Chapter 6 - Janella
There is a moment before I wake when I am sure it was all a dream. Then, I open my eyes.
I’m not in my bedroom. In fact, every room I’ve ever had could fit into this one at the same time. And none of them had an ensuite bathroom to boot.
I had the same bedroom for most of my childhood.
Once Mom was gone, it wasn’t long before Dad couldn’t sustain the house on his own.
It was all too much. Between the mortgage, bills, and the general costs of raising a child in Massachusetts, it made sense to downsize.
Despite the pain of losing our home, I’d always understood that.
For a couple of years after we moved into that postage-stamp-sized apartment, my bedroom was the only one. Dad said girls needed their privacy and took to the pullout couch for himself.
He had been a good father.
Though it sometimes felt much longer, it had only been five years since he started his makeshift club. There hadn’t been a lot of start-up costs, given how the most priceless amenity his operation offered was secrecy. The seediness of the constantly shifting location was part of the Pit’s appeal.
Within the same year as it opened, it took off.
By the start of the next one, we were in a proper house again.
It was a nice house, too—with a picket fence and everything.
We each got our own room and plenty of other space.
Over the past few years, I’ve added trinkets and personal touches to mine.
Posters and pictures. Candles with warm scents of cloves, cinnamon, chamomile, and lavender.
I’ve built a wardrobe of pieces I can mix and match into outfits that make me feel good about myself.
It isn’t glamorous, any of it, but it’s nice. I’ve tried so hard to make it all nice.
This austere bedroom makes it all seem like a bunch of crap.
The glossy, postcard-worthy view from the floor-to-ceiling windows that fill an entire wall of the room is only the start. I’ve lived in this city all my life, and I’ve never seen it from this high up. To top it all off, everything—from the square footage and furnishings—screams of luxury.
As I lie here, swathed in a ridiculous thread count, it occurs to me that the burgundy, navy, and sage green accents around the room tie in with the wardrobe Iosif had bought me last night.
He’d picked up on what appealed to me within minutes of watching me browse.
I don’t know how to process it, since it doesn’t exactly match his taste.
I don’t know how to process any of this.
How is this my real life?
New garment bags are hanging on the closet doors. Valentino. Chanel. Alice + Olivia. Ralph Lauren. Names I’d seen in magazines. Names that Iosif had thrown money at without blinking twice, for me.
My wife should look good, he’d said, like it was that simple.
I sit up just to bury my face in my hands. I press my knuckles against my lids until I see stars.
It isn’t enough to get his stupidly beautiful face out of my head. Or the way it looked, wearing unfiltered appreciation. Or the brash sound of his laughter, explosive and warm. And his—God, his hands against my skin. No one had ever touched me like that, ever.
I shove myself out from under the covers, furious with myself.
He bought you, I remind myself. Your father may have been the one to sell you off like livestock, but this man paid for it.
Fancy dresses don’t—should not—change that.
Neither should the makeup he patiently waited for me to accumulate the night before.
Or this room, or the space, he’s given me. He’s not my friend. He’s not my ally.
It isn’t even by my choice that he’s my—
No, I can’t even think of that word without feeling insane.
‘Husband’? It’s absurd.
My stomach growls in objection, shattering my reverie.
It’s a good enough reason to reposition my focus, directing it toward getting myself dressed for the day.
I pull on a heavy, cozy, oversized burgundy turtleneck and the softest pair of leggings I’ve ever owned.
Since I’m not exactly falling over myself to spend time with Oksana or the stony-faced soldiers waiting for me on the other side of the door, I take my time curling my hair and doing up my face. Eventually, I know I have to get out.
Today, there’s no one waiting outside my door.
That’s something.
I can hear some voices, too. They’re distant and not speaking English, but it’s proof of life. It’s not bad that it’s sounding far enough away. It makes me feel safe enough to venture into the kitchen and scavenge for some cereal.
I scarf it down in record time, standing at the counter like I’m still in a cramped apartment’s kitchen. Like I’m not a few steps away from a dining table that seats twelve.
When Oksana appears, she greets me perfunctorily and makes me some tea. She says nothing else when she leaves me to wander through the penthouse alone.
With nothing else to do and no desire to return to my room to spend time with my thoughts, I let curiosity lead me.
Fortunately, this place is huge. I drift through it with my tea, taking my time.
Less fazed by the cameras now that I know they’re not there just to keep an eye on me.
I’d been so overwhelmed I couldn’t enjoy exploring yesterday.
I pick up where I left off with the library yesterday.
The massive shelves are filled with books in different languages.
English and Russian, I’d expected. But there’s some Armenian, too, I think.
And then there’s the other rooms. I skip past the media room and his office.
For some reason, I find myself lured by the gym, of all places.
It’s evidently a very well-used part of the apartment. The equipment is worn in. Studying the free weights, I can’t help but picture Iosif here. It’s impossible not to notice the powerful muscles all over his body. All I can think is: This is where he builds those.
I have to physically shake that thought out of my head.
That’s when I notice the draft.
It’s subtle. There’s a whisper of cooler air that tickles my ankles, coming from—
It looks like an ordinary wall. It feels like one, too, when I run my hands along the sleek paneling. It’s only when I press forward, leaning my weight into it, that I hear a click.
