“Who are you?” I blurt out, feeling the windowsill biting into my hands, the pain in my feet shooting up into my calves. But I don’t move. I can’t. I’m frozen in place with panic, my eyes flicking to the door as a possible means of escape, even though I know I’ll never make it. And if it is a dream, it won’t matter. I’ll just end up right back here.
The man smiles at me. “Of course,” he says, his voice smooth and rich as melted chocolate. “How rude of me.” He makes a small bow at the waist with a flourish, and I stare at him, certain now that I’ve gone entirely insane.
“My name is Alexandre Sartre,” he says as he looks up at me, straightening.
“A—Alexandre?” I can’t wrap my mouth around his last name, not right now.
“Yes, that’s right.” He smiles pleasantly. “Alexandre Sartre.” He says it again, as if I didn’t hear him the first time.
“What am I doing here?” My voice is shaking, and I swallow hard. “I want to go home.”As if I still had a home. As if that could ever happen again.
His smile falters a little. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible, Anastasia.”
I blink at him, feeling my hands start to tremble too. “Why—why is that?”
“Well, Anastasia, it’s quite simple.” The smile returns to Alexandre’s face, his lips parting to show gleaming white teeth.
“You’re here because I bought you, Anastasia Ivanova.” He steps away from the bed and walks towards me, his fingers slipping under my chin and tilting it up so that I’m forced to look into his brilliant blue eyes.
“You’re very beautiful,” he murmurs. “And you’re mine now.”