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I didn’t really believe that they would ever come after me. That Igor would ever think of me again after that day when there were other, bigger targets for his anger. More powerful ones.
But I discounted how much men love to hurt what they consider to be weaker than they are. How much pleasure they get out of destruction for the sake of it. What I can offer Igor is more delicious to him than money or even real revenge against the ones who are actually responsible for Pyotr’s death.
He believes he can break me. And even if he can’t, he’ll enjoy trying until he does—or until he kills me.
The thought makes me so nauseous that I have to flee to the bathroom. The marble tile is cold under my knees as I vomit until my stomach is empty, until there’s nothing but burning acid searing along my throat. Then I rest my head against the lip of the porcelain, squeezing my eyes tightly shut and willing myself not to cry. I don’t want to give Igor, or anyone else here, the satisfaction of seeing the traces of my tears.
I want a shower, but the idea of stripping naked makes me feel as if I’m going to have a panic attack, so I go and sit on the bed instead. I alternate between pacing and sitting, until a knock comes at the door, and I hear the lock turn. A pretty blonde woman in a black uniform—undoubtedly a maid—walks in with a stack of clothes.
“Mr. Lasilov believes these will be your size,” she says primly. “If they’re not, you may call down and ask for something else to be brought up for you. Someone else will go out and get them,” she adds, as if I could possibly be laboring under any impression that I would get to go out and buy my own clothes. I almost burst into laughter, but I don’t want to frighten her, so I swallow it back.
I can see the tension under her prim exterior, the fear that I’ll say or do something that could cause trouble that will fall back on her. Every woman in this house is a potential victim, a scapegoat for male rage. I’ll have to be careful, now and in the future, to make sure that I do nothing to bring down Igor’s rage on the women working here. That I don’t give him an excuse to hurt them instead of me.
“Thank you,” I manage. I want to ask her name, but I don’t dare. If she’s not volunteering it, there’s probably a reason. I doubt Igor wants me on friendly terms with anyone in the household.
She manages a small, stiff smile, bobs her head, and scurries out of the room. I hear the lock turn behind her, sealing me back inside.
I approach the stack of clothes on the bed. I’m not surprised that my jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt don’t pass muster for what Igor expects me to wear in his house. But I intend to keep them on for as long as possible. At some point, I have no doubt, I’ll be compelled to put on what he’s sent me. I see a few dresses, floaty tops, and what looks like a pair of stylish cigarette pants. A pair of heels lying on top of the pile. I sit down on the edge of the bed next to the clothes, eyeing them as if they might bite. The thought of Igor seeing me in anything that bares my skin to him at all makes shivers run down my spine.
But once again, I know I have no choice. Just as I have no choice when, a few hours later, there’s another hard knock at the door, and three men walk inside.
Instantly, panic crawls over me, like a thousand ants biting at my skin. Two of the men are Bratva guards, and they station themselves on either side of the door, eyes straight ahead, as if they’ve been instructed not to look at me no matter how much they might want to. The third, I assume, is the doctor.
He’s wearing normal clothing—slacks and a button-down, thinning grey hair combed backward. There’s a medical bag in his hand, and he looks at me with a cool impassivity that I think is meant to calm me down. To let me know that he’s not here for his own interests. He’s just doing a job.
It doesn’t help. I can already feel my hands starting to shake, and I tangle them together in my lap, trying not to let the shaking spread. I don’t want him to see how terrified I am. I don’t want anyone to see.
He seems to pick up on it, anyway. His cool, assessing gaze slides over me, without lust or lasciviousness, and then he glances back at the two Bratva men. “Wait outside,” he says curtly, and one of the men looks at him.
“The pakhan told us to remain in the room.”
The doctor’s eyes narrow. “And I will not examine her unless you wait outside. So unless you would like to tell Mr. Lasilov what will cause this to take longer, wait outside. You can stand just outside the door, for all I care. Directly in front of it, if you please. But the young lady deserves some privacy.”
The guard looks at me then, and a small, cruel smile curves the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t need to speak for me to hear what he’s thinking—we might see it all anyway, soon enough. But he nods, the threat of having to go and tell Igor that there’s a holdup enough to send him and the second guard out of the room, the door closing firmly behind them. I know there’s still no escape—there’s absolutely no doubt that they’re still just outside. I wouldn’t make it far. And then they would stay and watch.
The doctor looks at me, and I think I see a flicker of sympathy in his face. Not much, but enough for me to know he’ll take no pleasure in this. It doesn’t make it any easier to face, although I think he’s hoping that it will.
“I’m Dr. Maglin,” he says calmly. “You are Bella D’Amelio?”
I nod, my fingers clenching together until I can feel my knuckles turning white. I can’t speak. If I do, I think I might fall apart. This man, this strange man, is going to touch me. And even though I know it’s not for his own pleasure, even though I know he would prefer not to, it still makes me feel as if I’m going to come apart at the seams, thinking about it.
“I’m sorry,” he says apologetically. “But I need you to take off all of your clothing, and lie back on the bed.”
For a moment, I wonder what would happen if I just let myself shatter. If I stopped trying to be strong, if I stopped holding myself together at the seams with breaking fingernails, and just let it all go. If I screamed, if I cried, if I let myself fall apart and turn into a madwoman, if I let it all come crashing down. I’ve been through enough. I’ve endured enough. I shouldn’t have to endure anymore.
The thought of Gabriel is all that saves me. The thought that he might still come for me, however much I know I shouldn’t wish for it and however much I know that he shouldn’t try, makes me take a deep, shuddering breath, and reach for the hem of my shirt. Because I don’t want him to try to save me, only to find that I’ve broken for good.
Dr. Maglin turns his back as I start to undress, a gesture that I can’t find in myself to appreciate just now, although I know it’s a kind one. He’s doing his best to make this easier for me, but there’s not really much he can do when he’s about to violate me anyway, regardless of how kind and professional he’s trying to be about it.
By the time I get my jeans off, my hands are shaking so badly that I can barely undo the clasp of my bra. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, fighting back tears. My throat feels like it’s closing up, a constant shudder running over my skin in ripples, like the twitching of a fly-bitten horse. The pressure in my chest is unbearable. I’m on the verge of having a panic attack, and I’m holding on by the barest of threads.
My bra drops to the floor, draped over the stack of clothes that I moved, and I swallow hard, almost choking as I push my panties over my hips. Trembling like a leaf, I lie back against the pillows, my legs pressed tightly together as I stare up at the ceiling.
I don’t say anything. I can’t. If I say a single word, I think I’ll scream. But Dr. Maglin must have heard the shifting of the bed, because he turns, approaching me with his eyes carefully on my face.
It doesn’t matter. He’s going to touch me everywhere else.
“I’m going to need to give you a full examination,” he says calmly. “Lie still, Miss D’Amelio, and it will be over soon.”
