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We’d come to a compromise, him and I. There would be no engagement until I turned twenty-eight,ifI could achieve the kind of fame as a ballerina that I believed I could. I would be allowed to live my life with more freedom than most daughters of Bratva men could ever hope for, with the understanding that when I turned twenty-eight, I would agree to be engaged to the man of my father’s choosing, without complaint or argument.
It wasn’t exactly what I wanted–I would have preferred not to marry at all. But it was better than the alternative. It was a delay of a prison sentence that I’d always known was coming, the chains that I’d been born with briefly unlocked–or at least extended to give me more room to roam.
But even with my father held at bay, even with the grudging respect I earned when I achieved exactly what I told him I would, there were always other men to fight. Other men to endure. Patrons of the ballet who wanted a night with me or more, the men in charge who wanted me to agree. I never would. I wasn’t a whore, to be sold off for their profit, and my time in the ballet was meant to be my time of freedom. I would go to bed with who I pleased, and no one else. And since my father wasn’t someone to be crossed, they couldn’t force me or blackmail me into it, the way they did with other reluctant ballerinas who didn’t want to entertain the patrons. I remained free.
I know these games. I know how to manipulate men. So why not now? Why shouldn’t it work?
Fighting for my freedom is a losing game. I’ve found that out today. I’d given it everything I had, and I’d still lost. If I want to escape, I have to go back to what I’d resolved while I was cuffed to the bed. And this time, I have to stick to it.
I’ve seen today that Mikhail’s obsession can cause him to deviate from whatever plan it is that he has in his head. If I can lead him further off that track, make him want to keep me alive, to prolong the amount of time he has to enjoy me, I can buymyselftime. Time to escape, to convince him to let me go, to get him to drop his guard enough that I can find a way out of this.
It won’t be by immediately rolling over and giving him whatever he wants. He’s not stupid–he’d see through that as the act that it would be. I’ve seen time and time again that he likes my fire, my sass, my feistiness. That the fact that I fight back is what keeps him obsessed with me. I can’t just give in–but I can give him enough to make him want to keep playing.
Like a slot machine that lets you win just often enough to keep you hooked, I can play up his obsession. I know what he wants now–to break me, to own me, to make me so entirely his that he can use me up until he gets bored…and then dispose of me.
I can keep that from happening, if I can dance the razor-thin wire of give and take, of fighting back and letting him have a taste of the possibilities, so long as he keeps me alive. I can find a way to turn this to my advantage, if I can do that.
I swallow hard, looking at the glass of water as I steel my resolve. It’s a delicate line to walk. A careful balance. A dance with steps that I will have to make up as I go–and hold my urge to hurt him, to make him pay, in check until it’s time.
Slowly, I can feel a smile curve the corners of my lips, despite my exhaustion and pain.I can do this. I can beat him at his own game.
After all, I’ve always been an exquisitely talented dancer.
Natalia
Incredibly, I think I fall asleep at some point, nodding off while sitting there tied to the chair. Despite my fear and pain, I’m exhausted, my body wracked with the toll that hours of fucking, fighting, and lying in a bed cuffed and drugged have taken on it. I wake up with a jolt to the sound of footsteps coming towards the kitchen, with no idea how long it’s been since Mikhail left me.
The water glass is still sitting there, full, a dark ring around it on the wood. Looking at it makes my mouth cramp painfully, my tongue dry and sticky in my mouth, but I resolve not to say a word about it. I won’t beg him for anything.
Mikhail steps into the room, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his muscular chest. He’s changed clothes since I saw him earlier–from the loose sweatpants and t-shirt into black jeans and a red v-neck that sets off his sandy blond hair and ice-blue eyes to a remarkable effect. The clothes cling to his muscled thighs and flat stomach, the sleeves straining a little at the biceps, and I can’t help but wonder if he dressed on purpose to make me want him, to taunt me with it.
His gaze slides down my naked, stiff body, an amused smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “You must be starving,” he says casually, his eyes lingering on my stomach. “Andsothirsty. That water was right there.”
He makes a clicking sound with his tongue, and at the mention of food, my stomach growls. I feel my cheeks flush as he laughs, his gaze dipping lower to the bare apex of my thighs before sliding back up to my face.
“You must need to use the bathroom, too. How long has it been? Since we got to the house last night? Before that?”
I hadn’t known I could get any redder. I’d managed, up until now, not to think about that particular bodily need, even though it had begun to prod at me. But now at the mention of it, I can feel the urgency. Knowing that I need it and can’t simply go there on my own is humiliating, and hearing him mention it even more so.
“Answer me.” His voice tightens, taking on an irritated edge. “Playing coy won’t help you,kotenok. If you need to use the bathroom, tell me now.”
My cheeks are burning. I turn my face away, refusing to look at him, and I see him shrug out of the corner of my eye.
“Have it your way. If you won’t tell me yes or no, I’ll just leave you tied there until you have no choice but to let your body take over, right there where you sit. Of course, then I’ll have a mess to clean up, and I’ll be forced to punish you for that. I’m sure you won’t like what I have in mind.”
My stomach clenches with anxiety, and I remind myself of what I’d resolved earlier.Give and take. Fight back, but know which hill to die on. This isn’t it. Give in a little.
I suck in a breath, tilting my chin up defiantly as I meet his gaze with mine. “Yes,” I snap, my tone short and clipped. “I do need the bathroom.”
“See, was that so hard?” Mikhail grins at me, pushing himself off the doorframe and striding towards me. He leans forward, his fingers beginning to work the knots loose, and it takes everything in me not to bite him–the only thing I could do right now, with my arms and legs bound to the chair.
The rush of blood back to my extremities makes me feel slightly dizzy as the ropes loosen. He hadn’t tied them so tight as to cause damage or leave marks, but my skin feels slightly raw and abraded where it pressed against me, and my arms and legs are full of pins and needles.
“Just–give me a minute–” I breathe as he removes the rope, looking at me impatiently. He’s hovering over me, a reminder and a warning not to try to run, but I couldn’t have even if that had been what I’d had in mind. I’m not even sure I can stand yet. “I need a second.”
I half expect him to drag me to my feet anyway, impatient to get moving with whatever he has planned for me next, but he stands there instead, still hovering, clearly giving me a moment to collect myself. It’s the first breather he’s allowed me, and it reinforces what I’d determined earlier–that if I give him small moments of feeling as if he’s winning, it might help me in the long run.
Slowly, when I can feel my hands and feet normally again, I stand up. Mikhail’s hand closes around my upper arm, not as harshly as before, but firmly enough to once again warn me that there’s no use trying to escape. “Come on,” he says gruffly, as if talking to a disobedient pet. “Upstairs.”
