"The dress," he growls, and his throat sounds tight. It's insane that his obvious attraction to me makes me feel aroused. I shouldn't feel like this. "Put it on."
I grab the green silk and pull it over my head as quickly as I can, desperate to cover myself. The fabric slides down my body like cool water, clinging to every curve, and when I smooth it into place, I feel marginally less vulnerable—but only marginally. The memory of his eyes on my skin lingers like a tattoo I know I'll feel for hours. And I'm gonna need new panties after this.
I run my fingers through my hair, trying to tame the tangles, my hands still trembling. When I finally gather enough courage to look up, Lev's standing by the door with my fallen ballet flat in his hand as if he magically produced it or someone else brought it up to him. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and there's a darkness in his eyes that makes me shudder.
He looks me up and down, but whatever heat I saw moments ago is now locked away behind a mask of control. Then he tosses the shoe at my feet.
"Better," he says. "Now come. Your first lesson starts now."
I follow him down the hall without protesting because that interaction left me speechless for the moment. Though, my legs feel rubbery and a few times, I'm forced to lean on the wall for support so I don’t collapse.
When he rounds a corner into a room, I spy the back door in my sight and for a split second I think of running out, but what's the point? He's right. Even if I got away from this, they know who I am, where I live, and what I do for a living. I'm his captive whether I like it or not. I have to play along and pray to God they don't hurt me.
I turn the corner, hugging myself, and see a table set for two. Unlike everything else in this massive estate, it's simple and cozy, not the lavish, extravagant furnishings and art. My guess at first glance is that they use this for their normal day to day dining and not big parties. I know there's another giant dining room in this place. This can't be the only one.
"Sit down," Lev orders, pointing at the chair to the right, where a plate full of breakfast sits. It's intimidating being forced to be normal around someone who snatched me off the street, but it's also impossible to make my belly shut up. I never got to eat my street meat yesterday and I barely touched the soup Rosa brought up. I'm starving.
So I sink into the chair with my mouth watering and he sits across from me and pours himself a cup of coffee, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Eat," he orders. His bossy demeanor makes me want to rebel, but my stomach growls so I just do as he says.
I pick up my fork and reach for the eggs, but before I can take a bite he shakes his head.
"Wrong."
I freeze, the fork halfway to my mouth. "What?"
"The way you're holding your fork. It's wrong." He sets down his coffee and leans forward, his elbows on the table. "Ana Veche was raised with old money. She had years of etiquette lessons and finishing schools and summers in Switzerland. She doesn't hold her fork like a peasant shoveling food into her mouth."
Heat floods my cheeks and I look down at the plate feeling angry "I'm not a peasant."
"You're holding your fork like one. Here." He reaches across the table and adjusts my grip, and though I want to smack him away, I just let him manhandle me. "Like this, delicately. Like the fork is an extension of your hand, not a tool you're wielding."
I try to mimic the grip he's shown me, but it feels awkward and unnatural, and when I take a bite of eggs, I'm so focused on my hand position that I barely taste them. This feels like torture worse than dressing in front of him. At least there was a bit of pleasure in seeing the way I affected him in that. I try harder, taking a second bite, and this time, it's easier.
"Better," Lev says. "Now sit up straighter. Ana doesn't slouch."
I straighten my spine, pulling my shoulders back. He's really expecting me to put on a show for someone.
"Good. Now tell me about your work. What do you do?"
"This is ridiculous. You know what I do."
"Wrong answer." His voice sharpens. "Ana doesn't complain. She would never acknowledge weakness or vulnerability. She's always in control."
I take a breath, trying again. I don’t want to do this, and it's making me feel like his little toy. I look up at him ready to tell him off, but he's looking down at his food as he cuts a bite of egg. He did promise me that if I do this well, he will let me go home, though I'm not sure if I believe him. But if I just fight him every step of the way, I won't get to do anything but stay locked in that room. I have to try.
"Yesterday was productive. I spent time reviewing some documents and preparing for upcoming meetings."
"Better, but your tone's too passive. You sound like you're reading from a script." He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Ana's confident and commanding. When she speaks, people listen. You need to project authority, not submission."
"I'm not a commanding person," I huff, just wanting to eat my fucking food.
"Then become one," Lev snarls as I scowl at him.
I set down my fork, frustration bubbling up in my chest, but I don't raise my voice. I know me. If I start shouting, I'll start crying, and the last thing I want to do is project weakness now.
"I can't become someone I'm not. I'm a translator. I sit in rooms alone and work with documents. I don't command people. I'm not?—"
