The single word ravaged my body and soul, and the sheet slipped from my fingers. Yulia pulled it away, her expression smug with triumph, though her gloating was soon lost beneath the dread that poured in.
Maybe Ronan wouldn’t just kill me. Maybe he’d pass me around to all of his men first. I felt sick. So sick, I was unable to move. My breathing accelerated; chest squeezed tight. The panic raged a storm within me, and I was on the verge of losing this horrid reality to darkness, but the winded sensation paused when Yulia set a silky piece of fabric on the bed.
I stared at it.
It was a white, modest dress—one that looked long enough to reach the floor even on my tall frame, so it couldn’t have been an easy find. Why would Ronan make the effort to send me this dress if his men were only going to rip it off?
Disturbingly, the grip on my lungs eased at the thought maybe it would just be death.
But I refused to die in Gucci.
Somehow, the image of me lying in a frozen grave while vultures picked at my corpse adorned in a luxury dress sent a wave of amusement through me. It inflated in my stomach, rose to shake in my chest, and then, the laugh escaped in a deranged peal of hilarity that brought tears to my eyes. Yulia stared at me like I was one giggle away from being committed. Slowly, I sobered, wiped the tears from my cheeks, and headed to the door.
“You must dress, devushka.”
I didn’t stop.
Her voice hardened. “He will be displeased.”
Days ago, that statement ruled me, controlled my every movement like a puppet on a string. Now, with unhinged mirth in my veins and my demise on the horizon, it had no hold on me.
“I don’t wear silk,” I said, stopping in the doorway to give the dress a fleeting look. “But you can have it.” My eyes took in her stuffy black uniform she probably slept in. “Your wardrobe looks like it could use some variety.”
Her growl followed me into the hall. “I do not wear white!”
As of today, I didn’t either.
If I was a virgin walking toward sacrifice, I’d do it dressed in a black hand-me-down.
fress
(n.) to eat without reservation and heartily
Sweat and animosity cloaked the dining room like a saccharine shadow, though it remained silent enough to hear a pin drop. Or just the scrape of my fork.
This wasn’t a usual dinner for me, and it wasn’t due to the presence of two of Alexei’s men, whose bruised bodies and egos were bound to their chairs, but because I preferred to eat supper at eight.
Polina swept in to grab my finished plate dressed in her nightgown, a frilly sleep cap askew on her head. Curiosity pulled her out of bed no doubt, rather than a desire to serve me herself; gossiping and cooking were two of her finest talents. It was the latter that made her become the only woman I cons
idered marrying, regardless if she was twenty years my senior and probably weighed more than me. Poverty as an adolescent and four years of prison food taught me to enjoy a meal more than most.
When Polina continued to stand there and stare at my guests, I told her in Russian, “That will be all.”
She practically jumped out of her nosy stupor and muttered, “Of course,” before rushing from the room so fast her cap flew off. Her arm reached back into the doorway, a hand searching around until it grasped the ruffled hat, and then it and the rest of my cook disappeared.
Alexander, Alexei’s nephew, sneered at the scene, but he didn’t say anything. Probably because he was warned if he spoke a word, I’d cut out his tongue. There was nothing more nauseating than hearing loyal sentiments toward Alexei while I ate.
Albert sat at the end of the long table, eyes cold, arms crossed. Viktor sat beside him, both pinning my guests with intimidating stares. The overload of rivalry and testosterone was beginning to make me feel thirsty. And bored.
Sitting back in my chair, I trimmed the end of my cigar and wondered whether Mila would deign to make an appearance anytime soon or if I would have to drag her ass down here. Patience was a virtue. It was the only reason she got four days to play the isolated captive in my guest room. Of course the circumstances and end goal weren’t so virtuous. Solitude was an effortless way to bring even the strongest men to tears.
I lit my cigar and wondered if seclusion had changed Mila’s temperament; if it had dulled her hatred and turned her into a good, submissive pet. The idea ached in my cock, and a very impatient need to know how she would behave expanded. I found both reactions bothersome, so, instead of giving in to the urge to go retrieve her, I decided to wait a few more minutes.
I gestured to the servant who stood beside the door to pour me a drink. As always, the girl moved as quietly as a church mouse. She even squeaked like one when I grabbed her unsteady wrist before she overfilled my glass. The noise was one of pain, and I knew I hadn’t hurt her.
“Izvinite pozhaluysta,” she blurted. I’m sorry.
My grip on her wrist lifted the hem of her white dress sleeve an inch, revealing a purple bruise and the source of her discomfort. I released her, and she began to sop up spilled vodka while mumbling frantic apologies.