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I tense, stiff and shaking. He takes my silence as acquiescence, and opens his bag.
The start of it is innocuous enough. A light in my eyes, checking my pupils’ dilation. His gloved hand touches my mouth, making me flinch as he checks my teeth. His hands begin their methodical exploration of my body, and I clench my jaw as they move over my breasts, down my ribs, palpating my stomach. I try not to think of Gabriel’s hands on me, slow and sensual and full of restrained desire, because I don’t want those memories marred with this. Even the possibility of slipping away from this brief horror isn’t worth tainting what good I have left to remember.
When his hand slips between my legs, I feel tears start to roll down my cheeks. I should have known, repeats over and over in my head, as I try to go somewhere else, somewhere far away from what’s happening to me, with every touch and instruction. I should have known better than to hope for something different.
The feeling of Dr. Maglin patting my thigh jolts me out of my dissociation, and I sink my teeth into my lip to stop a scream. I taste blood as I slowly open my eyes, and see him stripping off his gloves.
“You can get dressed, Miss D’Amelio,” he says calmly, closing his medical bag. I scramble up to a sitting position, pulling my knees into my chest and wrapping my arms around myself, before I realize that any minute now, the guards are going to come back in and see me like this.
I reach for my clothes, tugging them on as quickly as possible. The doctor says nothing else to me as he walks to the door, rapping on it once and waiting for the click of the lock before opening it. He doesn’t look back at me as he leaves, and I let out a shuddering breath as I tug my long-sleeved t-shirt back on, still trembling from head to toe.
The maid that I saw earlier ducks back in, her eyes not quite meeting mine. “You should shower and dress in something that I brought up for you,” she says quickly, glancing in the direction of the pile of clothes. “Mr. Lasilov has said that you will join him for dinner.”
There’s no point in arguing. The maid disappears, and I hear the lock click again. The fear of stripping down for a shower has been replaced by the horror of the doctor’s examination. I slip into the bathroom, locking the door behind me as I undress and turn on the hot water.
Everything in the bathroom is luxuriously appointed, for all that, it’s effectually a prison. The towels are soft and thick, the toiletries are designer, in rich scents of jasmine and lavender. I step under the hot water and close the glass door of the shower behind me, the interior of it steaming and hiding me away for a little while as the glass goes opaque.
There’s no razor to shave with, I notice—Igor must have been concerned about the possibility of giving me such an easy out. I go through the rest of the motions of showering: scrubbing myself until my skin feels pink and raw—though it’s impossible to shake loose the feeling of the doctor’s hands on me—and washing my hair. I stand in the hot water for a long time, until it starts to run cool, trying to find options for myself and coming up with none.
The fear of what’s going to happen to me is a constant, living thing, pulsing in my veins as I try to keep it under control. I dry off with the plush towels and wrap my wet hair up in one, wrapping another tightly around myself as I go to sort through the stack of clothing that the maid brought me.
I settle on the pair of black cigarette pants that come to my ankles, and a sky-blue silk top with a bow at the throat and cap sleeves. It leaves my arms bare, but covers most of my chest, and that matters more to me right now. There’s a pair of white lace underwear in the pile, and I wince as I see it, my skin crawling at the thought of what it might mean—Igor’s hope for a virginal bride who can replace his lost heir for him, in time.
Putting the clothes on makes me feel sick to my stomach, but I know this isn’t the battle I should pick to fight. I know it will matter which battles I choose, and if there’s a hill I’m going to die on, it shouldn’t be this one. In the end, capitulating to Igor’s requests for ‘appropriate’ clothing and dinner will do nothing more than appease him—which I need to do, if I want to survive whatever comes next.
Rebellion and strength are not always the same thing, I’ve found.
I dry my hair, letting it fall loose down my back and air-dry until a knock comes at the door sometime later. By then, my hair is dried, thick and shiny, and I put it up atop my head in a loose bun. No jewelry was provided for me, so I slip my feet into the black, red-bottomed, high-heeled pumps that were left with the clothing, and follow the guards down the stairs.
