Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(12)
These thoughts are dismissed the moment I realize the absurdity of them.
“Until you can show some respect for my hospitality, you are to remain in this room.”
Her brows draw together, and she pulls the sheet tight around her, obscuring her hardened nipples and white camisole from my view. “What did I do to disrespect you?”
“It’s your body you are disrespecting.” I gesture to her willowy form beneath the blankets. “I have provided you with three nourishing meals a day, and you choose to waste them or deposit the contents in the toilet?”
Her eyes widen, and her hair falls loosely around her face when she shakes her head. She is embarrassed, and she is a liar.
“I forbid you to use the gym until you can show me that you have learned to eat properly.”
“You can’t do that,” she cries out. “I’m still rehabilitating.”
Desperation claws at her features, transforming her from a sleeping beauty to a simpering child. Whatever relief existed before has now morphed into hatred. It’s better this way. She should hate me, and she should know better than to defy me.
“The doctor will come to your room to continue physical therapy, but you can forget dancing until you are healed.”
Her lip quivers, and for the first time, I think I might see real tears from her. This girl
is skilled at hiding her true emotions, but this seems to be the thing that will break her. How she can cling to something so violently troubles me deeply. It isn’t normal behavior. Certainly not for someone who was aware that she would be forced to give it up once she married. Her reaction only fills my head with more questions and doubts, but I can’t give voice to them.
I’ve established the boundaries, and I’m prepared to leave her to her sorrow, but she is not willing to let it go so easily.
“It was you,” she sneers. “Wasn’t it?”
I arch an eyebrow at her, waiting patiently to hear the crime I am accused of.
“I have gone over it so many times,” she says. “The events of that night. It’s no coincidence that you showed up to take me away the same day someone sabotaged my shoes.”
I smile at her na?vety. “That would be the easiest thing to believe, I suppose. Wouldn’t it?”
“It’s the truth,” she insists.
“Ahhh but, Nakya, the truth is I think you know who sabotaged your shoes. I had nothing to gain by doing so, and I would have taken you regardless. But I was not the one who wanted you to give up nonsensical dreams, so you could marry in the traditional way.”
Her lips slam shut, and she doesn’t say another word on the subject. But it’s just as well.
I’ve made my point.
With the light of morning comes a renewed sense of hope. When I slip from my bed, the house is quiet, and my breakfast is waiting on the dressing table. Everything is as it should be. I’m confident that when I walk to the door and turn the knob, I will laugh at the absurdity of my dreams last night.
But the knob doesn’t move regardless of how I turn it because it wasn’t a dream and he’s locked me in here. My palms lock into fists at my sides, and I resist the urge to slam them against the door.
I have always been a prisoner, and in that regard, nothing has changed. But the cruelty lies in the small taste of freedom Nikolai granted me before he snatched it away. He thinks he can alter my strength of will by challenging me in this way, but he doesn’t know that I’ve already walked the streets of hell and dealt with devils worse than him.
His attempt to blame what happened on my father or Dante is weak and pathetic. He is a liar and a thief, and there is no honor in his word. I refuse to believe anything other than what’s obvious. As my mother always used to tell me, the simplest answer is usually the correct one.
The room isn’t ideal, but I can still make the situation work. I can continue to practice and work on strengthening my ankle. But now that I’m aware of Nikolai’s intentions, I must stay ahead of them.
I chop up my breakfast to dirty up the plate. It’s a trick I learned long ago, and it’s never failed me yet. When I’m done, I scrape all but a few small remnants into the toilet and flush with a resounding sense of victory. This has always been the one area of my life where I’ve had complete control, and I’m not about to let him change that.
With the ruse complete, I take to the floor for warm-ups before moving on to some makeshift barre exercises in the closet. For the entirety of the day, it’s rinse and repeat. Work and rest. Work and rest. When my body breaks down and can go no further, I take a small amount of nourishment to fill my tank. Sometimes, when I go too far, I purge it all back up with a healthy dose of self-hatred.
It’s a cycle I learned from watching my mother as a child. I once heard her mention that my father thought she was fat, and that was why he didn’t love her. In a drunken slurry of words, she uttered something I could never forget. You have to stay pretty, Tana. You must be pretty and thin, so love won’t evade you too. It scared me to witness her breakdowns, and I decided at a young age that she was probably right. The best ballerinas were thin and pretty, and I wanted to be loved just like them.
Some might say it’s not healthy, but until Nikolai, nobody has ever complained about my eating habits. He has falsely deluded himself into staking a claim over my body. The body I have worked so hard for. He can have my life. My freedom. Even my hours in the day. But he will never have my body.