4. Paris
Paris
It’s like I’m walking through life like a zombie. How in the hell did I end up here? It’s a question I ask myself over and over again from the time I get up in the morning until I go to sleep at night.
It’s been six excruciating months of being treated and paraded around like a whore just so I can pay off my brother’s debt. Three hundred thousand dollars he owes to the Petrov Bratva. Three fucking hundred thousand dollars I’m paying for in ways that aren’t even imaginable.
I’ve come to terms with the type of man my older brother is.
Or half-brother I should say. He’s a drunk, a gambler, and everything in between, who also doesn’t have enough money to pay his own way because he lives above his means nor does he have the common sense to keep me out of his business.
So, when he owes the Petrov’s, of course he can’t pay it back.
Instead of killing him, Oleg Petrov, the Pakhan decides to take me as payment.
And to top it all off, my brother didn’t even fight to save me, relief covering his face when Oleg ordered his debt cleared after I’m forced to serve them.
I’ve concluded he more than likely offered me as payment and told them where they could find me. How else could they have known where I went to school, worked, and what would be the easiest way to take me?
Bastard.
Three years of my life is what the Pakhan decided will be sufficient payment for my brother’s debt. One year for each hundred thousand he owes him. But I’ve given a shit ton more than what my brother could ever owe.
My body, my dignity, and my freedom have been taken by force.
I’m standing in front of the vanity mirror in what has been my bedroom for the last six months, smearing black lipstick across my lips to finish off my look for tonight’s fight.
I hate this place. While most people think it’s elegant with its large king bed, satin sheets with a thread count larger than anything I’ve ever slept on, it’s all a facade for what actually happens in this house of horrors. It’s all a mask. A gilded cage.
A gilded prison.
However, no matter how dire my situation is, I seek positivity in my circumstances. It’s the only way I’ve survived this long. It’s the only way I’ve been able to keep my sanity while enduring the sexual, mental, and physical abuse of a psychopath.
The one positive thing about everything that’s happened is I haven’t slept in the same bed as my captor. He stays in a bedroom a few doors down from me where he can keep an eye on me but still bring other women home to fuck when he doesn’t force me to join.
He comes to me when he’s drunk or high, does what he wants, then leaves. My body and mind are scarred for life, but I’m thankful for that little bit of mercy no matter how small it is.
The day they snatched me off the street in between school and where I worked at a nearby coffee shop, my old life ended, and I was thrusted into my new existence.
Now I’m in a twenty-five thousand square foot mansion, living as some Russian’s live-in whore.
Just trying to survive until these three miserable years are up and I can go back to my life.
Or until I can kill him which is what I’d rather do.
I pull on the hem of the short ass silver sequin cocktail dress he demanded I wear without underwear, hoping I can keep my shit covered from eyes that will no doubt be on me when I walk into the building where he holds these underground fights. Their eyes are always on me.
The plunging neckline of the form fitting dress stops just above my navel and barely covers my breasts. And the silver, strappy stiletto heels with red bottoms he insists I wear everywhere are going to be a nightmare to walk in; I can already feel the blisters forming on my feet.
But what choice do I have? I can’t even piss in peace because he assumes I’m up to something. The bathroom door is no longer on the hinges and bars are on the windows because he thinks I’m planning my escape. It wouldn’t shock me if there are hidden cameras somewhere in here to see my every move.
Granted, he has reason not to trust me because I’ve tried to run in the past. I’ve tried to be defiant, and it has always ended with me getting the crap beat out of me or worse.
Now the only way to survive is to do what he wants, when he wants it, or he’ll start doping me up with that stuff I’ve seen his men give the girls at the Bratva’s strip club to make them more compliant to their demands.
I refuse to become hooked on drugs too, even though the thought has entered my mind a time a two.
“It can make all this go away at least for a while.”
My bedroom door swings open, and I jump from the loud thud of it hitting the wall. I watch through the vanity mirror as the man I hate with everything in me saunters into my room like shit can’t touch him.
He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t ask for permission to enter my space. Just like he doesn’t ask permission for anything he takes from me. According to him, he doesn’t have to ask me for shit because I’m nothing more than his property and because of who he is, he can do whatever the hell he wants.
He ambles toward me like he’s the king of his castle, and I guess here, he is since his father gives him free rein to do whatever the hell he wants.
“What’s that shit on your face?”
And at that moment I know I’ve made a mistake.
Shit!
He downs the tumbler of whiskey in his hand and sniffs, wiping at his nose as he stalks toward me. Great! He’s probably already smashed and high off his ass. He becomes much worse when he’s been drinking or snorting coke. It’s ten times worse when he’s done both.
That sinister look he always wears is proudly glaring back at me. Lately, he’s been taking his anger out on me more than usual. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve been doing all I can to keep him from killing me.
I want to roll my eyes, but if I do, I can look forward to nursing more bruises for at least a week. I’m just now recovering from the last time he laid his hands on me. It took me over an hour to cover the bruise on my face and the handprint around my neck.
“It’s the lipstick you said you loved, Nikita. Remember? I thought it paired well with the dress you picked out.”
I try to soothe the man’s ego like he’s a fucking child. However, I hate all of it. The dress, the makeup, his eyes on me. All of it. It makes me feel cheap.
His cologne filters inside my nose, causing my stomach to lurch. It’s a smell I’ll never forget for as long as I live. It’s some thousand-dollar cologne that smells like incense and piss.
I do everything to push down the nausea determined to make an appearance. If I so much as sneeze on him, he’ll backhand me or choke me, swearing I ruined his suit on purpose. I hate to see what he’ll do to me, no matter how much I’d love to see him covered in vomit. It’s what he deserves.
