I wake in Nikolai’s arms. The only logical reason I can find for his desire to cuddle is that his judgment was impaired from too many drinks at the party last night. But when I look at his face, he is not asleep, and he’s not under any illusions of what took place.
His eyes are soft and warm, traveling over my face as his fingers ghost over my arm.
“Good morning, zvezda.”
I smell of him. Cloves and smoke and aftershave. Our bodies are at ease together, wrapped in warmth, and I think it’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in forever.
“Why do you call me that?” I ask.
“Zvezda?”
I nod.
“Why wouldn’t I? You are my star. My dancing ballerina. My northern light. I think you lead me to do good.”
My heart skips a beat. It’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever said, and he follows it up in true Nikolai fashion by wrapping my hand around his hard cock. He guides my fingers up and down his shaft, and his ocean eyes roll back like the tide.
“I want you,” he says. “Ride me. Allow me to see you.”
Panic cripples my hand, and everything stills between us.
“Please, Nakya.” He cups my face in his palm. “Do not go to that place in your mind. You must allow logic to win sometimes. I would not ask this of you if I did not think you were perfect in every way.”
His words make sense, but I’m scared. My confession is barely audible, and I can’t see his reaction because my eyes are closed. But I feel his breath on my lips. His body moving closer to mine.
Sometimes, it’s better when he makes demands, and I don’t have to think. Free will is the most fearsome thing of all to someone who has only known captivity. And perhaps Nikolai understands this. He pulls me on top of him with little effort, spreading my legs across his hips, and laying my head on his shoulder.
“Keep your hand here.” He places it on his chest, against the cage where his heart lives. And I know now that he does have one because I can feel it.
“Don’t move it,” he says. “The heart doesn’t lie. If you can’t believe my words, then believe this.”
Strong and steady, his pulse hammers against my skin.
Even his heart is a liar.
He grabs the flesh of my ass, dragging me down against his cock. We don’t need to draw it out because everything we do is foreplay. My body is wet for him already. And when he grabs a fistful of my hair, forcing my lips to his, he enters me without frills. This is the prelude, the main act, and the encore all rolled into one.
My song is muffled by his lips, and this is not the kind of sex I ever imagined myself having. It’s unholy, and it’s righteous. Corrupt but blessed. Shamefully lewd and sinfully sweet. And now, I don’t believe in heaven or hell. There is only purgatory.
He thrusts up inside me, stabbing me with his cock while he steers my ass with his hands. His sounds bleed into me, and I inhale them like crack. I could get off on getting him off. But Nikolai wants to push me to my breaking point, and then even further still. He makes me come. Once. Twice. And a third for good measure.
He marks me with his teeth, grunting indecipherable exclamations in between. Our last fuck was quick and dirty, but today, it lasts forever. Every part of me hurts, and I think that’s what he likes best.
Maybe, I like it too.
“One more time for me,” he insists. “Come on my cock one more time.”
“I don’t have anything left.”
I’m exhausted, collapsing on top of him while he fucks me from below. He worships my skin with his hands and his mouth and begs me to come just one more time. I’m overly sensitive. Wrung out. My breasts are tender, and I’m raw from his large dick.
But inevitably, Nikolai always gets what he wants. The orgasm is as weak as I feel, but I come for him. Right before he stuffs himself as deep as I can take him and purges a long, torturous release of his own.
My spell in captivity has forced me to find new uses for my time. Before, my days were spent in the studio, persecuting my body and perfecting my routines. My calendar revolved around the company’s schedule, and the occasional social event my father forced me to attend.
But when I look at the calendar today, I’m surprised to find that entire months have gone by, and I struggle to remember the exact date I arrived. The blank square on the wall does little to help me process my feelings. Though Gianni already hinted at it, I’m certain my name has been removed from the company as if I never existed. The ballet waits for no man or woman. Each of those positions is coveted. Prized.
And once, it was by me too.
But my practice has dwindled to little more than an hour a day. I’m not as strong as I used to be. It would be easy to blame Nikolai for my lack of motivation, but the truth is that he’s become a welcome distraction from the truth I have yet to face.
