Page 40 of Nemesis

“Didn’t make many friends in the ballet?” he asks, raising his brow.

“One, maybe,” I whisper as warm brown eyes and a single red rose bloom in my mind. I’d be lying if I said Bambi hadn’t crossed my mind often in this place. It’s that stupid rose—the one she hand-delivered to the dressing room the night of the performance. I think I left it on the table below the mirror. Surely someone’s thrown it out by now. For some moronic reason, the thought of that small, precious gift sitting in a trash can makes my empty stomach turn.

However, most of my thoughts about the shy, doe-eyed girl center on concern. I know for a fact that not a single soul in that company will look out for her. The moment they catch sight of her kind heart, they’ll stomp it out like a sparked flame. She doesn’t see the threats as I do. She doesn’t know the risks lurking behind every dark studio wall, or the deals that go down in her mentors’ offices.

I shake my head. “I knew better than to get attached. What about you, any friends?”

He smirks. “I knew better than to get attached,” he repeats with a strange expression. “Why stay, then? No offense, but surely there are easier minimum wage jobs,” he says, voicing the thought I’ve had many times before.

“Because I’m no good at anything else.”

His tongue clicks. “There is no way that’s true, zlaya. Maybe you never had the time or options to find something you enjoy.”

“Tell me what zlaya means, Vasiliy,” I say, diverting the conversation to somewhere less uncomfortable.

His lips try to form a knowing frown, but his swollen jaw immobilizes the muscles. “Not until we get out of here.”

I blow out a heavy sigh, brushing my finger over the dark abstract lines and swirls that decorate his skin. I like the fact that they don’t form obvious shapes or words, simply trailing freely across his skin like branching strands of veins. I was never allowed to get tattoos while dancing for the company, but if I were, I think I’d want something similar. Meaningless and random in a beautiful way.

“I don’t hate dancing,” I whisper, trying to fish out the right words to explain feelings I’ve never dared to voice. “In fact, I might even love it if it weren’t for the dirty politics and the old, perverted men.”

“I get it,” he whispers, pulling at the tight hair tie that’s been tugging at my scalp since the night of the performance. “Believe it or not, I feel similarly about the Bratva.”

I haven’t removed the tight ponytail since the performance. Now that it’s finally out, Vasiliy’s fingers dragging down my scalp, a wave of euphoria hits me hard. I lean into his touch like a purring cat.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers into my throat, more familiar than strangers. Less confidently than lovers. Something in between. “I’ll help you find your hidden talents. I have a feeling they hide in more violent places than the stage.”

I tip my nose against the ever-present comfort of his chest. Breathe in his singular scent of musk, shaded with the iron bite of dried blood. It feels almost greedy to hear his lilted voice speak again, saying words only meant for me.

“Yeah, right. If we get out of here, I bet you’d run away from me as fast as humanly possible.”

His head pops up, eyes squinting through the dark. “What gave you that impression?”

“That’s just what happens,” I sigh, looking away. “Besides, I’m the girl who got you into this whole mess. I’m the reason you may never see your sister’s face again. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that almost every question they ask you circles back to me.” Well, me and whoever this Annika chick is. “You keep telling them random nuggets of Bratva lore to try to pull their attention off of me, and it’s still not working.”

A handsome smile splits his lips. “You noticed that, did you?”

Obstinate as ever. “Do they teach you that in mob interrogation school? The whole pull attention with a new question trick?”

His chest shakes beneath my cheek, eliciting another painful-sounding cough. “It’s more of a learn-on-the-job thing.” His hand tugs at a knot in my hair with such gentle deference that it’s hard to remember he’s the same person who shoved me to the ground a few days earlier.

“Do you ever imagine they’re the ones in the chair and you’re the one holding the knife?” I ask quietly.

“Every single day.”

My heart pumps harder. “Me too.”

If I close my eyes, I can almost convince myself that I’m anywhere else, lounging in a beautiful man’s lap while he plays with my hair. That I’m not plagued with homicidal fantasies that help me pass the time.

At least a portion of that is true.

“I wouldn’t, by the way,” he suddenly says, breaking our easy silence.

“What?”

“If we get out. I wouldn’t run away as fast as possible.”

Attachments have always been a tricky thing for me.