He presses his thumb against my lips and wipes it off, smearing it across my cheek. Then he grips my jaw so tightly it causes me to whimper.
“I didn’t say that shit, Paris!” he screams even though he did say it. It’s the same shade I wore last night to his business meeting. That’s why I thought it was a safe choice. “You shouldn’t think, you dumb cunt.”
He squeezes my face harder. The tips of his fingers dig into my chin and cheeks. Tears gather in my eyes, and I see the gleam in his as they fill with desire.
He likes my fear. But he loves my pain. Whenever I cry, the more brutal he becomes.
However, I refuse to let my tears fall. The more tears I shed, the more he wants to fuck me.
He wants to keep me in a cycle of fear and pain, so he can fuck me some more.
I do the best I can to control both, and he’ll just leave me the hell alone.
So, he can’t use me to get his rocks off.
“Take. It. Off. Now,” he seethes. “Are you trying to embarrass me?”
I shake my head before he lets go of my face, shoving me away from him.
I stumble, twisting my ankle and wince when my back collides against the edge of the vanity.
No doubt I’ll have a bruise across the lower part of my back.
It wouldn’t surprise me if my ankle is swollen.
But it won’t matter to him. If it is, that means I’ll have to conceal my limp to keep from embarrassing him.
Bottles of expensive perfume, makeup, and all the other shit he insists I wear tumbles across the vanity, some spilling onto the floor.
“No, Nikita. I’m not trying to embarrass you.”
Gingerly, I face the vanity hiding the pain as much as I can, then grab a makeup wipe.
I remove the lipstick from my lips and cheek where he smeared it.
Then, I pick up the only other shades of lipstick I have.
Nude and red. Then face him trying to stave off the trembling in my hands as pain moves through my body.
“Which one would you like me to wear?”
I try to push down my anger and my embarrassment for being in this situation.
I know better. I should’ve waited until he picked the color before I even put anything on.
It doesn’t matter if he likes it or not, he has to be the one to choose everything for me.
Control every goddamn thing I do. He even chose this piece of fabric he calls a dress, these shoes I can barely walk in, and even how I’m wearing my hair.
“Red.”
Of course.
I turn back to the mirror, then trace my lips with the deep crimson color.
I hate red. It stands out too much against my dark skin.
No matter how much he likes to show me around to his friends, family, or random people he doesn’t even know, I don’t like to be seen.
And once they gawk at me like I’m their next meal, or some kind of exotic anomaly they would love to touch, he gets pissed at me.
Like I’m inviting their attention. The attention he wants me to have until he doesn’t want me to have it.
It’s the same stupid shit I’ve dealt with since they kidnapped me.
I shudder when I feel him move behind me. His hands grip my hips as he yanks me close to his body, pressing his dick against my backside. He’s so close, his breath tickles the back of my neck making my hair stand on end. Not from desire but from pure disgust.
Even though it’s hard to do, I make myself not recoil away from him, rooting myself in place.
A lesson I’ve learned the hard way. Don’t show any revulsion for him because according to him I’m lucky he’s even showing me any attention at all.
I’m lucky he’s in my life so he can show me how a real man treats his woman.
A bunch of bullshit of course.
He drags his hands up the sides of my body, then across my breasts.
I breathe a sigh of relief although momentarily, when he removes his hand, then grips my shoulders, his blunt nails digging into my skin.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from hissing from the pain of his fingers burrowing into my skin.
Another place I’ll be bruised tomorrow.
“You are a beautiful woman, Paris.” He grinds his dick against my ass as he kisses the side of my neck down to my right shoulder.
I resist the urge to move away from his touch.
“Maybe we should stay in tonight. Let me show you how much I love this tight cunt of yours. I can tell how much you want me.”
I meet his lust-filled gaze in the mirror, the intensity of it making a sliver of disgust slither down my spine. It’s always the extreme with him. Lust or hate. Neither of which I want. Both being dangerous for me.
While under any other circumstance Nikita Petrov would be a beautiful man. Dirty blonde hair, light blue eyes, with a chiseled jaw line, physically he’s perfect. But to me, he’s nothing more than an ugly monster.
My captor.
My abuser.
The man I need to kill.
“How much time do we have before we need to leave?” I ask, ignoring his comment as I try to get his focus off my body and back to this fight. I don’t want to go but if I don’t have to endure his touch, I’m willing to deal with the whispers, stares, and lude gestures.
He steps away from me and glances down at his watch.
Thank God.
“ You have five minutes. Wear the black mink.”
I want to scream that I hate that damn coat, but I don’t. I don’t want to bear the consequences for rebelling against his wishes. It doesn’t matter anyway because he doesn’t wait for a response before he struts out of the room.
“Fucking, mink,” I mutter. “I’m so tired of all the over-the-top shit. Why can’t I wear regular damn clothes? And who the hell wears mink anymore.”
I brace my hands against the vanity, drop my head, and try to push away the revulsion from his hands and mouth on me. Six long months of physical and mental torture. I wish I could jump in the shower and scrub until my skin is raw but there’s no time. I can’t be late.
I open my eyes and stare at my reflection in the mirror, resolve entering my entire being.
It’s up to me to get out of this situation.
Nobody’s going to save me. The only person who could is the reason I’m in this hellhole.
I can’t be afraid anymore. I can’t do this for three damn years.
I can’t endure him any longer. I won’t survive it. It has to be tonight.
I die or he does. Either way I’m going to be free.