I don’t know exactly,” I tell him honestly. “Somewhere in Russia, but nowhere near civilization.”

  “Russia.” His brow wrinkles as he sits on the edge of the bed. “How have you survived here this long? With him?”

  I look at him squarely. “All of my choices have been stripped from me except for one. Dance or die. I choose to dance. That’s how I survive.”

  “He’s impatient with you.”

  “He demands perfection and obedience. When he doesn’t get it, it’s my fault.”

  His head snaps sideways to look at me with narrowed eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Of course, it’s not my fault. I’m not delusional, mal’chik. He hasn’t brainwashed me.” I narrow my eyes at him as I push to my feet. “I’m a slave. And so are you. Master is right, you need to learn your place.”

  “Do I?”

  I march over and slap him without any conviction at all. “Get on your knees.”

  He places his hand on his cheek and looks up at me. “What will you do if I don’t, Anya? Will you call him back in here? Tell him you can’t train your slave? The slave who, in his own words, is more talented than you?”

  I latch my small hand around the side of his neck and dig my fingers in before tugging him forward. He could easily pull out of my grip if he wanted to. My hands are tiny in comparison to his neck and broad shoulders. I consider it a win when he lets me drag him forward off the bed and he falls to his knees.

  “You’re in over your head here,” I tell him. “You haven’t even begun to comprehend how deep in shit you are.”

  His eyes are hard and soft all at once as he pleads, “Then tell me.”

  I don’t want to tell him everything. It’s too much and I don’t trust him yet. I need to trust in his submission before I can tell him everything, before we can really begin to rehearse for our performance at the quarterly event. And we need to do that soon.

  My shoulders slump and I try to breathe out some of the tension that’s straining between us in favor of earning his understanding.

  “I will tell you everything. Not now, not yet. First, I need to know that I have your submission, I need to see it.”

  “I’m literally on my knees in front of you. What the fuck else do you need to see?”

  I lift an eyebrow. “I need to see that sarcastic attitude roll off your fucking shoulders. That would be a start.”

  He gives a gruff sigh. “Okay, Master.”

  Now he’s just being an asshole.

  I step away from him and stride toward the door.

  He calls after me, “Wait, don’t leave me in here, please.”

  That simple plea tells me what I need to continue to do to break him into submission.

  Isolation.

  He wants to talk, to interact, to connect, so I’ll put an end to that and go right back to the beginning.

  “Enjoy your time alone, Ezra,” I say.

  I walk out, shut the door behind me, and lock it.

  A few more days in isolation with minimal sustenance ought to do it.

  I hope.

  Chapter 9

  Ezra

  It’s only when I feel like I’m starting to get used to the isolation that I start to fear I’m going insane. It feels like a century has g
one by in this fucking awful green room, but I know it’s only been a week. I know this because Anya brings me one meal each day and each tray has had a small torn piece of parchment with a number scribbled on it.

  The first day there was a one, the second day a two, and so on.

  The last meal was day seven.

  Seven days with nothing more than a girl walking into my room, setting down a tray, and leaving me alone again.

  The only connection I got from her was the scribbled numbers and some small gesture that reminded me of her humanity. Sometimes it was a look or the demure tuck of a strand of hair behind her ear. I think I even got a small smile of reassurance once, but I know I must have been dreaming it.

  I actually had dreamt it one night, the first night she left me here alone. I felt shame at the dream because it was sexual in nature. My fucked-up brain had memorized the look on her face when she granted the smallest smile the day Nikolai fingered her right in front of me.

  What Nikolai had done to her was a violation that made my shoulders tense and my muscles flex with the urge to hurt him. But whatever reaction her body was having to it was undeniably beautiful. And I felt sick for thinking that for even a moment. I felt even worse for dreaming about her pleasure. At least it was consensual in the dream. And it was with me.

  I hear the locks turn the day after note number seven.

  I climb off the bed where I’d been lying, looking up at the ceiling, and drop to my knees at the foot of the bed. I do this because it seems to please her. I do this because she wants my submission and my trust. I do this because I can’t stand the isolation anymore, and I’m nearly willing to do anything for her just so she’ll grant me the kindness of taking me out of this fucking room.

  Maybe, just maybe, some part of me just wants to please her because I crave her approval in some fucked up way.

  She enters and sees me there and though my head is bowed for her, I can see from my peripheral that she’s pleased. Warmth spreads across my chest at the thought. As usual, she brings in the tray and sets it on the side table next to the armchair. I expect her to leave immediately, as she has been doing, but she surprises me this time.

  Crossing the room, she comes to stand in front of me, then bends and lowers to her knees, mirroring my position. She puts soft fingertips under my chin and lifts my head so that we’re nearly eye to eye. I’m taller than her so she’s looking up at me.

  I think I could deep dive in her blue eyes, get swept away in the hurricane. Her plump, pink lips curve into a smile and I can’t help but smile back.

  “Your submission pleases me, Ezra,” she says.

  I feel like I’ve just reincarnated from the life of a dog back to humanity.

  She slowly leans forward. Her cheek grazes my cheek as she seeks my ear to share a whisper, a secret. I want to throw my arms around her and hold on for dear life when her touch ignites my need for connection, for affection.

  “Just be sure the cuff goes back on before Nikolai comes into the room.”

  She stands as swiftly and as gracefully as she kneeled and walks to the door. She pulls it open but hesitates before she leaves. She turns her head over her shoulder and gives me a look. I don’t really understand her expression, but her eyes meet mine and I feel relief for the brief moment of interaction in our gaze.

