But those scars would be nothing compared to the emotional scars that would mar my heart if I had sex with anyone other than my girl.
I’m left to hang there in my physical pain—with my back bleeding and burning—as Renata and Luca move onto the bed. I close my eyes with my head hung as Luca removes her clothes and fucks her in front of me.
I hate it more than the pain when they do this. I’m ashamed of it, but I’m a fucking human man, and there’s a porn movie playing out in front of me. It makes me hard—though I don’t want it to—and being hard makes me think about my blue-eyed girl.
I’d prefer to keep her out of my mind when I’m here with Renata and her little fuck boy, but sex and Anya are permanently linked inside my mind. Especially, since we’ve been seeing each other in secret and making love in all the intense and passionate ways we were meant to. I can’t keep her out of my mind, but I can protect the sanctity of our connection.
I don’t let myself think about fucking Anya, touching her, making love to her. I let myself imagine her caring for me, nursing these burning wounds, showing me how much she loves me. It’s what she’s done with all the wounds Renata has given me over the past several weeks. Anya’s love for me is stronger than Renata’s hate.
I smile to myself.
Renata can hurt me, do whatever the fuck she wants to do to me, but she’ll never break me down. I’ll meet with Anya again in that secret room in two nights and she’ll build me back up again.
Renata can’t fucking win.
Chapter 16
Anya
Every other Tuesday night, Ezra and I meet for a secret rendezvous in that same bedroom on the east end of the second floor. Every other week, we kiss and touch and hold each other. I tend to his wounds inflicted by Renata, covering the would-be scars with ointment and showering him with attentive care. We survive the in-between times with stolen glances and our own daydreams.
But we won’t get to sneak away together this week. Three months have passed since everything changed—since the night Ezra saved me, since I killed Vigo, since Nikolai died, and since I discovered I had become a Mikhailov.
This week we’ll be attending the quarterly meeting of the four families at the O’Shea’s mansion in Ireland. For the first time, I’m not here as a slave, I’m here as a member of the board.
Kostya has been helping me prepare for tonight’s quarterly board meeting. He seems more human now that we’ve been spending more time together. My initial intent was to foster a relationship in the name of gaining trust, knowing he might be useful to me and Ezra in planning some sort of escape. But I’ve been surprised to find that Kostya’s company has become a comforting presence—entirely different than when he followed me around as a slave to ensure I did what I was supposed to do.
He’s nearby as I enter the O’Shea’s recently refurbished theater-turned-opera house with my spine straight and my chin up, though I feel anything but regal or strong. My stomach is constantly growing and it’s obvious that I’m six months pregnant.
Ezra loves how it looks.
Just thinking of the way he grins at me, rubs my belly, and tells me I’m a “cute little mama” every time he sees me makes my heart flutter and a smile threaten to undo my carefully crafted expression of stone-cold indifference.
I don’t feel confident with this body, not in the way I used to be. I don’t move the way I used to. And I certainly can’t dress the way I used to. I was granted the privilege of selecting my own attire for this evening, but the options were scarce.
The gown I chose is a soft, blush pink with an empire waist. The top is made of lace that fits as closely as a second skin but has a low-cut V that dips between my newly ample breasts. It has long lacy sleeves that hug my arms. A metallic, rose gold belt without a buckle wraps around my waist, cinching me just beneath my breasts. The skirt flares out from there, all the way to my feet, with layers of fluffy chiffon that drape elegantly to the ground.
Though I tried as long as I could to wear high heels so I could at least match Renata’s height, it simply isn’t possible anymore. My feet are swollen—even after all the years of abuse my feet took dancing ballet, this particular ache is a torture I just can’t stand. Doctor Lombardi has asked me to stop wearing heels anyway—he’s afraid I might fall over and snap in two. According to him, I need to gain more weight, though I don’t know where I’d put it. I feel bloated and swollen everywhere.
As I enter the new opera house, I feel the eyes of every member of the four families upon me. It’s as though a thousand daggers are being shot from their eyes, stabbing me all at once, threatening to make me feel small, effectively cut down to size.
But I steel myself, remembering that tonight, I am one of them—a Mikhailov—and I have to demand to be treated as such. I glance over my shoulder to see Kostya somewhere behind me and he taps two fingers beneath his chin—a familiar, gentle nudge reminding me to display my strength and dignified grace.
Chin up.
I give him a grateful nod, then lift my chin a little higher, forcing myself to ignore the judgmental eyes and simply take in the beauty of my surroundings.
The opera house looks as though it belongs to kings, and in a way, I suppose it does. The O’Sheas are currently the only remaining family of the four who haven’t been undone by all the upheaval from the past year. So, I suppose if anyone is king among these masters, it’s Murphy O’Shea. Of course, he looks nothing like a king with his trimmed, but unruly-looking beard, and so many tattoos upon his arms that they creep out from beneath his suit jacket, tracing outward onto his hands.
Murphy stands in front of the first row of seats at the bottom of the house, looking outward and greeting those who feel compelled to say hello to the king of masters. I push out a breath, knowing I will have to greet him likewise.
I make my way down the aisle on the left, trudging down the dark-purple carpet that softens my steps along the lane. Rows of refinished wooden seats on either side of me are upholstered with a matching purple- and gold-embossed fabric. Everything in the theater is opulent, all shades of purple and gold and dark wood.
A massive crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the theater, casting light on the intricate wooden carvings along the rows of balcony seats on either side of the room. My heart thumps in a familiar rhythm as I approach the stage, feeling a tug from the performance space that calls to me still.
It’s been nine months since Nikolai injured my ankle and sold me to Vigo. Nine months since I’ve really, truly danced, and the desire for it makes my entire body ache. Momentarily, I’m illogically jealous of the O’Shea talent slave because she will get to perform.
I glance behind me again, looking once more to Kostya for moral support, but he’s stopped to greet someone nearby. I rub my sweaty palms on my skirt and move forward to greet Murphy on my own.