Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(26)
Rough fingers bunch the fabric against my stomach, and blinding electricity hammers my synapses. His gypsy hands roam free, squeezing the flesh of my hips and strumming the tender flesh of my ribcage. But the beast in me isn’t satisfied. She keeps screaming for more, and my captor is so willing to oblige. He takes possession of my swollen, heavy breasts by dipping his hand inside the fabric to scrape over my nipples. My chest arches, and I cry out as I’ve just been shocked back to life.
“Zvezda.” He kisses behind my ear. “You are so lovely. So soft and sweet and pure. I want to ruin you.”
His feverish cock looms ominously against my spine, a cautionary threat to his quietly spoken words. I want him to ruin me too. I want him to crucify me. And it makes me a liar because I’m the one who’s dirty and filthy and wrong. When his hand comes to rest between my thighs, the word is already on my lips. Poisonous and intoxicating, I want to tell him yes.
But yes isn’t a fantasy. Yes is forever. The consequences of a decision made in a moment of weakness would mean nothing for him and everything for me. If he sends me back home a ruined woman, he may as well provide a coffin too.
“I can’t.” The words rush from my lips as I break from his spell and his arms. “I’m engaged to Dante.”
There isn’t another word spoken between us. Solitude is his answer.
Solitude is my life.
Nonna is a quiet, efficient worker. She does her job without complaint or emotion, and I expect that she will hand down orders as she sees fit. But when I report to the kitchen to help her as I promised, she gestures to a pile of ingredients on the center island.
“There is fruit. Butter. Eggs. Dry ingredients in the cupboard.”
“What am I making?”
“Whatever you choose,” she answers. “It’s a dinner party. So something nice.”
With these vague instructions, I’m left to transform the ingredients on the counter. Off the top of my head, I can think of a few traditional Italian desserts, but in the end, I settle on a simple tart.
The nutritionist that Nikolai hired has devoted many hours to fine tuning my food belief system. Her approach is a positive one. Nothing is off limits, but balance is key. While I rarely ate fruit before due to the sugar content, I’ve discovered recently that adding it to my meals with a small amount of protein seems to be okay. Understanding the way my body utilizes food has helped to ease some of the anxiety I faced with expanding my food selection overall.
But I am not cured, and I’m doubtful that I ever will be. Every choice is still a struggle. At every meal, I go to war with my body, fighting the urge to cave in to my demons. I’m closely monitored, and right now, it’s probably the only thing keeping me on track. Accepting that I must gain weight to be healthy is a never-ending battle. I feel better, but I hate the way I look.
When I look in the mirror now, I see a more feminine shape. Rounder hips. A fuller bust. A waist not as defined. It terrifies me. And in the back of my mind, I wonder what the director will say when he sees me. I’ve heard his comments toward other girls before, and in my fragile mental state, I don’t think I could handle his criticism.
To distract myself from toxic thoughts, I focus on my hands. Rolling crust. Chopping fruit. Baking. Cleaning. Nonna glances over her shoulder on occasion to watch me, probably wary of me having a knife at all.
“You have baked before?” she asks.
I spread jam into the pastry shell. “Yes. I cooked often at home for my father.”
She nods. We are silent again while I dump the fruit into the prepared tart and sprinkle it with icing sugar. Only when I present the finished product does she give me a hint of a smile.
“Very good. Nika will enjoy. Figs are his favorite.”
I smile too, but it’s weak. I doubt Nikolai will care what I’ve made after what happened this afternoon.
“Do you need my help with anything else?”
“No, that is all,” she says. “Perhaps go upstairs and rest now.”
I thank her and leave the kitchen. But upon entering the main room, I stop short. There is a woman at the front door. She is tall, blonde, and beautiful with legs for days and confidence I could only dream of possessing. Nikolai comes to greet her in the entryway, and she kisses him. She kisses the man who had his hands all over my body, and it feels as though someone’s just anchored a cement block around my chest.
I’m immobile. Background noise. They don’t see me as they shuffle up the stairs, but even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. I pushed him away, and now he’s giving me my just desserts. A Vor at heart, he is determined to give the final blow. His message has been received, loud and agonizingly clear.
I am not special.
I am replaceable.
The fool in me wants to believe it isn’t true. He wouldn’t do that. Not when he had his hands on my body today. Not when he whispered his confessions in my ear.
He wanted me.
Not her.
My body jerks up the stairs like a zombie. The third door on the right is my room. I should go inside and close the door and put on my headphones and think about when I get back onstage again. Only, my feet keep moving of their own accord, down the hall to his office. Cold fingers rest on the door handle, and I choke down the sour taste in my mouth.
I have no right to open this door. I have no right to care what he’s doing, and I shouldn’t want to see. Nikolai is nothing to me, and I am nothing to him. But he changed that when he touched me, and he should never have touched me at all. Because I’m turning the knob and I’m holding my breath and I don’t want to see, but my brain demands the visual for what I can already hear.