The chime on the alarm signals the therapist’s arrival, and within moments, Sarah is in my room. She says something when she walks in, but my eyes are still on the calendar, and my thoughts are too loud to focus on her.
“Tanaka?”
I count off the days until the end of the month, wondering how many hours of dance I can squeeze in. There must be a way to get back on track. I count and add and plan, but it’s all for nothing. Eventually, my finger falls away from the orderly squares. The squares that used to rule my life.
“You look upset,” Sarah observes. “What’s on your mind?”
I don’t move from my seat at the desk, opting to face away from her. She doesn’t deserve to know my every thought, but maybe it’s time I finally say it aloud.
“I don’t think I ever want to dance again.”
There is a moment of silence, and it feels like a death. Grief has swallowed me whole, and in a time of mourning, silence is only appropriate. Maybe that’s why Sarah isn’t so bad. I talk to her, not because I should, but because she knows when to ask questions and she knows when to stay quiet.
Every week, she comes back here. She invests her time in me. She tells me she believes in me and tries to keep me healthy. We discuss body image and dancing and whatever else comes out of my mouth. But I’m under no illusion it’s because she cares. Nikolai pays her to fix me.
As if she could.
“During our past few visits, I was under the impression that your practice was improving quite steadily,” she says.
“I was lying.”
Another bout of silence follows my admission, and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from crying. I feel like a child again. This loss is as great to me as my own mother. I’m fragile and I’m broken, but I always have been. Maybe I’m okay with that, though, even if Sarah isn’t.
“You started ballet at a very young age,” she remarks. “I know that studies have shown it’s not uncommon for dancers to suffer severe injuries under your circumstances.”
“I don’t care what the studies say,” I tell her. “It’s the only thing I ever wanted to do, and now I can’t.”
“Maybe instead of focusing on the loss of your professional career, you can adapt your expectations. You can still use that passion for good. You could teach—”
She stops herself midsentence, realizing her mistake. I’m a prisoner to the mafia, and teaching or finding another outlet for ballet is out of the question.
“Sometimes, we get so focused on what we can’t do that we forget what we’re still capable of,” she amends.
I don’t answer her. The power of positivity isn’t going to work for me today. My grief is a process, and eventually I will tread water again, but I will do it in my own time.
“How are your eating habits this week?” she asks.
“They’re fine.”
“Nikolai tells me otherwise.”
Betrayal pierces my thoughts, and I turn to look at her. I have been good. I’ve been doing mostly okay. But I know he’s referring to the Christmas party. It isn’t fair for him to count that against me.
“It was one time, and it was only because I was in an uncomfortable situation.”
“Nonna also says that you haven’t been clearing your plates, even though they are small portions. It’s a very slippery slope, Tanaka. They only mention it because we all want you to succeed with your program.”
“I’m fine,” I reiterate. “If anything, I’ve been eating too much. I had to buy two sizes up in my clothes, and I don’t like it.”
“You are at a perfectly reasonable weight,” she says. “The doctor mentioned that you’ve finally reached a healthy body mass index. Do you remember how we discussed changing the way you see yourself versus controlling your food to maintain your safety zone? Should we go over it again?”
“No,” I answer.
“How do you feel right now?” she asks. “Do you feel healthy? Do you have more energy? Tell me something positive about your new eating plan.”
I tap my fingers against the desk. I do feel like I have more energy, but I don’t want to admit it to her because right now she feels like the enemy. I feel like she is conspiring with Nikolai and Nonna to make me miserable, and I am angry with all of them, no matter how illogical it might be. I decide that while I can’t control my food, or my body, or my dancing anymore, there is still something else I can control.
“I’m done with therapy,” I tell her. “I want you to leave now.”
There isn’t a response. I expect her to argue, and I’m preparing my mental arsenal. I will go to war with her if she makes me. But I’m done giving away my secrets like candy. She just needs to say one thing. One protest. One argument. And I will let her have it.
But she doesn’t give in to my tactics.
Instead, she disappoints me by leaving the room without another word.