2
TAYLOR
“This is like a Grand Jete,” Madam Polina, the ballet Mistress says as she meets me at the hotel bedroom door, referring to a difficult jump with the splits in mid-air that she drilled me on, picking me up every time I fell awkwardly. Her voice is low and comforting, but clear that I have no choice in this matter. Neither does she. “I know you’re scared, I know you don’t want to do it, and I know it’ll hurt. But you’ll survive, and we’ll care for you afterwards.”
The survival bit is a lie, but I nod anyway. Not all the girls live.
We don’t talk about that, though.
My hands are shaking.
Why did that arsehole friend of the Volk Pakhan pick me?
I don’t shout or scream. There’s no point. Madam Polina squeezes my shoulders in that stern, motherly way of hers, and gives me a small push.
I follow Yevgeny down the hallway, a combination of fear and anger and revulsion threatening to spill out of me. Possibly via my mouth in the form of words, but equally possible is vomit, sweat, or blood.
I’ve miraculously avoided this for years. Why now?
“What do I have to do?” I ask. I’d like to run, but it’s pointless. I’ve tried to escape so many times, and Yevgeny’s men catch me immediately.
“You have to spend the night with him.” The ballet company manager doesn’t turn, keeping up a pace down the corridor. Equal parts vicious and unsympathetic, Yevgeny is like a pair of ballet shoes that never break in.
“Do I have to sleep with him?”
The man I’m being taken to talked about me and the other girls like we were pieces of meat for him to buy, not even classy enough to keep his voice down. I should be used to it by now, but I still hate it.
Yevgeny glances over his shoulder at me, with raised eyebrows. “He paid for you. You’re his, and he can do what he likes with you.”
That’s not a guarantee of my compliance, so I guess I’ll take it as a no, but I shouldn’t expect any help if he’s even more of an arsehole than he appeared.
It’s been five years since I was tricked into captivity. We might have some of the best ballet training in the world with Madam Polina, and a life on tour in hotels, but even ballet-obsessed me at sixteen would have refused because I’d give anything to see my sisters again.
My heart clenches. The pain of not being with them hasn’t eased. When I stupidly agreed to join this ballet company with the promise of the best tuition, opportunities for prime roles, travel, and good pay, I didn’t realise I was stepping into a trap. I didn’t have anyone to look out for me, and I was too young to see what a stupid, vulnerable situation I was putting myself in.
I guess that’s what happens when an orphan thinks she has a big break. Yevgeny took my phone and passport. I had no money and was in a foreign country, with strangers.
The only things I knew how to do were dance, regret my decisions, and miss my sisters.
But there’s no point in dwelling on wishes when survival is the only thing that matters.
I take a deep breath as Yevgeny, the serious and uncompromising manager of the ballet company draws to a stop before a door. There are two men on guard outside.
Yevgeny gives me a push into the room when I don’t immediately step inside, and my skin crawls. The door slams closed behind me.
I take in the hotel room. It’s a suite, with a massive bed, low lighting, a dining area, and a large lounge area with sofas. The vibe is all dark grey and gold luxury, modern, and expensive. There are several mirrors on the wall and even one on the ceiling.
So you can look at yourself while you have sex.
Or, more likely, to hide cameras. The other girls have told me they’ve been threatened with footage of what happens during these events.
For a second I think he’s not here, but then I catch sight of him relaxing in a chair, back to the wall and behind the door.
From a distance, he looked like a handsome, arrogant, morally bankrupt mafia man. Now I’m closer, I see I’m mistaken.
He’s not just gorgeous, he’s stunning. His black hair is cropped short in an aggressively blunt hairstyle that emphasises the slashes of his black eyebrows and ice-blue eyes framed by eyelashes so long they cast shadows on his cheeks in the stark lighting. His mouth is generous and his lips plush, kissable. But his jaw and cheekbones are hard.
He’s a study of contrasts, and the careless black stubble and the scar that runs a white line through it make my heart race in a way I’ve never felt before.
