11. Octavia #2
You’re not there, I whisper into my mind, even as ballet barres rise up in the darkness like a cursed mirage. These are different men.
“That’s because he’s been trying to set up the trade! You know that, dumbass,” another voice argues. The tone warps in my mind.
It’s not him, Octavia.
My scalp burns as I tug against the hold on my hair, tears trickling down my cheeks. I need him off. I need…
Something moves on the floor—Vasiliy’s form curls like he’s trying to get up. If he regains their attention, they’re going to kill him.
A hand rips open my dress from the torn seam, exposing my skin to the cool air. The fabric gives way one seam at a time, leaving my chest naked, save for a coating of cool terror.
Time twists in the cruelest way.
I’m not in the cage anymore. I’m standing in Studio B under the soft glow of moonlight pouring through the windows.
There are still three figures standing over me.
Different men, same objective. They’re company men—hired staff that can do whatever they want and get away with it.
Back then, I had no idea how far that power extended.
My scalp burns again, slamming me back into the wall.
It’s enough to chip away a few pieces of the memory.
My lip curls in a vicious snarl. I’m not sixteen anymore.
And I’ve replayed that particular night so many times, I know exactly what I wish I’d done the first time.
Everything hurts, but I pull against the pain just enough to snap forward with my teeth.
For a second, everything stops.
A breath hitches.
Warm iron spills into my mouth, filling my cheeks.
Time catches up to us all as the man releases a shriek that has my teeth digging deeper into his vibrating throat. He pulls back, but I refuse to release. Skin rips open between my teeth, severing a revolting chunk of flesh in my mouth. I spit it out, choking down a gag.
“What the hell is going on in here?” a voice booms from the door on the other side of the cage.
The hand wraps my throat before I can manage to duck.
“You fucking cunt,” Silver Knuckles spits, slamming my skull against the wall.
Pain blooms on impact, blurring the world around me.
I can barely make out Vasiliy’s shaky form, desperately climbing to his feet.
I hear his growling voice somewhere close by, but he’s not speaking English.
“That bitch bit me!”
“You’re a fucking idiot, Stafford,” another voice snaps out. “Get out of there. Now!”
I think he responds. The tight grip around my neck disappears. Blurs swing through the shadows, followed by the telltale clang of the cage door closing.
I slide down the wall…falling…
The impact never comes.
Bodies, towering over me. A hand wrapped into my hair. My leotard was torn at the seam, each stitch stretching tight before the telltale pop.
Sturdy hands catch me, inches from hitting the ground. I try to look towards my savior, but I can’t.
My pointe shoes were still on when they forced me to my knees. When they loosened their buckles. I remember thinking how strange it was, having my breasts bared to the empty studio while my pointe shoes were still strapped onto my ankles.
I’m lost. Somewhere between the past and the present. Like trying to squeeze through a cave gap, but getting stuck halfway. My adult body no longer fits where my younger body maneuvered freely.
Breaths come too quickly, one falling into the next until the entire world swirls into a dark kaleidoscope of panic.
“What. The fuck…have you done?” A strained voice breaks through the static.
I push away from the source. Kicking, scratching, anything to regain my space, but the weight squeezes around me tighter. The scent of blood coats every single breath. I hate it. I hate—
“Stop. You’re having a panic attack,” the voice says calmly. The vise strangles me further, but it’s so dark, I can’t find the source. When did they click the light off?
“Octavia. Stop. Breathe.”
The vise knows my name. That’s when I realize I recognize the voice, too. The face that stares back is nothing like the ones that plague my nightmares.
Soft, full lips, split and bloody.
Dark eyebrows, pulled in with concern.
“Vasiliy?”
A nod. “Keep breathing.”
I take my time inspecting the surroundings, trying to ignore the steady throb in my skull. Not an empty ballet studio in the dead of night.
A stale, dark cage.
Blood below my palms.
My side is pressed to the warmth of a broad chest, cocooned in safety. I sigh, settling my face against the warm skin of his collarbone. All inhibitions float away with the memory, clearing like fog.
“Never do that again,” he snaps. “Ever.”
The rude turn of his words delivers me the rest of the way back. Not so much as a thank you, Octavia, for saving my life back there. Of course not.
I crawl free from his arms, secretly pleased when I get a hit of his real scent beneath all the sour blood.
“We gotta get out of here,” I whisper, settling back against the wall with a heavy wave of exhaustion.
“I’m aware.”