Counts of Eight (The Four Families Book 1)

by Brynn Ford

  She takes my hand again and we walk side by side down the short hallway. It opens onto a foyer, reminiscent of the grand entrance, but much smaller. Same marbled floors, same ornate gold frames and crown molding, same stupid burgundy-colored walls.

  Two sets of double doors sit to our left. They’re dark wood, carved with intricate patterns like the doors in the grand entrance, only smaller. Anya walks us to the doors and pulls on the handle, opening it wide.

  “This is Nobility Hall,” she says, gesturing for me to go inside.

  I grin as I walk past her and enter the large open space. It’s dark, but I see what it is. This is our dance hall. It’s where we’ll be performing. The two aisleways that lead down to the stage are covered with plush, red carpeting, lined with rows of seats on both sides. I’d guess you could fit about a hundred people in this theater, which seems excessive given that Mikhailov Manor is so vast and empty.

  I move forward as the lights come on, first in the audience, then on the stage. The stage is low, nearer to the audience than I would’ve expected. It’s dark black wood and dark black curtains make it all perfectly, poetically haunting. It should be, given that it’s tainted by the blood of slaves.

  Anya’s arm brushes mine as she comes up beside me and I snatch her hand in mine. I hear her take in a sharp breath and I turn my head to look at her, wanting to see the expression on her face. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, so demurely, so innocently, and swallows as she shifts her eyes away from my stare.

  I want to hold more than her hand and she wants that, too.

  I know it.

  But I’m not going to push her.

  She starts walking down the aisleway and I walk beside her. “This is a fairly recent addition to Mikhailov Manor.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nikolai had it added on when I was fifteen or so, I suppose. Of course, I wouldn’t have known then that he’d already had my adult years mapped out for me.”

  My gut rolls at the thought. “I’ll never get over how sick this whole thing is.”

  She watches her steps, the corners of her lips tugging upward, though it’s not a smile. “Neither will I.”

  “So, tell me what we’re doing here.”

  We stop as we reach the stage. “I just thought we could dance.”

  She says it so plainly, so sweetly. It takes me back to freedom, when I could just go and do something because I wanted to, when she could just go and do something because she wanted to. It hits me then what’s happening here as I watch the nervous way she shifts from one foot to the other, the way she keeps tucking that same strand of hair back behind her ear.

  She just needs some normalcy and for some reason, she feels safe enough to try for it with me. Truthfully, she’s risking life and limb to bring me here, and all she wants is to dance with me.

  It’s not all she wants, but that’s all she needs.

  I grin at her, nodding. “Yeah, let’s do it. Let’s dance.”

  She smiles up at me and fuck, it shoots right to my groin. I almost feel bad about that, as if I don’t have a right to crave her.

  But damn, do I crave her.

  Her smile softens as she looks at me, fading into something even sweeter. She bites her bottom lip and lets out a heavy breath. She’s giving me every signal that she’d let me kiss her if I tried.

  If we were back in New York, free, just living our lives the way we wanted to, I’d already have my arms around her. I’d already be pulling her close. I’d already be kissing her the way she deserves to be kissed, with complete, reckless abandon.

  But I can’t do things the normal way, not with Anya. I refuse to scare or hurt her. I’ll only give her what she asks me for, and I’ll take nothing more.

  It looks like she’s about to move closer and I hold my breath. But then she slips past me, walking away from me toward the steps at the side of the stage. She jogs up them and across the hardwood floor to center stage, smiling down at me.

  “Are you coming up?” she asks expectantly.

  I tilt my head to the side, watching her. “Will you dance for me?”

  She nods. “Only if you come up on stage with me.”

  “You got it,” I tell her easily and jog up the five steps to meet her.

  I move to sit downstage, facing where she stands in the center. I sit down on the hard wood, leaning back on my palms and crossing my legs casually at the ankles in front of me.

  “All right, I’m ready,” I say. “Wait. Do we have any music?”

