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I take the burgundy dress off the hanger and walk it over to the full-length mirror in the corner of the closet. Lights warm to life as I approach without me having to flip a switch.
I hold the garment up to my neck. It’s a darker burgundy than the one I wore that night at the Duval. It’s also a little longer, a little more modest, and the fabric is heavier. Meant to hide rather than reveal.
Fine by me.
Without thinking about it too much, I strip off my sweats and t-shirt and step into the garment. The neckline is scooped, just low enough to reveal some of my newfound pregnancy cleavage. The sleeves are non-existent. Just two thin straps that hold it up over my shoulders.
It’s not the same dress, but it’s close enough that I feel sad and listless for a moment. Which should probably be my first and second reasons for taking it off.
But I’ve always been a sucker for pain. Maybe that’s why I stayed with Adrian for as long as I did.
I feel guilty on the heels of that thought. It’s not as though it isn’t true; it just feels like a petty potshot at a man who left behind the best part of himself inside of me.
My hand floats down to my stomach. “He wasn’t all bad, all the time, you know,” I whisper to my unborn child. “He was just a little lost.”
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.
Sighing, I put on the closest shoes I can find, a pair of pale-colored ballet flats. Weirdly fitting. Then I head to the door, bracing myself for God knows what’s to come.
I have no idea what to expect. I’m not even sure who to expect. Will it be Kolya and me? Or will Milana be joining us? Her name comes out sounding snotty in my head. It’s just a juvenile outlet for my resentment about her part in the little farce in the gardens.
She-Thor is on the other side of the door waiting for me. “The master is expecting you downstairs.”
“Well, we don’t want to keep him waiting, do we?” I say sarcastically.
She doesn’t respond. Just escorts me downstairs with a firm grip on my elbow like I’m not capable of traversing steps by myself. Maybe Kolya is concerned I’ll make a run for it again.
I’ve given up on another escape attempt, though. The last one was embarrassing enough that it managed to kill my determination to run. If I’m going to make it out of this gilded cage, I’ll have to convince him to let me go.
How I’m going to do that is another question entirely.
She-Thor leads me to a formal dining room lit up with black lamps and more lighting recessed into the walls. The ivory wallpaper and thick blush curtains are warm in a way that is somehow unsettling.
But as I enter the space, I feel that imagined warmth crackle on my skin for just a moment before it turns ice-cold.
The circular dining table feels oddly placed in the rectangular room. So does the collection of men sitting around it.
None of them seem to belong to what I would call “polite society.” One is wearing a stained wifebeater and half a dozen gold chains. Another one has a diamond set in his front tooth that catches the light and a leer that makes Adrian’s cousin Salazar look like the Pope. The man sitting on Kolya’s right has only one arm, with the other cruelly severed at the elbow. The smells of this motley crew come fast and furious, too: marijuana, cigarette smoke, stale body odor, and cheap cologne.
I linger at the entrance of the room, regretting my decision to venture downstairs.
“June,” Kolya says. “Welcome. Come, take a seat.”
There’s only one seat left vacant, the one directly to his left. It’s the last place on earth I want to go, but I find myself walking meekly over to his side anyway.
He looks perfectly at ease as he gets to his feet to pull out my chair for me. He’s the only one who gets up. None of the other men seem remotely interested in making the gesture. I’m not sure some of them know there’s a gesture to make in the first place.
“What is this?” I whisper under my breath as Kolya sits down. “Why am I here?”
He looks at me with all the innocence in the world. “To eat of course.”
Then he turns his attention to the men at the table and promptly forgets I exist. I don’t get the same feeling from the other men, though. They’re painfully aware of my presence, and not in a good way. None of them seem too thrilled that I’m joining them.
The man sitting directly opposite me has the lightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, like spoiled milk—and they’re trained directly on me. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip every few seconds, snakelike and disturbing.
Kolya starts talking, but I have no idea what he’s saying. His accent is smooth, but the words are foreign to me. German? Russian, maybe?
The men’s eyes slowly shift from me to Kolya. I sit there silently, feeling completely self-conscious and completely out of my depth, as the conversation crackles around me like heat lightning.
