ANA
Alexandre doesn’t come to my room. Long after I’ve cried all the tears I can muster, I pick myself up off of the floor. After a while, going to the bathroom to wash my face and stripping out of the silk dress, leaving it in a heap on the floor as I go to dig through the wardrobe for fresh pajamas. I find another silk set, this one black, and slip into it, climbing into bed with my entire body aching as if I’ve been run over by a truck.
I’ve run the gamut of emotions today, from happiness to panic and back and forth again. I slip into a restless sleep, a new ache in my chest as I wonder where Alexandre is, what he’s doing. Part of me knows I ought to be grateful that he’s left me alone, let me dress myself, and get myself ready for bed. However, the other part of me wonders if he’s still with Yvette, what they might be doing together, what he might be saying to her and she to him.
She’s mine.His voice echoes in my head as I fall asleep, my mind swirling with the images of everything that’s crowded in throughout the afternoon.
I’m in the warehouse again, my hands chained above me, feet swinging a foot above the ground. The strain on my shoulders is immense, but worse still is the sight of Franco’s handsome face, leering at me as he yanks off my shoes, running his fingers over the arches of my feet.
“I always did have a thing for feet,” he says, sweeping his fingertip over my sole, so that my toes curl. “Not dancer’s feet, though. Disgusting, what those pointe shoes do to you.” Then, he grins, showing gleaming white teeth as he unsheathes a hunting knife, glinting in the light with a serrated edge. “Not as disgusting as they’ll look when I’m finished, though, if you don’t talk.”
Cutting. Slicing. Burning. The hiss of a blowtorch and the smell of butane. My own screams, long after I’d given up everything that I’d had to tell him, and he’d started in on the rest of me, beating me for no reason but his own pleasure. I’d been unconscious long before he’d left me on Luca’s doorstep.
The music again, but this time I hear it as I’m dangling in the warehouse, one leg tied up behind me as Alexei and Franco circle me together, merging and splitting, laughing at me as I hear the hiss of the blowtorch again, see the glint of the blade.
Their voices, merging together, telling me to talk, Alexei mocking me, calling me damaged, broken, threatening to sell me to men who will love that I can’t flee.
And over it all, Alexandre’s voice in my ear.
Mind your manners.
Mind your manners.
Mind your—
“Anastasia!”
Strong, long-fingered hands grip my shoulders, shaking me awake, and my eyes pop open to see Alexandre looming over me, his face barely visible in the dim light from the window. My throat feels hoarse and dry, as if I’ve been screaming in my sleep, and my face is streaked with tears again.
“I’m sorry,” I manage thinly as I come back to my senses, and Alexandre lets go of me, stepping back with irritation written plainly across his face.
“You woke me up,” he says, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “I like my sleep undisturbed.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again. “Really, I am. It was a nightmare—”
“Do you need me to start medicating you again? If it helps you sleep, I’ll go and get it now.” He turns away as if to leave and go to get it, and I start to cry despite myself, a sudden cold panic gripping me at the thought of being drugged to sleep again.
“I’m sorry if I interrupted you and Yvette—”
Alexandre turns back to me sharply. “Is that what this is about? Yvette went home. She’s not—” He frowns, as if my comment is confusing to him. “That’s not our relationship, Ana. She doesn’t go to bed with me.”
For some reason, I start to cry harder, my stomach twisting in cold knots. Alexandre looks at me as if he’s entirely perplexed, running a hand through his hair.
“Anastasia, what is it?”
“I—I just—” I don’t know how to put what I’m feeling into words, and especially not to this man, who is so strange in so many ways. “I’m all alone. I’m so tired of being alone.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, hovering in the air between us, and Alexandre steps forward, turning on the light at my bedside as he sinks down into the wing chair by the window.
“You’re not alone,petit,” he says finally, his blue eyes resting on my face with obvious confusion. “You’re here, with me. How can you be alone?”
“It’s not the same,” I whisper. “You own me. It’s not—”
“It’s not what?” The irritation returns, Alexandre’s mouth tightening as he looks at me. “How does it matter,petit, if I own you? I house you, feed you, care for you and treat you well, so how can you be alone?” He repeats the question, and I can hear from the tone of his voice that he truly doesn’t seem to understand. It confuses me as much as my statement seems to confuse him, and we stare at each other for a long moment, the silence thickening as it goes on.
Alexandre snaps his fingers suddenly, standing up smoothly. “A bath,petit. That’s what you need.” He strides towards the bathroom before I can say a word, flicking on the light, and a moment later, I hear the rush of hot water from the taps.
“I don’t think—” I start to protest as he comes back, but he lays a finger against my lips, his hands already moving to undo the buttons on my pajama top.