  Goddamn, she’s a beautiful powerhouse.

  She leaves without another word and I’m held in place by that look.

  After a minute, I remember how fucking hungry I am and go to the tray she left me. I sit on the floor with it and immediately look for the paper I expect to have the number eight on it, but it’s not there.

  Disappointment sinks my insides.

  I pick up my spoon—she never gives me a fork or knife, regardless of the meal—and it hovers over the plate as frustration sets in.

  How can I be so frustrated over a piece of paper with a number?

  I know it’s because that piece of paper with the number was the only real form of communication I’ve had over the past week. Its absence rips a weird sort of panic through my chest.

  What if seven was the last note?

  How will I track how long I’ve been here?

  I search the tray again, frantic to know if perhaps I just missed it. I pick up the plate to look beneath it and my hands freeze mid-air, holding it above the tray. I blink and pause with what I find.

  Beneath the plate is a small key.

  ‘Just be sure the cuff goes back on,’ she had said to me.

  “Fuck,” I mutter as I set the plate on the ground beside me and pick up the key.

  I don’t even take a second to think as I shift my cuffed leg out in front of me. I know right where the keyhole is. I’ve clawed at the damn thing often enough, trying to find a way to get it off me. I insert the key and twist it. It takes me a few tries, but eventually, it clicks and the cuff falls open.

  “Holy shit,” I say, jumping up off the floor.

  My blood spikes with adrenaline as I run both my hands through the hair on top of my head. I spin with the energy it gives me and try to make sense of this.

  She gave me a key.

  A fucking key.

  ‘Just be sure the cuff goes back on before Nikolai comes into the room.’

  I bend down and pick up the key where I dropped it on the beige carpet. I look at it in my hand, then look at the door, wondering if it’s the same key.

  I rush to the door and insert the key in the bottom lock, turning it in a hurry. I nearly collapse when I turn it and it clicks. I quickly slide it into the next keyhole just above the first but when I try to turn it, my heart sinks.

  It won’t turn.

  “Shit,” I say into the void that is my room.

  I try again, but it won’t turn.

  I try again.

  Again.

  Again.

  And I’m gonna lose my shit if this fucking door won’t open.

  What is this?

  Part of me thinks she’s trying to give me hope just so she can yank the rug from beneath my feet. Perhaps the key really was just meant to free me from the bed chain and nothing more. She had told me to put it back on before Nikolai comes, though I have no idea when he’s coming.

  But why would she do that?

  I’m so agitated from the adrenaline and the hope I had that I decide I’m getting this fucking door open. Without thinking, I grasp the doorknob and turn, ready to pull with all my might. I yank back hard and tumble backward onto my ass.

  It opened.

  The door opened.

  The second lock wasn’t latched in the first place.

  I’m so shocked that I immediately jump up and push it closed again. Then I realize what I’ve done, worried it will somehow lock automatically, and I quickly yank it open again.

  Sweet baby Jesus.

  The door is open and I’m not chained. I can leave this stupid room.

  I lean my head around the doorframe to peek out into the hallway and find that it’s empty. I reluctantly pull myself back inside the room and take a deep breath, knowing that I should take a beat to think this through. My muscles are twitching and jumping, pulsing with each heartbeat with the message to run, run, run.

  I don’t think about an escape plan, I just move.

  I creep out into the hallway, tiptoeing past the rows of closed doors. When I come to the end of the hallway, I stop. I can see outward toward the edge of the grand staircase and clearly see all the way across its vast opening to the opposite side of the manor and to a hallway beyond it. I prepare myself with a deep breath and then stealthily move toward the staircase.

  I stay alert, looking everywhere, all around me, watching for movement and ready to pounce on the defensive if anyone comes after me.

  I have to get the fuck out of here.

  No matter what
I have to do.

  I reach the top of the staircase and I’m about to take off down it, intent for the exit. But when my foot lands on the first step, I’m halted as the memory of soft fingers lifting my chin and sapphire eyes meeting mine floods my sensibility.

  I can’t leave her here.

  She’s as much a victim as I am.

  She’s more of a victim really.

  I need to rescue her.

  But where the fuck do I find her?

  This estate is huge and I’ve only been in two rooms. Mine and the dance studio.

  I step backward, back onto the landing, thinking her room must be somewhere on this level, perhaps on the opposite side. Bravely—or perhaps, stupidly—I head toward the far hallway, opposite the way I came.

  I creep down the hall, walking softly, staying close to one side of the wall. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing or why I’m going to find this girl instead of getting the fuck out of here.

  I just know I can’t leave without her.

  Chapter 10

  Ezra

  “Mal’chik,” Anya’s voice comes from behind me in a sharp whisper.

  I’m startled, nearly jumping out of my skin. I unintentionally take a swing at her as I spin to face her, but thankfully, she ducks just in time.

  “Jesus,” I say quickly. “Come on, come with me, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Her forehead is wrinkled, her blue eyes piercing. She looks down and reaches forward to grasp my hand. Her touch is ice melting my fire.

  “Come with me,” she demands, spinning me back around and pulling me after her down the hallway.

  We pass two doors and come upon a third. She pushes it open, pulling me inside. She releases me just beyond the threshold and slams the door shut behind us.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she demands. “How did you get out of the room?”

  “How did I get out of the…” I’m confused. “I found the key you left me. I came to find you so I can get us the hell out of here.”