by Brynn Ford
Will he do it again?
The thought of it sends tension right through my shoulders and threatens to spark an adrenaline rush. But then Anya looks at me, granting me a small smile and a nod—a look that tells me we’re okay right now—and I trust her. Against all reason, I trust her instinctively and it calms me. She steps forward, away from me, and slips her arm in Nikolai’s.
Anya is so graceful and confident and so fucking strong I could nearly cry just watching her walk the way she does with her head held high through her pain and suffering.
I follow behind as Nikolai takes us to stand at a high table without chairs, draped in an elegant gold tablecloth that reaches all the way to the floor. A cocktail waitress walks past, as if this were some ordinary rich people party, and I wonder who she is and whether she’s a slave, too.
Nikolai grabs two glasses of champagne from her tray as she walks by and she flinches as he moves, her face twitching with telltale signs of fear as she tries to remain calm and composed. Nikolai doesn’t seem to notice or care and brings us the glasses as the poor girl walks away.
He sets one down in front of me and the other in front of Anya.
“Drink,” he says. “Enjoy yourselves. You’ve done well. Tonight, you may celebrate that.”
Anya lifts her glass and throws it back without hesitation. I see the tension written all over her face and I don’t blame her a bit for taking the alcohol for what it is, a way to escape the reality of our situation.
I smile at her as she finishes her glass and sets it down on the table, then I drink from my own. But I’m taking it slow.
I want to be alert.
I want to be aware.
I want to be able to fight for her if some weird slave empire shit goes down.
What the fuck is this life?
Anya’s eyes go wide as she looks beyond my back. At first, she looks as though she’s going to retreat and hide somewhere inside her mind, but then she pulls her shoulders back, lifts her chin, brings coldness to the surface in the way she does to protect herself.
I glance over my shoulder to see what she’s seeing. There’s a man and a woman approaching us. They share bronzed complexions, though the woman is fairer toned with dark, jet-black hair, and dark eyes. They both have an aura that pulses severe and dangerous, like monarchs of an evil empire.
Nikolai steps out to greet the man with a handshake, the woman with a kiss to her knuckles. I want to gag over the formalities and forced politeness between slave traders.
These people are fucking sick.
Nikolai holds his arm out toward Anya, beckoning her to come to his side. I freeze watching them. She’s stiffened and my hackles are up. I’m ready to pounce at the way she regards the man with fear and contempt.
“You remember Anya,” Nikolai says to them as she steps into his side, his arm wrapping around her waist.
“Of course,” the woman says, stepping forward to kiss Anya on the cheek. “You were lovely tonight.”
Anya forces a cold smile. “Thank you.”
The man rakes his eyes over Anya appraisingly.
That man is bad news.
I know it immediately.
The woman looks at me and steps closer as she speaks to Nikolai, “You’ve decided to keep the partner this time, I see.” She smiles at me. “Wise choice, Nikolai. He is quite stunning.”
I narrow my eyes at her.
“Renata Vittori,” the woman introduces herself to me and I hear the accent more clearly now in her name.
Spanish? No, Italian.
She looks to be about Nikolai’s age, though she’s as stunningly fit as a twenty-something. She stands out from the crowd in her ivory-colored romper where all the other women wear gowns. The wide pant legs give the appearance of a gown, though, with the way they sweep together, and the V-neck cuts all the way down between her breasts. Her long, black hair tumbles in waves over her shoulders and she’s tall, taller than me with her stilettos on. She’s an attractive woman, oozing power, though the vileness of her intentions pulses evil.
She holds out her hand, but not for me to shake. Her fingers are curled down, knuckles presented, as if she expects me to kiss her hand the way Nikolai did.
Should I bow at your feet, dear queen of the underworld?
I swear, these fuckers.
I do what I have to do to keep the peace and keep Anya safe. I don’t want to get kicked out of the party and leave her alone with these jackals. I take Renata’s hand and bend to kiss her knuckles.
Wait.
Vittori.
