“Oh, woah,” Nessa gasps, “it’s happening again . . .”
“I know,” I say.
I’m watching her face, so I know when to speed up, when to go harder. Soon her skin is on fire, she’s shaking like she’s got a fever. She’s bucking her hips up against my hand, cumming all over again. Even at this moment she’s graceful, her back arched, her body taught. Her every movement is beautiful, she can’t help it.
I can’t get enough of it. I want to do this to her over and over. And a thousand other things, too. I’m only just getting started.
As Nessa lets out the last little moans, I roll over on top of her again, kissing her deeply.
I can taste her arousal. It’s rich and heady, like dark chocolate on her breath.
“You want more?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she begs.
24
Nessa
The next morning, I wake up to shouting.
The sound is distant, but my eyes pop open all the same.
I’m alone in the bed. Mikolaj is gone.
I don’t feel abandoned. For one thing, he left me in his room, when only a few days ago he chased me out of here in a rage. Things have changed between us.
I have no time to ponder on that, or to bask in pleasurable memories of the night before. I slip out of the bed, finding my panties and the nightgown. That’s ripped past repairing, so I pull on Mikolaj’s discarded shirt instead. It comes down to mid-thigh and smells like him—like cigarettes and mandarin oranges.
I hurry out of the room, down the hallway, but the argument is already finished before I can catch what it’s about. I see the doors of the billiards room thrown open, with Jonas and Andrei stalking off in one direction, and Marcel walking away in another.
I don’t see Mikolaj at all, but I’m guessing he’s still inside.
I hurry down the stairs, barefoot. I’m sure my hair is a tangled mess and I haven’t brushed my teeth. I don’t care. I need to speak with him.
Something’s happening. I can feel the tension in the air.
When I enter the billiards room, Mikolaj is standing with his back to me. He’s holding one of the balls in his hand—the eight ball. Turning it over and over in his long, flexible fingers.
“Do you play pool, Nessa?” he asks me, without turning around.
“No,” I say.
“You win by sinking all your balls before your opponent can do the same. There’s only one way to win. But there are several ways to lose. You can sink his last ball accidentally. Or sink the eight ball too soon. Or sink the eight and the cue ball at the same time.”
He sets the ball down on the felt and turns to look at me.
“Even right at the end, no matter how far ahead you might be, when you think your victory is assured, you can still lose. Sometimes because of the tiniest imperfection in the cloth. Or by your own fault. Because you got distracted.”
I understand the metaphor. But I’m not sure what point he’s trying to make. Am I the distraction? Or am I the prize, if we can make it all the way through the game without losing?
“I heard shouting,” I say. “Was it Jonas?”
Mikolaj sighs.
“Come here,” he says.
I pad over to him. He puts his hands around my waist. Then he lifts me up, sitting me on the edge of the billiards table.
He takes the ankle monitor in his hands. With one swift jerk, he snaps the band. He drops the broken pieces on the floor.
“What are you doing?” I say in surprise.
“It stopped working that night in the garden. When you hit it with a rock,” he says.
“Oh,” I blush. “I didn’t realize that.”
My leg feels strange without it. The skin feels every puff of air. I roll my foot around, experimentally.
“You won’t need it anymore. You’re going home today,” Mikolaj says.
I stare at him, shocked.
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said.”
I can’t read his face. He doesn’t look angry—but he doesn’t look happy, either. His expression is deliberately blank.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask him.
He lets out an impatient laugh.
“I thought you’d be happy,” he says.
I don’t know if I’m happy. I know that I should be, but all I seem to feel is sick confusion.
“Did you change your mind?” I say.
“About what?”
I look down at my knees, oddly embarrassed.
“About . . . wanting to marry me.”
“No.”
My heart revives, soaring upward again.
Now I do see the conflict on his face. The struggle between what he’s doing, and what he actually wants to do.
“Why are you sending me back, then?” I ask him.
“A show of good faith,” he says. “I’ll send you home. I’ll set up a meeting with your father. We can meet to negotiate. And if you want to come back to me, after that . . .”
He holds up his hand to stop me speaking.
“Don’t say anything now, Nessa. Go home. Then see how you feel.”
He thinks I only agreed last night because I’ve been trapped in his house. Because it was the only way to keep him from murdering my family.
There’s so much more to it than that. But . . . maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s impossible to think clearly when I’m here, a prisoner, with Mikolaj right in front of my face. What he’s offering me is impossibly generous—freedom and a clear head.
That’s why his men are angry. He’s giving up their bargaining piece and getting nothing in return.
“Pack up whatever you want to take,” Mikolaj says. “Marcel will drive you home.”
I feel like I’m made of paper, and I’m tearing in two.
The desire to see my family again is bright and strong.
But I don’t actually want to leave.
Last night was the most incredible experience of my life. It was dark and wild and pleasurable beyond anything I’d ever imagined.
It’s like mainlining heroin. In this house, I’m always intoxicated. I have to get away from it before I can look at anything with a sober mind.
So, I nod, without really wanting to.
“Alright,” I say. “I’ll go and pack.”
Mikolaj turns away again, his shoulders straight and broad, like a barrier I can’t cross.
As I leave the billiards room, I see Jonas and Andrei down the end of the hall, talking in low voices with their heads together. They stop when they see me, Jonas giving me the fakest of fake smiles, and Andrei glaring at me coldly.
I hurry up the stairs to the east wing. I’m relieved to see Klara in my room. Less relieved to see the suitcase she’s laid on my bed.
“I thought you’d like to take some of your new clothes with you,” she says.
“Is Jonas angry that I’m leaving?” I ask her. “He looks pissed.”
“The men will do what Mikolaj says,” Klara tells me. “He’s the boss.”
I’m not so sure. They trusted him completely when he was the cold-hearted mercenary they expected. But even I know that what he’s doing right now isn’t for the good of the Braterstwo. It’s for me.