Bond to Break (Stolen Obsessions #4)

15. Katya

CHAPTER 15

KATYA

No one has been at my door all day, and despite the utter lack of entertainment, I’m nearly happy and almost comfortable. My thoughts have taken on a dreamlike quality, and while I don’t feel normal or right, this is something close to pleasant. Of course that has to come to an end, and it makes sense that it’s time for her to feed me again, but my heart still sinks as a set of fingers drum across the door, and a key turns in the lock.

My heart rate picks up, and I truly dread what she might say this time. I know it’s stupid to care what someone has to say after everything I’ve been through, but I’m raw and nearly see-through, too hurt to compartmentalize mean comments that I tend to agree with. She’s like the voice of the devil on my shoulder, right there to agree with me that I’m awful and irredeemable.

The door opens a moment later, and she comes in with food like I expected, but my mouth falls open when I find that behind her follows all six foot five of Fyodor. She has nothing nasty to say to me this time, simply dropping off the food and leaving before he steps into the room. The room seems to be of average size up until that moment, and then it shrinks down to a closet where only the two of us fit.

A third person behind him, a man with gray hair and a doctor’s coat, closes the door behind himself. He looks up at me with a smile and a wave. He radiates a calm bedside manner, and I don’t understand why he’s here. Hasn’t he gotten the memo that I’m not treated like a person?

I push myself up in the bed and settle my back against the headboard. I didn’t realize just how soaked with sweat the sheets are, but I don’t dare ask to change them or where a spare set might be. I shoot an angry look at Fyodor, which he questions with a raised brow. Did he ask her to be especially mean to me to keep me in line? It wasn’t necessary. I’m actually feeling fairly grateful to him, and despite my best intentions, my lower lip sticks out in a small pout.

I really hope he doesn’t think I smell like a whorehouse.

“Are you well, Kotyonok?”

It doesn’t sound like the standard formality but an actual inquiry into my well-being. Natalia was the last person to ask, and she proved quickly enough that she didn’t mind turning her back on me. I still don’t know if she was informed of Scott’s plan. How can I know whether to hate her or not when I don’t know if she’s clueless, a victim, or some weird third option where she’s still a victim even though she knows what kind of things he does?

Am I not just as bad, though? I watched Fyodor shoot Franco between his eyes without hesitation or remorse. He rubbed his dick with the same hand, a fine spray of blood still decorating his knuckles. My cheeks turn pink, and my stomach falls out as I remember the last time Fyodor was in this room in excruciatingly vivid detail. Of course, the first time I see him again, we have an audience, and I have to feel even more ridiculous about my reaction to the tension between us. Tension he made perfectly clear last night is one-sided.

“I’m fine,” I answer him several beats too late, and he stares at me like he’s trying to figure out how I’m lying.

Why did his cock have to be so impressive? You can’t tell a man like that shit. He’s lived his life with power and a cock like a python. It doesn’t even matter if he’s wrong. He’ll just pull out his cock and show it to anyone who questions him. I’m outmatched to the point of hopelessness. How humiliating is it that he intended to teach me a lesson by showing me his cock and succeeded?

“You don’t seem fine.”

I’m not fucking fine. I wish I could pretend he didn’t make the impression he meant to by showing me his cock, but he did. The guilt nearly eats me alive. I never saw Pietro’s . What would he think of me obsessing over another man like this?

“Good evening, Katya,” the doctor interrupts. “I’m Dr. Lipovsky, your new orthopedist.”

I hide my pain as I look up to fake a smile at the doctor.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I lie, putting on a sweeter tone than I’ve used with Fyodor since the beginning. Fyodor has never given me a true reason to fear him. For all the violence and threats, he hasn’t harmed me, but something tells me his patience will fade rather quickly if I disrespect him in front of an audience. A man in his station can’t abide that, and I don’t feel like being rude to his guests enough to get the shit slapped out of me.

