“Are you busy?”
The rumble of Nikolai’s voice startles me. I was so absorbed in my stretches that I didn’t hear him enter the gym. With only an hour per day to exercise, I’m forced to make the most of it. His interruption is a hindrance, but I’m also curious about the sudden appearance, considering he hasn’t been to see me in weeks.
He’s dressed like he just came in from outside, wearing his black leather jacket and flat cap. The slight tint of pink on his cheeks betrays cold weather, but I can only imagine it myself. The seasons have changed since my arrival, but I have not left the walls of the fortress since.
“I’m stretching,” I tell him. “I still have thirty minutes.”
“I have no intention of cutting your time short, Nakya.” He bends down to dispose of the shopping bags in his hands. “But I brought something that might be of use to you.”
The gesture is out of left field, and I’m not sure what to do. So I say a simple thank you.
He nods. “I thought that perhaps this afternoon you could help Nonna in the kitchen. After your appointments, of course.”
“The kitchen?”
“Yes.” He rubs a hand over the scruff on his jaw. “We are having a guest for dinner tomorrow evening, and she will be doing some baking if you’d like to join her.”
It seems like an odd suggestion, but it’s not like I have anything better to do. “Okay.”
Silence is an ocean between us, and I don’t know what else to say. Neither does Nikolai, apparently. His eyes are hostage to my new figure, and I’m self-conscious of his attention. Before, he said I was too bony, but perhaps now he thinks the opposite to be true.
“You look much better,” he says roughly. “Healthy. Your skin is glowing.”
It isn’t what I expected to hear, and my answer is as awkward as I presently feel.
“Thanks. It’s all the fish. The doctor said it’s good for the skin … so yeah.”
This conversation is going nowhere fast. I’m out of sorts, and I don’t know why, but my cheeks heat when Nikolai’s eyes trace over my hips. I’m in the least flattering outfit I could imagine wearing—a pair of baggy shorts and a tee shirt—but it’s all I have left apart from the one leotard he didn’t destroy.
“Keep eating the fish,” he says. “It does you good.”
And with those words of wisdom, he departs abruptly, leaving me dazed and disoriented.
I’m tempted to check the bags now, but I wait until I’ve finished my practice. When the timer goes off downstairs, Nonna will be in to collect me and lock up the gym for the day. Since my release from the bed, I’ve been grateful to return to my practice. I was also surprised to find that Nikolai had a barre installed. Something I forgot to mention or thank him for while he was here.
It seems like an odd gesture of kindness from someone who has no interest in my returning to the stage. But I will take whatever small scrap he offers as far as my ballet is concerned.
“Time is up.” Nonna enters the room in keeping with her schedule.
“Okay.”
I finish my last set of pliés at the barre and collect my things, including the bags Nikolai left for me. Nonna locks the gym behind us but doesn’t bother to escort me upstairs. I’m free to roam as I like unless I break the rules again.
“The doctor will be here in thirty minutes,” she reminds me.
“Thank you. I’ll be ready.”
I trudge up the stairs to my room and set the bags down on the bed. The mystery of what’s inside gets the best of me, and when I peek, my breath falters.
Ballet clothes.
He bought me ballet clothes. Tights, leotards, wraps, leg warmers. Everything I could possibly need to return to my practice with renewed vigilance. Something thaws inside my chest, and I realize when a wave of emotion crashes over me that this is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.
It seems paradoxical when he was the one to ruin my clothes in the first place, but my father never bought me clothes. Dante never bought me clothes. I was given an allowance to shop online, and every item I owned was chosen by me personally. Nothing was ever gifted. It’s a new experience trying on clothing that someone else chose for me. I’m left to wonder what went through his mind when he picked each piece out. If he imagined the way they would look on my body. If he felt anything at all when he contemplated colors or sizes or fabrics.
The clothing is beautiful. Every piece is expensive and well made. But my favorite is the pale pink chiffon leotard dress. It’s light and flowy and pretty. When I try it on, I don’t want to take it off.
Inside another bag, I find a pair of pointe shoes with a note taped to them.
For later.
My heart squeezes, and I have to take a moment to process this turn of events. I’m not naïve enough to believe that Nikolai cares one way or the other if I ever dance professionally again, but this feels like hope. It feels like someone believes in me, and I haven’t had that for a very long time.