  “We can‘t play music. Kostya will hear it and come looking for us.” She suddenly looks apprehensive at her own reminder that we’re breaking the rules.

  My lips curl in a smirk. “I can sing.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Can you though?”

  “Nah, not really.” I laugh.

  She shrugs with a smile. “I have music in my mind.”

  And in her heart and soul.

  “I know you do.”

  With an encouraging smile, Anya dances for me.

  For the past half hour, Anya’s been dancing around on stage, twirling and leaping and flowing through some of the most graceful movement I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching.

  My cheeks hurt from smiling, and I’m so fucking grateful for that ache. I don’t think I’ve had such a long stretch of happiness since I arrived here. Anya is poised perfection and though I’m aching to touch her, I’d be plenty happy to sit and watch her dance as long as she’ll let me.

  She comes out of a turn, but strangely, let’s it fade to a slow, unusual stop. She doesn’t really finish the movement in an elegant pose the way she normally does, always the professional.

  She just stops it.

  Turning to face me, she touches her lips with her fingers and she lets her teeth nip at her chewed off thumbnail as her eyes shift.

  She’s nervous, but not in the way I’ve come to expect.

  “What is it?” I ask her with concern.

  She lets out a heavy breath and takes three quick steps toward me, stopping abruptly, just at my feet. I almost feel pushed back by the way she rushes me, but it doesn’t move me away. I’m frozen to the spot by the way she looks down at me. I push up off my palms, sitting up straighter and lifting my head, making sure she knows she has my full attention.

  “The night we kissed, you said you were mine,” she finally says.

  I somehow feel lighter to have her remember that as the night we kissed and not the night Nikolai cut her and raped her while forcing me to watch.

  I nod once. “I said I was yours. And I meant it.”

  She steps over me and drops down to her knees so quickly, I hardly have time to react. In an instant, she’s straddling my outstretched legs, settling her ass on my thighs, grabbing my face in her hands.

  “Anya,” is all I manage to say before her lips fall heavily onto mine.

  I can’t contain the groan of sheer relief I feel from having her body against mine, her lips on my lips. Her tongue is already fighting to get to mine and the taste of her is something other-fucking-worldly when I let her in.

  She lets me taste her and enjoy her delicious mouth for several satisfying moments before she pulls her head back with a snap. Her hands slide down from my face, but drift softly to the sides of my neck. She presses her forehead to mine.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she says softly.

  I hold myself upright with one palm back on the floor, sliding the other around her waist and rubbing over the small of her back. “What do you mean?”

  “There are things I want that I shouldn’t want.”

  I lick my lips and tilt my head forward, touching my nose to hers. “And what do you want?”

  Her voice is low, her hands slipping around to the back of my neck to hold me to her. “I want things from you.” />
  I press my palm flat against her back and drag her body closer, forcing her to press in and mold against me, and she sighs. She lets me arch her back and flatten her breasts against my chest. Her curves are soft and supple against my body and I want to touch her everywhere.

  I want to flip her over, lay her down, climb on top of her and make her feel everything I feel for her. I want to make her feel how desired she is, how needed she is, how loved she is.

  “What do you want?” I repeat, tilting my hips to buck up into her, just for a beat, just to feel her.

  Her eyes fall shut and she moans.

  Like an angel chorus from the heavens, she moans.

  Its pleasure filled, not fearing, and knowing that sends a rush of blood to my cock. I lick my lips and press a soft kiss to hers.

  Just one.

  “Please, Anya, tell me what you want.”

  She opens her eyes and I’m held captive by her sultry stare. She doesn’t speak, but I don’t think she needs to. She lets her body speak for her, just as she does with dance.

  Her hips shift forward, a slow, long, experimental motion. She slides across my half-hard, denim-covered cock, pressing down and grinding into me.

  “Shit,” I manage, my breaths picking up their pace.