Is that the man who…
Just as I lift my head, I see Nikolai pushing Anya toward the man. He snatches her by the wrist and drags her toward him, pulling her into a hug that’s anything but friendly. Her arms dangle behind her back as she tries to avoid giving any sense that this is welcome. I see the goosebumps forming on her arms, the tremble of her hanging limbs. He kisses her cheek then releases her and she steps back immediately.
“Ezra,” I’m thankful that Nikolai says my name to pull me out of my onrushing murderous rage, “this is Vigo. Head of House for the Vittori family.”
I lift my head in acknowledgment but give him no more. I know now that this is the man Nikolai used Anya for as payment. This is the sick fuck he shared her with, nearly ruined her with. My hands shake with rage that threatens to explode through my fingertips.
It takes everything I’ve got to reign myself in, to pretend I’m an obedient and civilized slave, to stop myself from launching at him and ripping the crooked smile from his face with my bare hands.
“I don’t know why you keep pretending, Nikolai. We all know about your tendencies. You should sell this one off.” Vigo nods toward my blue-eyed girl and I want to strangle him. “Keep the boy for yourself. We all know that’s what you really want.”
Nikolai swallows and I’ve never seen such perfectly controlled rage. Whenever I’ve seen that pointed look of anger wash over his features in the past, he’s taken it out full force on Anya without restraint. The same look is there now, but he controls it. Which tells me he can, yet he chooses not to with my girl. He chooses to hurt her.
“With all due respect, Vigo, I tire of your commentary on my slave choices. Perhaps you should be more concerned with your own.” Nikolai looks pointedly toward a young woman I hadn’t noticed before standing behind Vigo. “She looks as though she’s about to faint from malnourishment. Do you care for her at all?”
He’s not wrong. The young woman standing behind him with the long, blond hair wobbles, though she stands still, as though she’s near fainting from exhaustion or hunger or ailment. She has dark circles under her eyes that she’s tried to hide with makeup, but it only emphasizes how swollen they are from tiredness.
She’s thin, too thin in her red, satin gown. A dress like that should cling to a woman’s curves, but the poor girl has been flattened out, as if all the fat in her body has been sucked out with a vacuum. The girl is not well.
Vigo laughs. “I take care of myself, Nikolai. She is present to take care of me and my needs. Or have you forgotten what a slave is for?”
“I prefer my slaves to be strong enough to care for my needs. It just goes to show some people don’t know how to properly break them in. Besides, she’s talentless, Vigo. Her skills as a pianist are mediocre at best. You may as well have brought along one of your broken dolls in her stead. She’s worth no more than any of them. You choose poorly and you train poorly.”
“And I suppose you believe your Anya is worth more? A slave is a slave, Nikolai. They all become broken dolls in the end.”
“As I recall it, Vigo,” Nikolai practically spits out his name, “you rather enjoyed your time with my Anya at the third quarter meeting. We both know she’s worth far more than you’re willing to admit.”
Anya steps sideways and bumps into
the table. It lets out a sharp screech as the metal pedestal scrapes along the marble floor. I grab the edge of it as it moves toward me and settle it. She looks over at me and I catch her eyes, giving her a small smile and a nod of encouragement that says I’ve got you.
She swallows, her blue eyes telling me how fearful she is, though I doubt anyone else can see it. She knows how to hide her fear behind the icy blue glaciers that keep her soul concealed.
“I did enjoy her,” Vigo admits with a tilt of his head. “I suppose she does have a certain quality about her, doesn’t she? Behaves as though she’s broken, though it’s clear she’s not. I can imagine paying a rather large sum to be the man to watch that last bit of light fade from her eyes. It will happen one day. All little dolls break in the end.”
Nikolai looks far away, far beyond Vigo. “Anya can’t be broken.”
“Perhaps I should purchase her from you. Prove you wrong.”
“To what end, Vigo?”
Nikolai looks bored with this conversation, though the expression seems forced. He snakes his arm around my girl’s tiny waist, lassoing her tight to his side.
