Lucy takes the glass of water from her. “Thank you.”
Another tap sounds at the door, and Oleg steps in, carrying the pregnancy massage table I purchased today. Natasha, our resident massage therapist, traipses in after him, carrying a basket of supplies and beaming at me. She’s delighted I bought this new table for her use and will be requiring daily massages for my captive.
Her English is perfect—the twenty-five year old grew up in America—but she puts on a great act, turning to Lucy and offering a stream of Russian. “Hello, you must be Lucy. Congratulations on your pregnancy. I’m so delighted to support you through it. I work with a lot of pregnant women because my mom is a midwife.”
Lucy’s brow furrows.
“This is Natasha, your massage therapist.”
Lucy takes a step back, recoiling. “Oh no. No. Thank you, but I must decline.”
I arch a brow. She was so willing to accept pleasure from my fingers earlier, I didn’t expect resistance now. I’m not sure whether to be flattered that she enjoys my touch so much or dismayed that she’s unwilling to accept this simple pleasure I can provide her.
“I want the stress of your change in residence erased,” I say firmly. “The baby should not suffer simply because his parents are at war.”
“I said no,” Lucy says, just as firmly. “I don’t like massages.”
“Why not, kotyonok?”
She eyes Natasha. “Is it even safe during pregnancy?”
“Natasha’s mother is a midwife. She massages pregnant women all the time. She knows exactly what you need.”
Natasha bobs her head, dutifully. “Tell her I have a special certification for pregnancy and lymphatic massage, as well as hot stone massage, reflexology, acupressure, tui na, cranial sacral, reiki, trigger point, watsu, Zero Balancing and Access Bars. If she’s nervous, I can just do an off the body energy healing today.”
I translate the jist of that to English for Lucy, who sucks her lower lip against her teeth as if she’s uncertain. The fact that she doesn’t like being touched by a stranger shouldn’t surprise me. It does make me feel a bit smug about how easily she surrendered to me in her apartment. I didn’t expect her to. It had been harder to coax a response from her at Black Light, and this time, we were at odds with each other. Maybe she has thought fondly about me.
“You will enjoy the massage,” I say firmly. “Lie on the table and relax. From now on, I will take care of your needs.”
“I need to sleep in my own bed,” she snaps. “I need my freedom.”
“And I need to keep you close,” I say smoothly, stopping to turn at the door. “It’s a compromise.”
She snorts. “One-sided concessions aren’t compromises, Ravil.”
I give her a dangerous smile. I like when her claws come out. “The past five months in the dark were my concession. This is how you repay me.”
I see her ice mask slip as I shut the door, and I smirk.
My plan is going exactly as intended.
Lucy
A gorgeous penthouse suite with views of Lake Michigan, an in-suite massage and chocolates. What’s to complain about?
Nothing if I weren’t a prisoner. If it weren’t all being forced on me by a mad man.
But no, that’s wrong. Ravil’s not crazy. He’s playing a game here. Teaching me a lesson. It’s a soft lesson, no doubt because I’m pregnant. Any stress he inflicts on me goes directly to our child.
I’m grateful he at least understands that much.
He’s not a mad man.
I look at the pretty red-headed massage therapist. She has strawberry blonde hair and pale, unfreckled skin. I’d guess her to be in her mid-twenties.
I’m dubious about her skills. Can I trust that the training and certification in Russia is the same as here? Does she really know how to massage a pregnant woman safely?
But other than the language barrier, she appears perfectly capable. Looks American, even, with her short-shorts and cap-sleeved tee, a bird’s wing tattooed on her biceps.
She sets up her table, which has foam pull-outs for my breasts and belly, and drapes it with two sheets. I stand and watch her awkwardly. I can’t let go of the nagging feeling that something bad is going to happen to me although she seems perfectly trustworthy.
But, of course, I am a prisoner to the head of the Chiciago bratva, so that feeling isn’t unwarranted.
She chatters at me in Russian, her smile easy and comforting. She walks to the en suite bathroom and pulls the door shut, gesturing to the covered table and me like she’s giving me instructions. After she shuts herself inside, I realize she’s waiting for me to undress and climb on the table.
I close my eyes and force myself to exhale. Screw it.
I might as well enjoy. If Ravil wants to counteract the stress he inflicted with a massage, I shouldn’t be spiteful enough to cut off my own nose.
I pull off my dress and bra. My panties are still on the floor of my apartment, a thought that makes me grind my teeth now. I shouldn’t have let him do those things to me.
You wanted them, a little voice whispers.
And it’s true. Even now, just taking off my clothes in Ravil’s room has me wet. As if my body knows it will finally get the attention it so desperately craves.
And that attention wasn’t a massage.
But I sure as hell am going to enjoy this one. I climb under the top sheet and arrange myself face-down on the table, lining my belly up with the available gap.
Natasha taps on the door and cracks it open, asking something in Russian.
I murmur into the face cradle.
Spa music starts up from some speaker she’s set on the dresser.
I suddenly wish she spoke English. I want to pump her for information about Ravil. How long she’s known him, how he treats his hired help, what he’s like. Anything there is to verify or refute the ideas I already have about him.
The image of him choking the man at Black Light pops into my mind again.
Ravil is violent. He threatened to cut the man’s tongue out if he spoke disrespectfully about me again.
But he was gentle with me.
Far more gentle than most of the doms I saw scening with their subs at Black Light. There were no canes and heavy whips. He left no marks on my skin nor did he humiliate me much. More than that, he was measured. Controlled. He took in my responses and adjusted accordingly. We’d existed inside the same version of reality.
This is the same internal debate I’ve had every time I had second thoughts about my decision not to tell him about the pregnancy. Whether he deserved to know. Whether it was safe for him to know.
It certainly doesn’t feel safe now.
I can’t decide if that means I made the right or wrong choice in keeping this from him. Would he have been reasonable if I’d been straightforward and honest from the beginning. Or was this strong-arming inevitable?
I hear the snap of a lid and the rubbing of Natasha’s palms together, and then she makes contact. I flinch at first. Until Ravil’s earlier assault—seduction—whatever, I hadn’t been touched in months. Certainly not in a way that’s pleasurable. Sure, I hug my mom once a week when I meet her at Dad’s rehab center, but that’s about it.
My muscles bunch and tighten under her slow strokes, but eventually, I relax. She soothes my jumpy nerves, and the tension releases little by little. She’s good. Very good. She doesn’t dig in deep and kill me working out knots, but she finds them all, nonetheless, and somehow gently coaxes them out of their contraction.