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“So, you don’t like the color. If it was black silk, would it be more palatable?” he asks curiously.
“Maybe. I’d rather have my own clothes from my own closet though.”
“My wife will never again be dressed in threadbare rags. I can indulge the color palette, but I will not allow you to dress like you’re homeless.”
“I am homeless,” I cry. “This isn’t my home, and apparently all my stuff is gone. You may not want to admit it, but I am homeless, so who cares what I wear?”
“You’re not homeless. If you do not want to think of this place as your home yet, I can understand that. But this house is as much yours as it is mine, Lev, and Vik’s. You are my wife, you are Alena Belov now and you can hate it all you want, but that won’t change anything.”
“Alena Belov doesn’t exist, neither does Alena Polakoff. If I ever was her, I stopped before I was even old enough to know what my name was. I’m Alabama Delany, and even though you forged the paperwork, I’m not your wife.”
“Alena is a beautiful name,” he says, pulling back the comforter, tipping his head and gesturing for me to climb in.
“Beautiful or not. It’s not my name,” I argue, sighing as I lift one knee onto the mattress.
“I will endeavor to call you Alabama,” he says so formally, I have to stop myself from giggling.
“You could always call me Ali, a few people back home used to,” I suggest, crawling all the way across the bed and lying down on the edge.
“I will try,” he says, the bed dipping as he climbs in behind me.
Even though he warned me he intended to hold me while we sleep, I still tense, going stock still the moment he settles behind me, his arm curling around my waist and pulling me tight into the curve of his body.
“Relax, you have my word, I won’t touch you inappropriately.”
He’s so close, his breath warms the back of my neck, but I nod, unsure why I believe him, but I do.
“Sweet dreams, Malishka.”
I don’t speak back, but I do exhale and try to make my muscles relax. I don’t intend to fall asleep, but it’s warm in his arms, feeling the rise and fall of his chest behind me. It’s still night when the sound of the door opening wakes me. Blinking in the darkness, I look up and find Viktor standing in the doorway, the light from the main bedroom behind him bright enough for me to know it’s him.
He doesn’t step any further into the room, just stands in the doorway and looks down at the bed. I don’t know if he can tell I’m awake, but he stares right at me. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, then turns and leaves, closing the door behind him.
Sleep drags me under again, and the next time I wake up, sunlight is pouring into the room and I’m alone in Dimitri’s bed. Rubbing at my eyes, I lift my head and look around, taking in the details I didn’t notice last night. The huge bedroom suite must take up the entire floor, because despite there being windows and a balcony leading off the orgy part of the room, there’s still a huge window in this room that I hadn’t seen when it had been dark.
Pushing off the covers, I realize something has been placed on the bottom of the bed. Sitting up, I spot a pair of dark-blue denim shorts, and a cream knit halter top. It’s not black, or grungy, or from my own closet, but it’s not pink, silk, or floral.
Lifting up the shorts, I find a scrap of black silk and a note beneath them. Picking up the note first, I roll my eyes when I read what’s written on it.
PRISONERS WEAR WHAT THEY’RE TOLD.
D X
Scoffing lightly, I pick up the black fabric next. It’s a thong, that’s so small, I might as well not bother wearing any underwear. But the silk feels so soft against my fingers that I find myself sliding off the pair of boxers I stole from Dimitri yesterday, and slipping the thong on instead.
The fabric kind of ends up stuck between my butt cheeks, but the string is so thin, I can’t really feel it. I know his note is intended to be snarky and sarcastic, but having him lay out clothes for me to wear is easier than going into that closet full of designer outfits and picking something.
Wearing what I’m told to wear means that I’m not choosing to be okay with being here. It makes me feel more like the prisoner I told them I want to be. It makes the lump of guilt in my chest from sleeping in Dimitri’s bed with him dissolve a little.
I’m not agreeing to any of this. I’m just doing what I always do. I’m surviving.
The shorts fit like a second skin, and I try not to think too hard about them watching me carefully and for long enough to know what clothes size I am. The shirt is sort of like a soft, thin knit, bikini top, lined with fabric on the triangles that cover my breasts, so my nipples aren’t popping out.
At the back of my mind, I know the clothes I’m wearing probably cost more than the entire contents of my closet back home, but they’re much closer to my personal style than anything else I saw when I glanced at all the pastel colored confections hanging on the rail.
Once I’m dressed, I need to pee, so I explore the room a little, finding an attached bathroom and quickly using it. When I open the shutters on the windows, I’m surprised to find that it’s actually a door that leads out onto a balcony. The door is unlocked, so I cautiously open it, feeling the heat of the morning sun hit me the moment I step out of the house.
Glancing to the left, I spot two matching doors that open onto the balcony and to the right, it curves around the side of the building. Following it to the right, I end up on the wider balcony that’s accessible from the main orgy room doors. When I came out here the first night there was a guard standing on the ground below. Moving to the wall, I peer down and find a different guard standing in the same spot, his gun just as visible as the other guard’s had been.
