The sponge slides up my thigh, my calf, trailing sweet-smelling soap over my skin, washing away the days of captivity at Alexei’s and leaving me feeling soft and clean, warm and liquified. I feel almost safe for the first time in months.
And then his hand's pause, his fingers pressing against the top of my foot, and I see his expression change.
And I remember where I am.
Who I am.
Whoheis.
What the fuck are you thinking, Ana?I feel hot and embarrassed, my skin flushing even redder, ashamed of the pulsing between my thighs and the slick wetness there that I know has nothing to do with the oiled bath water, just my own weakness after being touched gently for the first time in ages. I want to jerk away from his touch, but instead, I just go very still, remembering that a man who would buy another human is not someone to pull away from. Remembering all over again that I’m still in danger, however slowly it is creeping up on me.
Alexandre holds my foot in his hand, reaching for the other as he lets the sponge fall to the tile. His eyes darken as he runs his fingers over the thick scars on my soles, and I wince, starting to pull away despite myself.
“It hurts?” he asks, his accent thickening, and I nod. I can’t speak. I’m on the verge of tears, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack, and it’s all I can do not to tear away from him and huddle in the furthest corner of the tub.
“So this is why he said you were broken,” he murmurs, his fingers still tracing the scars. “These feet in those shoes, what exquisite torture that must have been—”
I shudder, biting my lip until I think it might bleed, a fine tremor starting to run through me. Alexandre seems to be caught in a trance, his hands holding my feet as if transfixed by them, and then he shakes his head as if snapping out of it, his gaze flicking up to mine.
“Who did this?” Alexandre demands, his tone deepening. “What happened to you, Anastasia?”
I shake my head, my hands curling into fists. I feel cold again despite the lingering heat of the water, tense and afraid, and I try to pull my feet back, but his hands tighten on them.
“Tell me what happened,” he insists.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I whisper. “It’s over now. I don’t want to—Ican’t—”
Alexandre’s face hardens, the handsome and elegant lines turning stern and cold. “You’re mine, Anastasia,” he reminds me. “Mypetit poupée,my broken ballerina. You’re not to keep anything from me. As your master, I demand you tell me—”
“I can’t!” The words come out choked, my body starts to tremble, and I know I won’t be able to stop myself from melting down much longer. “I can’t talk about it, I can’t, I can’t—”
Alexandre stands up suddenly, shoving my legs back into the bath with a force that sends some of the water splashing up over the tiles. “Ingrate!”he shouts, his eyes suddenly furious. “And what do you think would have happened to you if I’d left you atmonsieurEgorov’s, eh? Would you have said no to him? Would you,mon petit cher?”
“I—” I can feel the tears welling up, dripping over my lashes. “Please, I’m sorry, I just can’t talk about it—”
“Can’t.” Alexandre shakes his head in disgust. “Disappointing.Décevante!”He clenches his jaw, and I start to cry in earnest, the fear taking over as I pull my knees to my chest, curling into as tight of a ball as I can. I don’t know what he’ll do next, what the consequences will be, and for one terrifying moment, I think he’s going to lunge forward and haul me out of the bath.
But instead, he steps back, his hand running through his hair until it sticks up wildly, his eyes full of a bright and angry confusion. And then he spins on his heel, stalking out of the bathroom and slamming the door behind him so hard that the room shakes, more water slopping out of the bath.
I’m alone.
So very, very alone.
Bending my forehead to my knees, I start to sob.