I jerk out of his grasp. Nothing personal. Should that mean something to me? Does he really think it can?
He grips my jaw, forcing me to look at him. His calloused fingers are rough. Bruising.
I grit my teeth, fist my hands. I want to fight him, but I don’t. I’m still scared. Even when that little voice in my head tells me maybe it would be better if I fought.
If he lost his temper.
If he just killed me.
Because what’s coming will be worse.
My eyes burn with tears and the moment he sees them, his expression changes. His head tilting to the side, one knuckle of his free hand wiping away the drop making its way down my cheek.
“Sweet girl.” His thumb presses against my lower lip. “Pretty girl. It’s too bad it had to be this way.”
He releases me and I step backward.
“Just let me go,” I try even though I know it’s no use. It’s not my fault, I want to tell him. But that doesn’t matter, not to him. And besides, in a way, it is my fault. I told. I was warned not to. Hell, it was beaten into me not to tell. To forget. But I didn’t. I never could, no matter how much I tried.
He moves his mouth into a smile that if I was naïve, I’d think may be meant to comfort. But I’m not naïve. Any innocence I had, he stole. Or maybe it was Felix before him who stole it.
“If I do that, then there’s no lesson for that snake, is there? No, Mara,” he tries out my name. It sounds strange on his tongue, his accent too thick, the disgust he feels too palpable. “But Leonard will stay with you,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder to the soldier. “He’ll make sure you’re not hurt. Not too badly at least,” he adds as if an afterthought. As if I’m a fucking afterthought.
I catch Leonard’s eye. One corner of his mouth curves upward into a sneer. What I’d give to dig my nails into his eye sockets and scratch his eyes out of his head. What I’d give to hurt him just once. Because I have no doubt he’s going to enjoy the next few hours.
Petrov turns, walks toward the soldier and gives him instructions in Russian. I try to understand what he’s saying but in the last five years he’s only ever spoken English with me and instructed anyone who encountered me to do the same, so the few words I’ve managed to pick up don’t help. Not that I need to understand what they’re saying to know what’s coming. He explained that part in great detail. Relished it, I think.
I put my hand to my hip. I swear I still feel the burn of his punishment. But it was my own fault. I should have kept my mouth shut.
And then what?
How much longer did I really expect him to keep me alive when he was already growing tired of me. I’m not as young as I used to be, and he likes young.
My stomach turns at the thought, and I channel all my hate into his back, his thick shoulders, wide middle. Into the roll of fat around his neck and his small head with its military style close-cropped hair. His hair is receding and the bald spot at the crown is widening. He sprays something on his scalp that he thinks hides it, but everyone laughs behind his back. The problem is no one dares do it to his face.
I walk to the window and draw the heavy, burgundy drapes back. He spared no expense renting the presidential suite for the event. My farewell.
It’s raining. I look out at the street below, the people like ants twenty floors down. I’d jump if I could open it, but the windows don’t open. I guess the hotel isn’t taking any chances. And besides, I know myself. I’m too much of a coward to do that.
Dropping the curtain, I go into the bathroom again desperate to get away from them even if it’s just for a moment. It’s beautiful. The lap of luxury with its claw-footed antique bath, the marble floors. The fresco of fields and fields of wild red poppies blowing in tall green grass on all four walls, the bluest sky I’ve ever seen on the ceiling. I wish I could run into those fields. Feel the delicate petals against my legs, the grass soft under my bare feet.
But then he calls my name.
It’s time.
I wish I could be sick, but I haven’t eaten all day. He hasn’t fed me. It wouldn’t do for me to puke all over his friends.
I walk back into the bedroom and see the third man who has just entered. The doctor. Seeing him here makes me shudder.
“Take off your clothes,” Petrov tells me.
I drag my gaze from the doctor to Petrov, feeling the blood drain from my face as my knees begin to wobble. “Please just let me go,” I try one final time.
“Do you need an injection?”
I glance to the doctor who takes the ready syringe out of his pocket. I know those injections. They make my arms and legs useless, my body no longer under my control. But they leave my mind untouched and alert. I’ll know everything, feel everything, but I won’t be able to fight. Won’t be able to do anything but lie there and take it and know every second what is happening to me.
I shake my head. I don’t want an injection. Not yet. I’ll try to get one hit in so at least I’ll know I did something. I didn’t just roll over and play victim.
I begin to undo the buttons of my dress.
Petrov nods, watches as I disrobe. I’m naked underneath so it doesn’t take long. He walks around me, and I know he’s looking at his mark. He chose the spot so anyone who touched me would know I’d been his. His discarded property. Used goods. Felix will be pissed when he sees it. He won’t be able to sell me. Not for a good price anyway. That’s a blessing, right? In a way?
At least he won’t touch me tonight. Hasn’t since he found out the truth.
Petrov stands facing me again. He lifts my hair off my shoulder.
“After the good doctor has his turn, he will be in the next room. If you cause any trouble, he will administer the injection. No questions asked. Understood?”
“You’re going to let him—” I try to instill steel into my words but my voice breaks.
He mutters a curse in Russian then asks again if I understand.
I nod. Because it’s not just my voice that’s breaking. It’s me. And I’m still scared.
“Sir.” A soldier peers his head through the door. “Service elevator is here.”
“What’s wrong with the normal elevator?”
“Out of order,” the soldier says.
“Fine,” Petrov answers, irritated. He appreciates appearances and taking the service elevator is beneath him. He looks back at me for what I guess is the last time. “So pretty still. It really is too bad,” he says. He turns and walks out the door and for one brief, stupid moment, I entertain the idea that he means it. That he’s sorry I’m not who he thought I was. That he’s sorry to have to do what he’s about to do. Because that’s the strange thing when you’re kidnapped. When there is a single person in your life who controls every aspect of it. Who decides whether you eat or go hungry. Whether you live or die. In a way, you want to please them. You feel safer with them. It’s utterly idiotic, I know this. Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe it’s because this monster you at least know.
I shake my head, snap myself out of it. Because he’s gone and the lights are dimmed, and I watch in disgust as the doctor steps toward me.
1
Dante