“Mr. Domalochego says you’re a dancer, and you’re looking to get back to it as quickly as possible. I have your records from the hospital, and I’d like to examine you.”

My lungs freeze. He told him what exactly? I never said anything about wanting to dance again. I can’t dance again.

The doctor looks at me, waiting for me to respond, but I’m still reeling over the suggestion that he’s here to whip me into shape so that I might dance. Does Fyodor think I’m going to be a ballerina again? No wonder he didn’t want to fuck me. I’m not a pet, I’m a doll.

Fyodor clears his throat and nods toward me. “You’re wasting my time. Examine her.”

For the first time since he told me he owned me last night, I’m truly afraid. How could this be what he wants from me? Is he so deluded that he thinks he can get me back en pointe and then sell me as a performer to high-end ballets? Does he not get how serious my prognosis is?

The breaks and soft tissue damage in both of my ankles are such that I will never dance en pointe again. I might walk without a limp if he and the doctor are really patient. There’s no way around disappointing him, and for a reason that squeezes like his hand on my chin and smells like his cologne, that hurts.

“Patients are more agreeable when they’re comfortable.” The doctor drips nervous energy but smiles for me like I won’t notice the sideways glance he gives the Bratva Pakhan.

My heart rate escalates, and if he pulls out his damn stethoscope, he’s going to know just how badly the mention of ballet fucks with me. Why should I be set up for more pain? My mind spins away from the situation, and I feel the wind on my face as I twirl. My legs are strong beneath me as I leap and move, but it’s nothing more than an intense memory.

“Being faced with a long and arduous road to recovery can be hard for a person. If she needs a few moments to come to terms?—”

“She’ll be agreeable, or she’ll sleep outside like a dog,” Fyodor snaps, cutting off the doctor’s speech. “She will do whatever I tell her to.”

Silence fills the space between us, and fear trickles between my blood cells. A horrible realization surfaces. The face he showed me might have been a mask to keep me calm, helping with my boots and carrying me until I was locked away where he wanted, much like what Franco did to me, seamlessly stuffing me away, but this time, I still haven’t pissed.

Even showing me the view, he wanted me to see just how trapped I am. The warmth and comfort of his arms blinded me, but why would he have such a vicious reputation if he were kind? Why would he have paid for me? Why am I so impossibly stupid?

I just nod, sure that my situation wouldn’t be improved by sleeping outside. Even if I had a mind to escape him, and I don’t. I’m sure whatever door or cage he shut me inside would be locked. There’s no benefit to testing his patience. I’ve been feeling feverish the past few days, and who knows how long before I would succumb to the elements if left out there.

My imagination takes a dark turn, painting the scene of me dying at the bottom of a snowy cage. A little whine escapes my throat, and Fyodor comes closer. I don’t want to disappoint him, but I will, and now I see myself beside Pietro, dying in that car. The image horrifies and comforts me. A sick and growing part of me is sure fate was cheated, and I belong on the other side.

What if the only hell is what we live through here on earth?

The doctor kneels in front of me and examines the casts. A whimper slips through my lips, but he hasn’t even touched me yet. It’s because the last few times someone was close to me like this, awful things happened. First Scott, then the bitch who stuck her fingers in me yesterday.

He looks like he wants to ask permission to touch me, but with one glance in Fyodor’s direction, he reaches under the edge of the cast without question. My heavy breaths are the only sound in the room, and Fyodor is only inches away from me now.

His posture is so hard. All I worry about is how much I’m displeasing him. I’m in no position to fight and earn a night outside without meaning to. I do my absolute best to shut up and stay quiet like he wants, so he doesn’t hear another peep out of me. Even though I manage to quiet down, he doesn’t back away, and I can’t help the way I shake.

My eyes are pinched shut tight, so I’m taken entirely by surprise when a large hand wraps around mine, warm and comforting.

“You haven’t taken very good care of these,” the doctor notes. “They’re quite beaten up.” The hand holding mine tightens, and so does every inch of my body. I’ve done quite a few things I shouldn’t have done since I left the hospital, and most of the time, I haven’t had a choice in the matter. The doctor glances around the room.