I’m led to another lavishly appointed room, a huge, formal dining room with a mahogany table that could easily seat twenty guests. The floor is marble, and the chandelier hanging above the table is gold and crystal. I wonder if Igor is aware that he’s made himself into a fairytale villain, the evil king who steals the princess and demands her hand in marriage.
The only problem is—I don’t know if my prince is coming to save me. I don’t know if he should, considering the potential cost.
Igor is already at the head of the table, his iron-grey hair neatly combed, and wearing a fresh, dark-grey suit. He looks at me as I walk in, gesturing for me to sit to his right, where a china place setting has already been arranged for me. There’s a decanter of red wine between the two settings—his and mine—and Igor pours us both a glass as I sit down, my back stiff and straight and my hands folded in my lap.
“Try the wine,” Igor says calmly, as if I were an ordinary guest at an ordinary dinner. “It’s from Argentina. Really quite good.”
I reach for the glass, trying to keep my hand from trembling. I could use the wine, honestly, to get through the evening, and this is one offer I’m not inclined to refuse.
He remains silent as a maid comes in with a cart, setting out the first courses. A mixed-greens salad studded with dried berries, gorgonzola, and a creamy dressing, a bowl of what looks like a rich tomato bisque swirled with thick cream and a spicy sauce, and a plate of thinly shaved beef carpaccio, sprinkled with green onions and surrounding a small china dish of what looks like a sort of mustard.
Igor spreads his hands magnanimously. “I told my cook to prepare all her best dishes. You’ll be astonished at the main course, Bella. Eat up.” He motions to the food. “You’re a bit on the thin side, I think.”
In that, he’s not wrong—I’ve worked hard to put on weight and muscle in the last couple of months, since I recovered enough from the shock of my almost-wedding to Pytor to get out of bed and start to try to recuperate. But I’m still thin, and I’m also hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast this morning, after my run, and those calories are long since gone.
Still, the swirling nerves in my stomach and burgeoning nausea make it hard to do more than take small, dainty bites of the salad and sips of the soup as I wait for Igor to tell me what it is that he plans to do with me. I don’t dare venture to try the beef at all.
Igor puts several strips onto a small plate, dipping a piece into the mustard and chewing thoughtfully. He takes a bite of his soup, and another, drinks the wine—and it takes me a moment to realize that he’s drawing this out on purpose, extending my fear, making me wait to find out my fate. He’s taking pleasure in this, and that’s enough to kill what remains of my appetite, despite the undeniable deliciousness of the food.
I drag my spoon through my soup, biting my lip. Igor glances over at me, chewing another piece of the beef at length before drawing in a long breath, and turning to look at me.
“Dr. Maglin has informed me that you are no longer a virgin.” His voice and expression betray nothing—he says it flatly, without any hint as to how that affects my fate. “I had a feeling. But of course, you wouldn’t tell me.” He smirks, reaching for his wine. “You could have avoided that whole nasty business with Dr. Maglin, if you’d only been honest with me, Bella.”
“I don’t believe you,” I tell him, as evenly as I can manage, although there’s a tremor in my voice that I can’t entirely hide. But it’s true—I don’t. “I think you would have had him examine me no matter what. Because you enjoy my humiliation, if nothing else.”
Igor chuckles, lifting one shoulder in a shrug as he takes another sip of the wine. “Well, you’ll never know now, will you? Perhaps you could have kept your modesty here a little longer. Or perhaps not.” He smiles cruelly, setting the glass down again. “As to the matter of your innocence—or lack thereof, I suppose?—”
He lets out a heavy sigh, drawing out the moment a little longer. I feel the heavy drop in my stomach, at the thought of being sent out to his men after this. At the idea that this might be a last supper of sorts, a final meal before he throws me to his dogs. He did say, after all, that he only wanted to marry me if I were still a virgin.