  She holds steady for a few beats before rocking back, then forward again. I know what her body is telling me. She’s telling me how much she wants this, how much she wants to enjoy me in the physical sense, but she doesn’t know if she can, if she’s ready.

  I won’t show it, but it actually breaks my heart. Not because I know she isn’t ready for me, but because of the reason why she’s not ready.

  Nikolai.

  He’s abused her sexually for so long that she’s probably forgotten what good, healthy sex feels like. A thought crosses my mind and now I’m wondering if she ever knew. For all I know, she was a virgin before he took her.

  This train of thought alone is enough to keep my urge to whip her around and pin her beneath me in check. I’ll let her decide the pace. I’ll let her take whatever it is she needs from me—no matter how small—because I am beyond happy to give it.

  She leans into me and her weight pushes my back down to the floor. All that worry about my urge to throw her down and she’s doing it to me. My heart races and my pulse thrums a heavy beat, ticking through every muscle, as I lower to my back on the stage floor.

  I toss her long hair back over her shoulder with a flick of my wrist just before she brings her lips down on mine and kisses me again. I hold her with my hand on her cheek as she moans into my mouth. The sound vibrates on my lips and makes them tingle, and I moan right back so she can feel the same.

  She speaks to me between kisses, “Do you want me?”

  “Yes, I want you.” I lift my hips to meet hers. “Fuck, I want you.”

  “Would you still want me if we weren’t here?”

  I grab her face with both hands, her dangling hair tickling over my knuckles. “I would want you anywhere, Anya.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Because I know you.”

  She searches my eyes and I’m caught up in the blue of hers as they flicker. I know the moment she finds whatever it is she’s looking for because she smiles in a way I’ve never seen from her before.

  It’s bright, happy, free.

  It shines through her eyes and sends a shockwave of need through me, clenching low in my gut.

  She knows exactly what her smile does to me because her legs are wrapped around me and I’m rock-hard beneath her. Her hips move again and it feels like heaven. It makes me want to know what it would feel like to be inside her, but I have no expectation that she’ll let me find out.

  Still, she’s pressing and grinding against me hard and heavy now. Her cotton short-shorts leave little barrier between her and my jeans, and I crudely wonder if she’ll leave a wet spot there.

  Fuck, I hope she does.

  “I don’t think I can fuck you,” she tells me, though she’s grinding against my crotch.

  “I don’t expect you to.”

  “But you want me to.”

  “Yes, I want you to. Fuck, Anya…” I pull her down and kiss her, sloppy and wet.

  She kisses my cheek, my neck, along my jawline, and my hands are all over her, touching her everywhere. I slide my heel back along the floor to lift my knee because she’s pushing down on me so hard, I want to give her something to push back against.

  I don’t know if she can come like this with all our clothes on, but fuck, I want her to. I want that from her. I want to see her take what she needs, what she deserves, and have that fleeting moment of freedom. If all I can give her is that moment, I’ll give it.

  My hands slide over her back and slip down over her ass. My movements are slow because I don’t know exactly how she’ll react. She doesn’t stop me, so gradually, I squeeze. She flips her head, tossing her silky brown hair back over her shoulder again and bites her lip, picking up her pace.

  We’re all but fucking with our clothes on, but somehow this all seems far more intimate.

  I’ve already seen her naked, I’ve already seen her orgasm, though it was unwillingly. It actually makes me feel a little emotional to think about it because the sounds she’s making now, when I know she wants this, are entirely different. The sounds she’s making are fuel for the fire within my gut. Her sounds are fucking magic and before long, I’m urgently eager for relief. She’s changing her angle, shifting against my jeans, rolling her hips and rocking hard.

  Her long wavy hair keeps falling back down over her face and the ends tickle against my skin as she molds her hips to mine. I grip her ass and hold her against me.

  “Ezra,” she whispers into my neck and I shiver at the sound of my name from her sweet lips, “are you mine?”

  I sigh, my answer doesn’t even require a thought. “I’m yours.”