I don’t know how he determined my sizes, but it seems like he went through a lot of trouble to do this for me, so the least I can do is thank him properly. I sit down on the vanity bench and slip the pointes on to get a feel for them before I start my work. Every pair needs to be modified to fit perfectly, but not every pair needs the same adjustments. I can only ever tell by walking in them, which is what I intend to do now.
Traveling the length of the hall, I throw in a petit jeté along the way. My ankle is weak, and even though the brace is gone, it still hurts to land on it. But I am feeling much more like myself again, if only for having the impediment gone.
Nikolai is absent from his office, so I use the opportunity to float around the hallway, tossing in small movements as I go. The shoes need work, but so do I. When I reach the end of the carpeted rug, it occurs to me that I’ve landed on the threshold of his bedroom. It should come as no surprise when I find him there watching me, but it does.
“You were supposed to go slow.” There is a hint of a smile on his face.
“I was just testing them. The shoes will need to be molded to my feet. I have no intention of going too fast.”
“I should hope not,” he says. “Another injury—”
“Thank you for the clothing,” I blurt.
His eyes move over the pink fabric before pausing to linger on my breasts. They have swollen over the past month, and I’m suddenly aware of the way they tug at my leotard. The house is always cold, and it’s always obvious. I should have worn a wrap, but I was so eager to test out my shoes that it didn’t occur to me until now.
“You forgot to remove the tag,” Nikolai informs me with a gruff voice. “Turn around, and I will do it.”
I obey, even though it would be easy enough to do it myself. A small part of me wants to feel his fingers against the fabric. To experience a man’s touch. It’s not something I thought I could ever want for, but sometimes, I wonder what it would feel like to be touched by a man. As men go, Nikolai falls in the top percent of his red-blooded class. From his Herculean build to his wild hair and sharp cheekbones, he is a deity among the male species. A mortal casted in the image of a Greek god.
And that would make me his concubine.
The idea makes me shudder as his strong, calloused fingers skim the hem of the fabric against my shoulder blade before dipping to remove the tag. I don’t feel a tug, but there’s an audible snap. Aware that he is using a knife against the sensitive flesh of my back, I should be wary, but I find that I’m not.
The deed is done, but he’s in no hurry to tell me so. Goose bumps skitter over my arms when he sweeps my long hair over my shoulder and traces along one of the shoulder straps.
“You should not have come here like this.” His breath tickles the base of my neck, bathing me in warmth and cinnamon.
I can’t find my words. Not when he’s behind me, close enough to touch. Close enough that his body brushes against mine and his scent stirs between us. Traces of warm leather and cloves soak the air … and something else I can’t quite identify. Acrylic paint maybe?
His fingers graze the length of my arm, and it’s not an accident. It’s no accident when he draws me closer, molding me to his body. He buries his nose against my throat, inhaling me, and it opens a flood of warmth between my thighs. I sag into him, a drunken awareness hijacking my senses. I’m comatose, strung out in his arms, and for the first time in my life, I don’t care. I want more.
I want to live before I die.
He will be the one to lure me to my quietus. Lulling me to an eternal sleep with his languid kisses against the space where my blood runs warm. For now, I am a slave to his touch. A servant to his commands. Another doll for his collection. Pretty and untainted by anyone but him.
Rough fingers bunch the fabric against my stomach, and blinding electricity hammers my synapses. His gypsy hands roam free, squeezing the flesh of my hips and strumming the tender flesh of my ribcage. But the beast in me isn’t satisfied. She keeps screaming for more, and my captor is so willing to oblige. He takes possession of my swollen, heavy breasts by dipping his hand inside the fabric to scrape over my nipples. My chest arches, and I cry out as I’ve just been shocked back to life.
“Zvezda.” He kisses behind my ear. “You are so lovely. So soft and sweet and pure. I want to ruin you.”
His feverish cock looms ominously against my spine, a cautionary threat to his quietly spoken words. I want him to ruin me too. I want him to crucify me. And it makes me a liar because I’m the one who’s dirty and filthy and wrong. When his hand comes to rest between my thighs, the word is already on my lips. Poisonous and intoxicating, I want to tell him yes.
But yes isn’t a fantasy. Yes is forever. The consequences of a decision made in a moment of weakness would mean nothing for him and everything for me. If he sends me back home a ruined woman, he may as well provide a coffin too.
“I can’t.” The words rush from my lips as I break from his spell and his arms. “I’m engaged to Dante.”
There isn’t another word spoken between us. Solitude is his answer.
Solitude is my life.