A hand suddenly lands on my back and makes me jump. I look over to see it belongs to Renata. I shrug my shoulder to shake her off, but Anya catches my eye and subtly shakes her head.
“Oh, come now, Nikolai. I’m sure you’ve grown bored of Anya by now. Especially now that you’ve found the perfect boy for your secret fantasies, hmm?”
Anya’s head bows and I see how quickly her chest rises and falls. She’s upset, of course she is, this entire exchange is the stuff of nightmares.
Nikolai looks down at my blue-eyed girl. “Bored isn’t the appropriate term.” He regards her with some sort of twisted longing that I’ve never understood.
“Then what is?” Vigo asks.
Nikolai looks pointedly at him. “Exasperated.”
“Well,” Vigo begins with a crooked smile, “when exasperation turns to boredom, give me a call.”
“You try too hard.”
“What will you do with her when she can no longer dance?”
“I will have no use for her then,” he says it so coldly, so plainly, that I believe him.
“Consider that. I’ll happily take your scrap now that you have a new model.” Vigo glances at me.
“Boys, enough of this,” Renata finally speaks. “Nikolai has finally given us the performance he’s been wanting for so long. Let’s celebrate that before we speak about business. This is highly undignified.”
As she finishes her sentence, a young man approaches, handing her a glass of red wine. She gives him a smile of gratitude, flipping her long hair over her shoulder, and he leans in to kiss the side of her neck before moving to stand behind her.
He bows his head in servitude, but can only bow so far because a black leather collar is latched around his throat. His thick, dark hair is shaggy, unkempt in an intentional sort of way that makes him look younger than he probably is. He stands complacent, looking practically content. It’s clear he’s a slave, though he doesn’t seem extraordinarily bothered by his circumstance.
“My apologies, Renata,” Nikolai says. “As I’ve always said, you’d make a far more dignified Head of House than your tiresome brother.”
Vigo laughs humorlessly, clapping Nikolai on the shoulder. “Let’s be glad she isn’t. She’d outsell your family in no time at all. She’s far more ruthless than I am in her asset accrual. Then again, it’s not all that difficult to outsell your family. Hardly a family anymore, is it? Quite the burden to carry it all alone.”
Nikolai looks suddenly haunted, almost…human.
“Vigo,” Renata chastises him, “let’s not bring that up.” She tilts her head with a sympathetic look at Nikolai. “I’m so sorry.”
Coldness settles over him again. “It’s no concern of yours, Renata. I’ve made a settlement with the Americans to rectify their error in judgment. I’m grateful to your brother for providing me with the evidence needed to seek justice. There is a rather large sum to be paid in reparations.”
“I hope it’s not purely monetary.”
“Money could never be justice enough for what was done to my family.”
Renata smiles, almost hopeful. The two gracefully bow out, the small, malnourished blond and the collared boy following behind them. The girl glances back at Anya and me with a look that almost resembles jealousy.
As if anyone could be jealous of our circumstances.
Unless…her circumstances are that much worse than ours.
And the man who makes them worse has his sight set on my blue-eyed girl.
Chapter 24
Anya
The four families and their slaves traverse the steps of the grand staircase at the end of the reception. The slaves will all be shackled in the guest rooms with the same style of chain Nikolai used to chain me in my early months with him, the same chain we shackled Ezra with and all my partners before him. Then, they’ll be heading to the boardroom on the third floor of the manor. It’s a room that’s off-limits to slaves. It’s reserved only for the four families to use annually when it’s Nikolai’s turn to host the quarterly meeting.
Ezra and I remain with Nikolai at the bottom of the grand staircase as the guests file out. I count my heartbeats like dance steps as it thuds against my ribcage, wondering what will happen now, hoping against hope that Nikolai will be kind and grant us a reprieve tonight like he promised he would.
“You’ve both pleased me this evening,” Nikolai says, tension clear in his voice and the way he holds his shoulders. “My colleagues are impressed by both your talent and your obedience.” He looks at Ezra. “You’ve done especially well in dulling your impulsivity. I’ll give credit to Anya for her training with you.”
