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He can’t be for real.Can he?
I knew I’d only seen a fraction of the darkness lurking in Grigory. I knew it had so much more potential than I was capable of imagining. And I knew I’d come to see the full brunt of it.
But not this soon. Not like this.
Trying to buy myself some time, I say, “Can we at least talk about it? I don’t like this.”
Grigory shakes his head. “You’re mine now. Soyou’ll get my mark whether you want it or not.”
My heart speeds up, my breath working in hard drags across my lips. But it’s not because I’m scared. Not only. No, what has my whole system pounding is the knowledge that he can do whatever he wants. The freedom of knowing I have no choice.
It’s terrifying and dangerous, but most of all, peaceful.
I don’t need my own strength when I have his. I don’t need to be brave when I have his steady resolveto lean on.
“I’m yours,” I say. “I’m truly yours.” I thought I knew it moments ago, but I only knew it on the surface. Now I’m starting to see why I need this. This will make me feel it all the way to my core—so deep that I’ll never forget.
“Yes, you are,” he confirms.
With a stroke across my cheek, he releases me to lean back and retrieve a few items from a side table.
I watch with wide eyes as he unfolds a piece of green medical paper, which he spreads out under my right arm, then unpacks disinfection wipes, gloves, and finally a scalpel.
My pulse beats harder with each item, and my hands are quivering when he puts on the latex gloves and disinfects the top of my wrist.
“Will it hurt?” I ask, unable to hide the quivering fear in my voice.
Grigory pauses and looks at me. “It will. But just like with the whip, you’ll take this because I want you to.”
He says it with such certainty that I can’t object. And God, I don’t want to. I want to submit to this man in every way, even if it means letting him cut my skin.
Grigory picks up the package with the scalpel, and the moment he rips the paper, revealing the shiny metal, all resolve evaporates.
“Grigory, I can’t do this,” I say, shaking my head. “I just can’t.”
I’m about to jerk away my arm, but Grigory catches it with a gloved hand, pressing it back into the green paper.
“Breathe,devochka. Just look at me and breathe.” His bushy brows lift as he drags in a loud breath, spurring me to follow.
I take in a staggered breath and push the air back out on his cue.
“One more,” he says. And thus, I’m back in the familiar rhythm that has kept me off the ledge of panic so many times.
I get lost in the trance, just watching him and breathing. In and out, in and out, deep into my stomach.
“Now, close your eyes,” he says.
I exhale a shuddery breath and let my eyes fall shut.
“Who do you belong to?”
“I belong to you,” I say, and just as I say the powerful words, letting their meaning fill me to the brim, the knife breaks my skin.
My muscles tense beneath the sharp sensation, and I push air in and out through my lips at a frantic speed.
“Breathe,” Grigory demands, his voice resonating through the air with a palpable force.
I draw in air through my nose, my chest stuttering to accommodate the too big inhale, then push it back through my mouth. Then I tell him the words I’ve been aching to tell him. “I’m yours.” I say them over and over again until they become a mantra.
