Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(25)
“The doctor will be here in thirty minutes,” she reminds me.
“Thank you. I’ll be ready.”
I trudge up the stairs to my room and set the bags down on the bed. The mystery of what’s inside gets the best of me, and when I peek, my breath falters.
Ballet clothes.
He bought me ballet clothes. Tights, leotards, wraps, leg warmers. Everything I could possibly need to return to my practice with renewed vigilance. Something thaws inside my chest, and I realize when a wave of emotion crashes over me that this is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.
It seems paradoxical when he was the one to ruin my clothes in the first place, but my father never bought me clothes. Dante never bought me clothes. I was given an allowance to shop online, and every item I owned was chosen by me personally. Nothing was ever gifted. It’s a new experience trying on clothing that someone else chose for me. I’m left to wonder what went through his mind when he picked each piece out. If he imagined the way they would look on my body. If he felt anything at all when he contemplated colors or sizes or fabrics.
The clothing is beautiful. Every piece is expensive and well made. But my favorite is the pale pink chiffon leotard dress. It’s light and flowy and pretty. When I try it on, I don’t want to take it off.
Inside another bag, I find a pair of pointe shoes with a note taped to them.
For later.
My heart squeezes, and I have to take a moment to process this turn of events. I’m not na?ve enough to believe that Nikolai cares one way or the other if I ever dance professionally again, but this feels like hope. It feels like someone believes in me, and I haven’t had that for a very long time.
I don’t know how he determined my sizes, but it seems like he went through a lot of trouble to do this for me, so the least I can do is thank him properly. I sit down on the vanity bench and slip the pointes on to get a feel for them before I start my work. Every pair needs to be modified to fit perfectly, but not every pair needs the same adjustments. I can only ever tell by walking in them, which is what I intend to do now.
Traveling the length of the hall, I throw in a petit jeté along the way. My ankle is weak, and even though the brace is gone, it still hurts to land on it. But I am feeling much more like myself again, if only for having the impediment gone.
Nikolai is absent from his office, so I use the opportunity to float around the hallway, tossing in small movements as I go. The shoes need work, but so do I. When I reach the end of the carpeted rug, it occurs to me that I’ve landed on the threshold of his bedroom. It should come as no surprise when I find him there watching me, but it does.
“You were supposed to go slow.” There is a hint of a smile on his face.
“I was just testing them. The shoes will need to be molded to my feet. I have no intention of going too fast.”
“I should hope not,” he says. “Another injury—”
“Thank you for the clothing,” I blurt.
His eyes move over the pink fabric before pausing to linger on my breasts. They have swollen over the past month, and I’m suddenly aware of the way they tug at my leotard. The house is always cold, and it’s always obvious. I should have worn a wrap, but I was so eager to test out my shoes that it didn’t occur to me until now.
“You forgot to remove the tag,” Nikolai informs me with a gruff voice. “Turn around, and I will do it.”
I obey, even though it would be easy enough to do it myself. A small part of me wants to feel his fingers against the fabric. To experience a man’s touch. It’s not something I thought I could ever want for, but sometimes, I wonder what it would feel like to be touched by a man. As men go, Nikolai falls in the top percent of his red-blooded class. From his Herculean build to his wild hair and sharp cheekbones, he is a deity among the male species. A mortal casted in the image of a Greek god.
And that would make me his concubine.
The idea makes me shudder as his strong, calloused fingers skim the hem of the fabric against my shoulder blade before dipping to remove the tag. I don’t feel a tug, but there’s an audible snap. Aware that he is using a knife against the sensitive flesh of my back, I should be wary, but I find that I’m not.
The deed is done, but he’s in no hurry to tell me so. Goose bumps skitter over my arms when he sweeps my long hair over my shoulder and traces along one of the shoulder straps.
“You should not have come here like this.” His breath tickles the base of my neck, bathing me in warmth and cinnamon.
I can’t find my words. Not when he’s behind me, close enough to touch. Close enough that his body brushes against mine and his scent stirs between us. Traces of warm leather and cloves soak the air … and something else I can’t quite identify. Acrylic paint maybe?
His fingers graze the length of my arm, and it’s not an accident. It’s no accident when he draws me closer, molding me to his body. He buries his nose against my throat, inhaling me, and it opens a flood of warmth between my thighs. I sag into him, a drunken awareness hijacking my senses. I’m comatose, strung out in his arms, and for the first time in my life, I don’t care. I want more.
I want to live before I die.
He will be the one to lure me to my quietus. Lulling me to an eternal sleep with his languid kisses against the space where my blood runs warm. For now, I am a slave to his touch. A servant to his commands. Another doll for his collection. Pretty and untainted by anyone but him.