I exchange a glance with Ezra. He smiles through his eyes, and though Nikolai can’t see it, I can. It makes the corner of my mouth tug upward, threatening a smile I shouldn’t wear in front of my master.
“I require Kostya’s assistance in the boardroom tonight. This meeting is of special importance to me, and I need to focus my attention on that.” He sighs. “This is probably against my better judgment, but the both of you are free for the evening. You will remain indoors. You may go wherever you like within the manor.”
He takes a step toward us. “Stay off the third floor of the west wing where the guests and their slaves are staying. If I so much as smell the scent of you up there when I walk through later,” he reaches forward and snatches my wrist with one hand, holding it up between us as he taps the top of my pinky finger with his other hand, “I will cut off your little fingers myself. Both of you. You will be quiet. You will be civilized if you run into any of our guests. Do you think you can handle yourselves?”
“Da, khozyain,” I say.
“Yes, Master,” Ezra follows suit, though I can hear the eye roll in his tone.
I think Nikolai hears it, too. He tugs me forward by the wrist and jerks me roughly against his chest. He bends to kiss me, forcing me to open my lips to let his impatient tongue slip inside. Against my wishes, I kiss him back. Not because I want to, but because I know he demands it.
But it’s strange.
The kiss is weak where it’s usually strong and demanding. He releases me, looks me over with a quick flick of his eyes, a cursory glance, and then he’s gone.
Nikolai strides up the grand staircase, lonely master of the manor. I almost feel sorry for him, but I don’t know why because I’ve never felt that before. Maybe it was something in the way he kissed me, with intention but without expectation.
The fleeting moment of empathy slips from my mind swiftly. Ezra and I are left alone, watching him walk away, knowing he’ll be occupied, Kostya will be with him, and we will be free together for the evening.
As free as we can be inside the home of our master with no way to esca
pe.
Ezra looks at me and grins the widest, whitest, most perfect grin I’ve ever seen, and it draws some long-lost need for joy from deep within me. My heart skips a beat as Nikolai rounds the corner at the top of the staircase, the last person in the manor to disappear from our sight.
I remain still as the chatter from above fades and dissolves. I don’t know what to do with myself now, but I don’t have to wonder for long.
Ezra grabs my hand and we lock our fingers together as he drags me away toward the dance studio. He walks so fast and his strides are so long that I nearly have to jog to keep up with him, which is next to impossible in these heels.
“Wait,” I tell him.
I pull back on his hand to free mine from his grip and stop dead in my tracks. I bend, rustling up the chiffon layers of the fanned out bottom portion of my mermaid-style gown, and wrestle with the straps of my shoes. I struggle to reach around and beneath the layers, but Ezra has already anticipated my need.
He kneels on one knee in front of me and reaches out to free me from my shoes. I put one hand on his strong shoulder to steady myself as he pulls off the first shoe, admiring the natural golden tones of his sandy blonde hair.
“I think Prince Charming is supposed to be putting the shoe on Cinderella’s foot, not taking it off,” he says with a smile, “but this is cool, too.”
I bite the corner of my lip to hold back a bursting grin. “Are you comparing me to Cinderella or you to Prince Charming?”
“Both,” he lifts his head to look up at me after he pulls off the other shoe and dazzles me with a pure white, sparkling smile, “obviously.”
“Obviously.”
He gets to his feet and holds out my shoes, which I take in my left hand as he grabs my right. We’re off again, fast walking, smiling, nearly giggling like teenagers as we make our way to the dance studio.
It’s as if I’m young again, home alone for the first time, my mother having decided I’m finally responsible enough to be left on my own in a big empty house.
Only I’ve snuck in a boy.
Ezra pulls me into the dance studio, and closes the door behind us, only he forgets to turn on the lights at first. It’s dark, save for the moonlight that shines in from the high windows near the ceiling. The light reflects off the shine of the hardwood floor, flickering in a soft dance as the edge of a cloud obscures the rays.