  She’s jerking against me now, jerking and fucking and making me so hard it hurts. I lift to kiss her neck, licking across the hollow of her throat and earning a pleasure-filled gasp from her.

  “I want you to come like this,” I tell her, nipping my teeth across the side of her neck. “Please, Anya.”

  Her eyes are drifting shut, but she smiles as she bites her bottom lip. “Yes…yes…just hold still.”

  “Holding still, not moving.” I grin at her, but she doesn’t see it because her eyes are squeezed shut with tension.

  It’s only a few moments longer when her movements become frantic, desperate. The speed and pressure of her rubbing over my cock makes me swell. If she keeps going at that angle, right there, she’s gonna make me come in my jeans.

  “Jesus. Anya,” I groan.

  She puts her hands on my shoulders and pushes down hard, lifting her body off me just enough for her to be able to push her hips down harder, grind deeper. She’s tensing and panting out these sweet little “oh” sounds and I know she’s going to make me come.

  The “oh” sounds hit harder and faster. She’s fucking me harder and faster until suddenly, she explodes with the most incredible body trembling orgasm I’ve ever witnessed. The look of her letting go—of being so free with me, taking what she needs instead of giving under force—is so fucking hot that it pushes me right over the edge with her.

  “Yes, fuck, yes,” I groan as I buck up against her.

  I move my hands to her back and pull her against my chest, holding her close. I can feel her heart beating fast, as if it were my own. She scoots down so she can lay her head and hand on my chest and I feel completely wrapped up in her.

  We’re quiet and still for minutes, just holding each other and breathing together. The hardwood floor beneath my back is starting to become uncomfortable, but the softness above me makes up for it in spades.

  I’m determined to savor this moment of rare peace, holding
this woman I know I’m falling hard for, but as the peaceful sound of our breathing is drowned by the open echo of the theater, I’m forced out of the moment. The echo of nothingness that surrounds us reminds me that we’ll be dancing for our lives on this very stage in just a few short weeks.

  I don’t know what will happen then.

  I don’t know if I’ll be killed, sold, or kept.

  I don’t know what fate Anya faces.

  It’s a thought that’s too overwhelming to bear alone. I hold Anya tighter, rolling us over until I’m on top of her. I look down at my blue-eyed girl and kiss her softly, slowly.

  I imagine her home with me in New York, laying comfortably in my bed with sunlight bathing her from open windows. I imagine her free and unburdened by captivity. I imagine her happy, truly, always happy.

  I make a promise to myself in that moment to find a way to make that life a reality for her.

  I’ll find a way, even if it kills me.

  Chapter 19

  Anya

  I moan against Ezra’s lips as he kisses me for the hundredth time on the stage in Nobility Hall. He cradles me and holds me so gently in his arms, and I never want to leave this moment.

  But all moments are fleeting and this one is no exception.

  “We should talk about the performance,” I tell him.

  “Now?”

  I sit up and my bones ache from lying with him on the hardwood floor. “Yes, now.”

  I turn to face him, crossing my legs, and he sits up to mirror my position.

  “Okay, then let’s talk about it.” He adjusts his cock as he settles. “Christ, I still can’t believe you made me come in my jeans.”

  I press my lips together to suppress a smile. I’m sure I’m blushing, but he just grins at me without judgment. He looks almost proud of the way he’s affected me.

  He should be proud.

  I’ve never felt so…powerful.

  “So, what do I need to know?” he asks.

  I put my hands on my knees and straighten my spine, arching my lower back to stretch out my sore muscles.

  “The four families will send representatives to stay here at Mikhailov Manor for the night of our performance. Our performance is really just an opener, entertainment for them. It’s a requirement. A tradition, really. The real purpose for their presence is the quarterly meeting, as I told you before, but each family has to provide entertainment and a reception to welcome their guests when they host. That’s what we exist for as talent slaves—to provide entertainment for our family once every year.”