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Every time I have a moment of comfort, I snap myself back into reality, reminding myself where I am. This isn’t a vacation. I’m not here by choice, and the man I’m living with isn’t my boyfriend. He’s a monster.
I wipe steam off the mirror and look at myself. It’s the first chance I’ve had since Viktor captured me. My eyes study the marks on my body. Bruises, scrapes, slash marks on my abdomen, the amber pendant of Viktor’s necklace staring back at me as if it’s Viktor himself. I look like I may have lost weight from refusing to eat.
I might not have won any favors with Viktor, but letting me stay in a posh apartment instead of a cell doesn’t win any favors with me.
The clothes Viktor brought for me are laid on the marble top of a vanity. I walk up to the pile and slide the jeans out. A matching bra and panty set tumble to the floor. I pick them up and examine them, letting the sheer purple material dotted with tiny white flowers slide against my hand. The intricate designs and stitching hint at good quality. Same with the rest of the clothes. Thick fabric that’s tastefully cut and designed. It’s a far cry from the usual bland clothing I wear every day that serve more for functional purposes than aesthetics.
I pull the panties up my legs, and all I can feel is Viktor’s control. He keeps me under control by locking me up here. By dressing me. I’m under his control every time my body aches for his touch. The first thing I felt in the morning was Viktor’s hand caressing the side of my body. My cheeks burn thinking about it. I laid still, acting as if I was still asleep while he helped himself to my body. I hated it, but my eyes clamp shut in defeat when I admit to myself that I wanted it to continue. One moment I was outraged, the next I had wetness flowing out of my pussy.
He can’t control all of me I decide. I rip the panties off my body, outraged that Viktor thinks he can control what panties I wear. It may not mean much, but it’s a small act of rebellion and it feels good to defy him.
How can I still want him? He toys with my head, letting me think I’m getting through to him, but in the end, it makes no difference. He just proves how cruel he is to me.
I stare at my reflection, vowing to beat Viktor at his game, when a scent drifts into the bathroom that makes my stomach curl up on itself and rumble. Fried bacon. I hear a deep grumble come from my core, reminding me I’ve barely eaten in the last few days. What if this is another game Viktor is playing on me?
When I finish dressing, I leave the bathroom and head for the balcony of the lofted bedroom, looking over the rest of Viktor’s apartment. There are more smells combining with the immaculate scent of bacon. Coffee, toast, butter. My stomach is practically screaming. I try to stay strong and refuse anything Viktor gives me, but before I know it, I’m walking down the stairs towards the kitchen.
Viktor hovers over the stove with a spatula in one hand, flipping something in the pan he’s holding over the fire. He’s not dressed in his a business suit as he usually is. He’s wearing jeans and… nothing else. I look at his sandy hair and down his back, swallowing the vision of his wide shoulders and following his torso as it tapers to a hard core. His heel lifts from the cement floor as he leans over another pan to check on the contents inside.
When I turn to the table, my eyes light up at the tray ofplushki, a pastry I haven’t had in years. I quickly wipe the glow from my face and turn back to Viktor, but he’s already looking at me. The center island of the kitchen has several plates of food piled high on them. The bacon I could smell from upstairs is stacked neatly in a tower. Next to them aredranikiwith applesauce. The scent of fried potatoes and onions fills my nose, making my stomach cry out. A pot of coffee sits beside the assortment of food.
Viktor walks to the island with a pan, scoops another round ofdranikionto the plate sitting on the island, then puts the pan back on the stove.
I look around, confused that I can only see Viktor in the kitchen.
“Yes,” he says as he puts knives and forks beside two empty plates.
“Yes, what?” I snap back at him.
He stands beside the island and pulls out a chair. “I cooked all this myself.” He motions towards the seat cushion and looks back at me.
I pause, but my hunger overwhelms me. I walk over and sit in front of a pile of food that could feed an army while Viktor pours us each a cup of coffee. He takes the seat next to me and I lean away, wishing he’d taken a seat further away. But the annoyance of Viktor sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with me isn’t powerful enough to kill my appetite.
“My mother and I used to cook breakfast together on Sundays,” he says as he piles food onto my plate. He makes his rounds to every dish he cooked, layering more food on my plate than I can eat in a week, and places a smaller dish with the pastry on the side. I feel so uncomfortable with him sitting next to me with no shirt on. Part of it is because I haven’t seen him dressed so casually since he came back home. And if I keep leering at his body, I know he’ll catch me.
Viktor slices at his food with his utensils and takes a bite. The growl that comes from my stomach is loud enough for both of us to hear. My cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“Your stomach doesn’t care if you hate me,” he says, pointing at my food. “Eat.”
Everything feels like a power struggle when it comes to Viktor. Something as simple as eating the food he cooked could be viewed by him as some kind of surrender to his rule. I lean in my chair and decide I won’t fall for it.
Viktor is lost in his food, savoring the food he cooked before his throat lifts in satisfied gulps. When he notices I haven’t eaten yet he stops and growls at me. “Eat.”
“I won’t do it,” I say in weak defiance. My stomach growls in betrayal of my words.
“That’s an order,” Viktor says in a flirtatious whisper, lifting my fork
and cutting into the eggs, letting yolk spread over my plate. He picks up some food and lifts it to my mouth. The moment Viktor brings it to my lips, my body lights up from the flavor. I suck in a breath as I chew, feeling the salty fat spread over my tongue.
Viktor looks over me in satisfaction, but not in a cruel controlling way. He seems happy that I enjoy the food he cooked and wants to see more. He reaches over to the pastry and lifts it to my mouth. I can’t hold back anymore and take a hasty bite, chewing into sweetened farmer’s cheese and icing. This is the best I’ve felt in a long time, but I also feel guilty for feeling good about anything that’s Viktor’s doing. It definitely doesn’t help that he’s sitting next to me half-clothed.
“I can’t remember the last time I madedraniki,” Viktor says before taking another mouthful of food. He inhales a deep breath as he chews, nodding his head in satisfaction at how his cooking turned out.
I pick up the fork, turning it on my plate and accidentally ask a question in my mind out loud.
“Was it before you left Russia?”
Viktor’s chewing slows, and he swallows hard. He lays his utensils on either side of his plate and pauses a beat before looking at me. “Could be,” he says as he gives me a guarded look.