I barely have time to register it before the section of the wall is swinging inward, narrowly keeping myself from falling flat on my face.
Oh, shit.
It’s dark. So dark. Despite the way my heart begins to pound, my feet move. Toeing my way forward, I startle when I discover stairs.
I have to turn back. That is what a sane person would do, right? This is totally the part of the horror movie where the blonde actress ignores all the obvious signs warning her to KEEP OUT. I should turn around. I should…
My feet descend the stairs, logic be damned.
I walk face-first into the door at the bottom of the stairs. Groaning at the pain that lances through my head, I stumble right through it. Lights come alive all around me the moment my body crosses the threshold.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, choking the words out. My heart is in my throat.
Apparently, I am Bluebeard’s goddamned bride.
All around me, there are weapons. Medieval-looking weapons, to be more specific. Everywhere I turn, there are knives and axes and—swords?! What is he, a member of the king’s guard?
There’s no running away from it—I have legally bound myself to a full-on crazy dude. Though I may just be crazier. What other explanation is there for the way I just gravitate toward the mounted blades? They gleam where the light hits them.
Even the handles are ornate. Beautiful. Like something out of a fairy tale… albeit the part no kid ever focuses on.
I don’t even realize I’ve reached out to touch a sword until—
“Careful there,” Iosif’s voice sounds from across the room.
Startled, I whip around so fast I almost slice my palm open. He is towering over me in a heartbeat. One moment, he was across the room. And now he is in front of me, taking my hand, dwarfed in his as he turns it over, inspecting it for injury.
“What did I just say?” he snaps at me, frowning.
It has anger flaring beneath my breastbone.
“Hey, you’re the one who appeared out of thin air in your creepy dungeon!” I scold back without thinking.
He rolls his eyes at me, like I’m being ridiculous. “It’s not a dungeon.”
“What else would you call this place?” I challenge. “I’ll bet this was your plan all along. You bring women here, right? That’s why you have all this stuff, so you can kidnap women and—and torture them, and get off on your freaky sadomasochistic ki—”
Iosif’s cackling drowns out the rest of my words.
Or rather, it distracts me from them. From everything. His dark, severe features soften with his boyish laugh. It’s a surprisingly cozy sound. Especially from a man of his size.
I hate how aware I am of the moment he drops my hand.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I finally manage to say, but there’s no heat to the words. If anything, I sound winded.
His answering grin makes my head fuzzy.
“It’s not a dungeon,” he repeats, infuriatingly entertained. “Mezzanine, more like. And it’s just my training room. I explained my world to you last night. It would be stupid to just leave my weapons in the gym, even if they’re all used for training. And stress relief.”
Even I’m taken aback by the bitterness in the words when I question, “So, it’s not like my dad’s club? You don’t bring innocent women here to torment for your entertainment?”
If Iosif is fazed by my acerbic accusation, he doesn’t show it.
“Not even the not-so-innocent ones,” he says flatly.
“That’s not funny.”
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t. What this is, though, is a healthy outlet for me. When it doesn’t do the trick, I do use places like your father’s. And good thing, too, or else your fate would’ve been something else entirely otherwise.”
A dull, painful churning settles in my stomach. The sound of my laugh is mirthless, hollow. “That’s a hell of a way to reframe it.”
“I’m not framing shit,” Iosif says, all traces of humor gone from his face. “I answer anything you ask me, and I answer it honestly. Don’t put it on me if you can’t stomach it.”
“Oh, like I’m the problem here? Like it’s a bad thing to not be able to stomach this? I could never hurt someone the way you do. And you make your living doing it,” I spit, turning away from him. “You can tell yourself you’re noble and different, but you aren’t. You’re another bad guy.”
His hand is a hot and heavy weight on my shoulder. He turns me back around. Defiantly, I look down at the ground.
“Bad and good? Black and white. That world isn’t real,” he says.
“Sure!” I snort, derision dripping from my every word. “But the one where you abduct women and force them to marry you, then pretend like you’re better than the people you took them from is the real world!”
His hand seizes my jaw and forces my eyes upward. His eyes have darkened, from a clear sky to a storm brewing. My breath stalls in my burning lungs.
“You asked me last night if I’ve killed someone, and I told you the truth. Yet you asked the wrong question. Because if you asked me if I’ve ever hurt someone good… If you asked me if I’ve hurt someone like you?” My chest aches. “The answer is a resounding fucking no.”
His ferocity makes my brain blank, like switching to the wrong radio frequency. He fills my silence.
“And for what it’s worth, despite how much you resent me right now, I don’t regret changing your fate.
Because right now, the way that you’re running your mouth?
You’ve got a fucking spine.” His thumb drags its way down the slant of my jaw, pressing at my chin until my mouth is closed.
“And I don’t feel bad about taking you from that bastard.
I’d have slit his throat if I’d had to. If that makes me a bad guy, fine.
I sleep fine at night knowing I’m not the worst one. ”
There’s so much I want to say. So much that I could. About his selective morality and a misplaced savior complex. Maybe even about how resentment isn’t the right word for what I feel about this. But what is the right word?
Any words at all fail me.
In the end, even a moment later, the best I’ve got is: “You’re lucky I think swords are cool.”