Page 67
When footsteps sound outside my room, my pulse jumps. The door unlocks, but when it opens, it’s not him.
It’s a woman, carrying a tray.
“Hello, I’m Anya. I’ve been assigned to be your companion.” She offers what looks like a genuine smile. She’s pretty, with pin-straight dark hair and even darker eyes, probably around my age. I stare at her for a second too long, a frown forming as I register the fact that this is the first woman I’ve seen in this house—other than Arie, of course.
She places the tray on the table in front of me and gestures lightly. “Your food.”
“Thank you, Anya.” I force a polite smile as I pick up my spoon.
The food tastes like nothing. My attention is entirely fixed on the sounds outside the room. Every set of footsteps makes me tense, hoping it’s Dimitri coming to release me from this monstrosity.
I give up on eating before the plate is half cleared. I catch the flicker of concern in Anya’s eyes as she collects the tray, but she doesn’t say anything.
What could she say anyway? No doubt she’s aware I’m a prisoner here.
When she’s gone, I stand, restless, and do the one thing I haven’t done since I was put in this room—I drag the curtains open.
The view isn’t spectacular. It isn’t meant to be, probably. But there’s a thick line of trees beyond the perimeter fence, swaying slightly in the morning air. In New York, a wooded area like that is practically a myth. I look at it for a long moment, filled with a feeling that takes me a few seconds to name.
Envy. Of trees.
They get to be free.
My gaze drops to the backyard below, where a dark-blue pool glitters under the sun. I press my fingers to the glass and stare at it longingly. I know this room is better than the dungeon, but I want more. I want some freedom.
“Ready to take your belt off?”
My spine goes rigid at the question, and I turn to find Dimitri looking as frustrated as I feel—hair more tousled than usual, the top buttons of his shirt undone, the hem hanging loose instead of tucked in. He didn’t masturbate. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.
“You look sexually frustrated,” I say softly, fishing for the admission I already know is true.
His glare is immediate. “Get on the bed, Grace.”
Grace again. Not solnyshko. That alone confirms it. Without another word, I walk toward the bed and lie back, blinking up at the ceiling. My heart trips with every step he takes closer, but I force myself to detach so I don’t get aroused again. Think clinical thoughts, think clinical thoughts.
“How did you find out my real name?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
“I have my ways.” He flips the hem of my dress up to my waist in one fluid motion, baring my lower body to the cool air, and my exposed pussy twitches in response, betraying me again. Then he reaches up and unfastens the chain from his neck, the key dangling like a lifeline.
“How long have you known?”
He glances up at me, and his eyes in the morning light are a shade of blue so clear it’s disastrous for my clinical thoughts project. “The morning after the expo. When we got back to shore.”
The words take a moment to register. He knew during the shopping trip at the boutique. Through the wedding, through all of it. While I was performing Laura Holmer with diminishing conviction, he already knew who I was. He knew when I tried to end things. He knew, and he insisted on seeing me again, anyway.
“So why—” My voice cracks a little, the vulnerability slipping through. “Why take me shopping? Why bring me to your brother’s wedding?” I pause. “If you’d let me go that night when I tried to end things, none of this would have happened.”
“And miss all this fun?” The smirk returns, that wicked curve of his lips sending a fresh wave of heat through me as his fingers work the lock.
The sound that follows is the best thing I’ve heard in hours, and the tension in my body loosens with it, like I’d been braced for impact without realizing it. The belt comes next, straps falling away as he drags it off slowly, the leather scraping over skin that’s far too sensitive now. I bite my lip to stifle a moan, but it still threatens to break through.
When the restraints are gone, the sensation hits all at once—too open, too raw, every nerve awake and unguarded.
I frown up at the ceiling, the plaster blurring as I try to get myself under control. “I don’t understand you,” I manage, once I can form words again.
“That’s only fair,” he replies, stepping back from the bed with the belt hanging loosely from his hand, “since I don’t understand you either.”
I tug my dress down quickly, the fabric settling over my naked lower body like a flimsy barrier against the vulnerability that still lingers. My thighs press together instinctively, trapping the ache, but it’s better than the cage—so much better.
