That’s not his fault, but it hurts all the same.
Liam.Something in my chest squeezes painfully again at the thought of the handsome Irishman who was, even if very briefly, my friend. There was never any future for us, but I can’t let myself think for very long about how he looked at me, the way he kissed my hand, how he seemed to actually listen to me when we talked. The way he’d lean forward, eyes bright and interested, as if what I was saying mattered. As if he didn’t have anywhere else he wanted to be.
I’d let myself fantasize about it just a little. What it would be like to have a man like Liam in love with me. It was a ridiculous fantasy; I’d known that even then. Liam is one of the Irish Kings,theIrish King, the man at the head of his organization’s table. A man like Luca and Viktor, except kinder somehow, a bit softer. Younger than either of them, so the world hasn’t had a chance to make him hard.
Even before what Franco had done to me, even before Alexei, beforeI’dbecome broken and a shell of the girl I’d once been, I wouldn’t have been an appropriate match for someone like Liam. I used to be a party girl, reckless and fearless, the one who would drag Sofia out away from her violin and her studies and make her go out on the town with me. I was the reason we ended up in the club that night that she was taken by the Bratva, the reason Luca swept in to save her.
I’m not the kind of girl that men like Liam marry. My family name was disgraced a long time ago, and I’m not rich. I don’t even have a home of my own anymore. I’m not a virgin—far from it. I don’t have connections, money, or innocence to bring to the table. And now, after everything that’s been done to me—I don’t think I have anything at all.
I barely remember what it felt like to be that girl.
And now—I’m not even sure where I am, let alonewhoI am.
Slowly, I take in the rest of the room. There is a wide bay window open to let in a warm spring breeze and birdsong. Sheer lace curtains flutter at the windows, a soft throw blanket that looks like cashmere over the back of the wing chair. On the other wall, I see a wooden wardrobe that looks antique; the surface is worn down to a dark sheen with brass hardware. Everything in the smallish room looks old, but in a way that seems intentional, rather than shabby, down to the framing around the door and the antique knob. There’s another door directly across from the bed, and as I lean forward, I can peer around it just enough to see that it’s a small bathroom with an iron clawfoot tub. Behind the wing chair, there’s a proliferation of houseplants, some of them doing their best to trail their leaves out of the open window. Nothing about it feels particularly masculine. If anything, it’s a room meant to feel soft and cozy, like a haven. A nest.
Where the fuck am I?My heart starts to pound in my chest, anxiety rising up hot and thick, and I clutch the blankets around my hips, trying not to panic. I can feel a spiral coming on, the fear clutching at my throat, and I force myself to push back the blankets, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. Somehow being in this place that feels meant to comfort, to shelter, feels even more terrifying than the clear danger of Alexei’s mountain chalet. I don’t understand it. None of it makes sense, and it feels like a trap.
I wish I could remember more of what happened. I know that Alexei was having a party—elite guests coming to see if they would want to purchase the women he had for sale. Caterina, Sofia, Sasha, the two little girls, Anika and Yelena. He’d told me—I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, trying to remember, even though I don’t want to.
You’re too damaged to sell. No one will buy a washed-up ballerina with ruined feet. And even if I could find the type of man who would, the type who likes a girl who can’t run, you’re a disaster in here as well.He’d flicked the side of my head, hard, a stinging pain against my temple.You start crying hysterically when anyone touches you, spiral into a panic at the slightest provocation.
He’d laughed then, but his expression hadn’t looked humorous.If I had the time, I’d find the right man to buy you. One who likes broken, crying little girls who can’t get away. But I don’t have the time for that. So instead, you’ll serve a different purpose, my pretty little ballerina. You’ll make a lovely centerpiece for my party.
I’d tried to struggle, terrified of what he meant, already crying. But there’d been no chance of escape. A needle was already sliding into my arm, the drugs that made it so that I don’t remember anything about the party after that. I vaguely recall him rigging me up, twisting my body into some sort of grotesque dancer’s pose. Still, everything after that is a blur of shapes and sounds and smells, without any form or sense to them.
It’s difficult to get up. After being forced into the pointe shoes that Alexei had made me wear, my feet are even more painful than usual. They cramp the instant I try to stand up on them, but I force myself to do it anyway, holding onto the bedside table and then the wall as I move towards the window, suddenly desperate to see out of it.
I’ll know where I am then, maybe. There will be some clue. And if nothing else, at least I’ll feel the sunshine on my face. We were only at Alexei’s for a week or so, maybe a little more, but it feels as if it’s been so long.
The breeze coming in is warm, nothing like the bitingly cold wind in the mountains of Russia. I’m far from there, wherever I am, and I breathe in for a moment, the smells of a city reaching my nose. It’s not the scent of an American city, though, thick with exhaust and smog. Instead, I just smell sunshine, fresh bread, coffee wafting from somewhere below. My stomach rumbles, and I press my hand to it, looking out across the rows of apartment buildings that look hundreds of years old, like something out of a history book, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. There are people walking on the sidewalk below, chattering happily in a quick, rapid foreign language that takes me a moment to place, but when I do, I realize that it’s French.
The man on the plane. He had a French accent.
And in the distance, faintly, the shape of the Eiffel Tower.
I blink, once, and then once more.I’m hallucinating. I’m dreaming.I pinch my cheeks, slap my face, anything to wake myself up. But when I look again, it’s still there.
What the fuck is happening?
The sound of the doorknob turning jolts me out of my freshly spiraling thoughts. I spin as quickly as I can, gripping the edge of the windowsill to steady myself as the door opens, terrified that it’s going to be Alexei on the other side of it, even though I know that makes no sense at all.
But it’s not.
It’s a man I’ve never seen before, strikingly handsome, with messy dark hair and piercing blue eyes, wearing silk pajama pants and a silk dressing gown over that. He looks at me as if it’s not at all surprising that I’m here or that he is. I realize with a start that he has a breakfast tray in his hands with a covered plate on it, a glass of orange juice that looks freshly squeezed, and small glass pots of jam and syrup. It looks so good, so perfectly out of some kind of fantasy, that I can’t quite believe that it’s real.
Maybe whatever Alexei did to me really completely broke my mind. Or perhaps I’m still drugged at the party, and this is some kind of lucid dream.
The smell wafts towards me, eggs and something made of sweet batter, and my stomach rumbles again, turning over painfully. I don’t let go of the windowsill, though, shrinking back as he sets the tray on the bed and turns to face me.
“Good morning,” the man says casually in English, but his voice is so thickly accented that there’s no doubt that he’s as French as the city outside my window.
This isn’t real. It can’t be real.
“Did you sleep well, Anastasia?”
I stare at him, my stomach dropping to my toes as my mind races, trying to make sense of it all.How the fuck does he know my name?It has to be a dream. But do things hurt in dreams? My body is aching in every part, pain ranging from a dull ache to a sharp burning, and it should wake me up, it should—
Maybe I’m just too drugged.