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So why did I still make it even worse than that?
It had been a stupid decision, to bite him. I know that. I just hadn’t been able to help myself. I’d been so fucking humiliated when he’d forced me to my knees, telling me to clean off his cock for him, and equally ashamed that it had turned me on–all of it. The taste of him, of me, the demand in his voice, telling me to clean up my mess. It had been a visceral reminder of how much I’d wanted to fuck him just moments before, how my body had responded to him in ways that I’d wished it wouldn’t.
I’d thought that mocking him about not being able to come again so soon might have gotten me out of it, that it might have pissed him off enough to turn him back to being angry and violent, that it might have given me one last opening to get away. But it hadn’t worked. And I’d lost the internal battle with myself to not play his stupid fucking game.
He’d been sofuckingarrogant, just as he always fucking is. So sure that he was in control of everything–of himself, of me, of this entire fucked up situation. I’d wanted to show him that I know he’s not, not completely. I’d wanted to use his obsession with me against him. To prove that if I wanted to make him do something, I had at least some power to do just that.
I’d known he couldn’t resist my mouth, if I really put effort into it. I’ve seen over and over again how his desire for me gets the better of him. And it had fucking worked. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from getting hard, from giving in to the pleasure, from coming. And if I’d left it at that, if I’d swallowed his cum and my pride and taken that small victory, I might have bought myself a little grace from his cruelty for a little while.
Of course, I hadn’t been able to. I hadn’t been able to resist using that power to hurt him, to give him back a taste of what he’d been doing to me. I’d bitten his cock and squeezed his balls, and the flush of satisfaction that I’d felt, that moment of victory when he’d lurched backwards crying out in pain, had almost been worth it.
Now, sitting naked and tied to a chair in his kitchen, my mouth going dry as I watch drops of condensation slide down the sides of a water glass, I’m not entirely sure that it was.
I don’t know where he’s gone, or when he’s coming back, and I’m sure that’s part of the point–to make me wonder how long I’ll be left sitting here, and what he’ll have planned for me when he returns. Will it be worse? Better–a reprieve of some kind? I can’t imagine his mood will improve, not after I continued pushing my faux identity, refusing to tell him the truth.
If I tell him the truth, I’m dead. I know I am. Or I’ll wish I was.
The worst part of all of this is that it’s clearer to me than ever that my mind and my body are not on the same page. They never have been when it comes to Mikhail, not really. Since the first day I saw him in the club, my fascination with him, my lust for him, have been at odds with the kind of man I find him to be–arrogant, entitled, and insufferable. I’d hated him and wanted him all at once, and that wasn’t the worst thing in the world.Plenty of people have sex with people they hate, and enjoy the fuck out of it. Hate sex can be great.
That was what I’d thought I was doing, when I came home with him last night. When I let him do the things he did to me in bed, and let myself enjoy it. I’d told myself I was letting myself enjoy some good old-fashioned hate sex, and making money while I was doing it.
A win/win, all around.
Now, it’s turned out very differently–and yet, my body doesn’t seem to have caught up. I’d been more aroused during that fight than I think I’ve ever been in my entire life. There’s no way to pretend that I hadn’t wanted that hard, violent fucking at the bottom of the stairs. I might be lying to Mikhail, but I can’t lie to myself.
He terrifies me, as he rightly should. I’m fairly certain now that he killed Igor, and that he’s the one who had been stalking me, following me, leaving those letters under my door. I know that it’s undoubtedly going to get so much worse.
But he turns me on, too. Not just how he looks, although he’s more gorgeous than any man who behaves the way he does has the right to be, but the way he touches me, the way he forces me to admit that the things he does, the things hedemandsof me are things that I want.
The way he takes things from me that no man would have ever dared to take from me before.
He’s going to kill me, by the end of this, if I don’t find a way out.
My little stunt of biting his dick might have gotten me in more trouble, but that game I’d played with him had proved one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt.
His obsession with me isn’t entirely within his control.
And I might be able to use that to my advantage.
I stare at the glass of water, licking my dry lips. I’m thirsty and tired, my head aching faintly from the aftereffects of the drug, and my body aching for a dozen other reasons. I want to collapse into a daze, to stop thinking and fighting and trying to figure out what to do next. But I have no idea what kind of timeline he has in mind. Every second counts, if I want to survive this.
I’ve been through difficulty before. I’ve gotten through hardship. I can do this.
I’ve spent my entire life fighting men. I close my eyes, sucking in a deep breath, reminding myself of that. My father, the men in charge of the ballet who wanted me to do things I wasn’t willing to do, Igor.
At seventeen, my father had tried to arrange a marriage for me. The match had been a man fifteen years older than me, thepakhanof another powerful Bratva family, a vile and cruel man who was a widower, it was rumored, by his own hand. I’d met him, this man named Vasik, and sworn that I wouldn’t marry him.
I’d been studying ballet for years at that point. I knew I was talented, skilled, determined. I wanted to keep training. I wanted to be a prima, to be the best. I didn’t want to get fucking married.
My father had beat me for it. In his office, where I’d loudly declared I’d die before I married Vasik, he’d put me facedown over his desk, taken off his belt, and whipped me until I bled beneath my clothes. It had been, at that point, the most humiliating experience of my life. I’d known the guards stationed outside the door had been able to hear every blow. They’d been out there listening, getting hard thinking about the daughter of their boss being belted, the red marks under my clothes, the ways they’d put me in my place too, if they were able. I’ve never known a man who, given half a chance, wouldn’t do the same.
I hadn’t made a sound. Throughout the entire ordeal, I’d kept my teeth clenched, refusing to give my father so much as a whimper. When he’d finally tired of hitting me, I’d stood up, ignoring the pain wracking my entire body and the feeling of the blood trickling down the backs of my thighs, and I’d turned to face him.
If you marry me to him, I’ll be a widow before my wedding night is over. I’ll take over his Bratva. And then you’ll have to deal with me, and the power I’ll have to make you pay for forcing me into Vasik’s bed.
I don’t know why my father listened, or why he believed me. Maybe it was the courage I’d shown while he belted me, the fact that I didn’t scream or cry–my father was the type to put a high value on things like that. Maybe it was the way I’d said it, with such flat determination that I think even he stopped to hear the truth in my words. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to pull it off, had it come to that, but I’dbelievedthat I would.
He’d asked me what it was that I wanted instead, and I told him. I wanted time–the time to learn, and train, and find out what heights I could rise to as a ballerina. I convinced him that if I achieved the position of prima in the Moscow ballet, if I reached as high as I aspired to, that it would only bring good things to our family.