“Where are your mobility aids?”

“She lost her crutches last night.” I won’t look at his face, but Fyodor’s neck has turned a deep shade of red.

“Her wheelchair, then?”

“She doesn’t have one,” he answers for me.

He laughs like that’s a silly idea, and I seriously resent how informed he seems to be, and he proves me right in the next breath.

“She shouldn’t be on crutches for anything but transitions. These are only for partial weight. I can’t imagine they sent her home without one. She would have been sitting in it when she left.”

He sits on the bed next to me, his weight dipping the mattress and shifting my weight. He puts a hand down and immediately picks it up, staring at how wet the sheet is. I want to die, but he doesn’t comment about it.

“Is that true, Kotyonok?” Fyodor asks with a hard edge to his voice. The nickname sounds like a taunt rather than affection.

The doctor continues speaking with a hint of indignation, “It’s definitely true?—”

“Katya will answer for herself.”

He smells like man and spice, something distinguished and mature. I want him to press me into his chest and hold me there so badly, but the impulse is nonsensical.

“I left the hospital with a wheelchair, but it wasn’t always practical.”

“So you’ve been ignoring medical advice and neglecting your well-being?” Fyodor asks with a hard edge to his tone.

I swallow and breathe slowly to keep myself from getting stuck outside. If he would settle for no answer, that would be best, but I know he won’t give up.

“I haven’t exactly been in the position to take care of anything.” My shame threatens to come alive, tear itself from my body, and swallow me whole. “You saw the crutches. You knew I didn’t have them. I’ve not even made it to the bathroom to piss, thanks, but I do appreciate the concept of a bathroom.” My anger has gotten the best of me by the end. That and my bladder, which is full to bursting at this point.

His hands tighten into fists at his thighs, but he doesn’t respond to me.

“Do they need to be replaced?” he asks the doctor as they ignore my explanation.

Since I mentioned the bathroom, it’s all I can think about. That spacey feeling isn’t so pleasant now that I’m angry. I really don’t want to add pissing myself to the unending list of humiliations I’ve had to endure.

“She might need to be switched to a hard cast if she can’t be trusted to care for them.” He shrugs. “Or depending on the damage she’s done to herself already.”

“The boots are because of the surgical wounds. You can’t clean them in hard casts,” I argue, my face crumpling in distress. But the real reason I’m against it is because I’m more mobile this way, and the fact that it hurts really doesn’t matter when I’m so short on options.

“That’s true. We’ll leave her be for now, but I suggest you watch her.”

Watch me? Watch me what? Piss myself.

“Can someone please help me to the bathroom?”

“We’ll start physical therapy with her just as soon as I’m confident in the progress of her injuries.” He continues talking to Fyodor about me instead of to me. Why didn’t he just hire a vet? “I don’t want to injure her unnecessarily when I think we may make good progress.”

“May?” Fyodor asks.

“The breaks in her ankles and legs were extensive and complex. Walking again will be a challenge for her. It’s a real shame when something like this happens to an athlete. But even more damning than the breaks, she has serious soft tissue damage that will likely prevent her from being able to safely do the whole pointe thing.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard any of this, but it hurts once again as he slips his fingers beneath the edge of the walking cast.

“Please, I need to go to the bathroom,” I whisper.

“She was in the hospital for nine weeks, and it’s been ten weeks in total since her operation.”

My heart and brain both revolt at the idea that it’s been that long, that I’ve lived in this miserable world two and a half months without Pietro, but it makes sense in some sick way too.

“Oh, you’re warm,” he says as he touches my bare, sticky skin.

“I really need to use the bathroom.”

He looks up at Fyodor. “I can take her.”

Fyodor shakes his head and lifts me into his arms.

“He’s right. You’re hot, Kotyonok.”

No shit, I have a fever. I don’t bother to answer.