14. Octavia
My eyelids grow tired of squinting through the darkness—the only sign I have that night has fallen beyond the walls of this room.
I blink rapidly, trying to dispel the wave of sleepiness that passes over me. Out of the corner of my eye, Vasiliy shifts up and down with each pushup, the final step of his rigorous routine.
That’s right. He has a captivity fitness routine.
Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of something more horrifying.
At least he seems to have bounced back from the last beating a few days ago.
I’m a quick healer, he often boasts. I hate it when he does that.
The men haven’t come back for anything other than the daily cup of water.
While I’m grateful for the distance, my stomach keeps growling protests at the complete absence of food.
There’s been plenty of time to think in here.
When I was twelve, my first year living in the training facilities, my roommate’s parents bought her a shiny new phone, and she tossed me her old one without a care in the world.
In exchange, I spent every Sunday morning teaching her the solos she couldn’t hack from variations class.
It was an easy price to pay, since I was already spending every waking hour of the weekend practicing in the studios.
It’s not like I had anywhere else to go.
Ever since that day, I’ve rarely spent a single moment in quiet contemplation without a backdrop of music to distract me from the worst thoughts.
One week ago, I wouldn’t even have taken a ten-minute shower without something to break up the cloying silence.
I’ve always known my mind wasn’t a safe place to dwell.
Perhaps that’s why I’m sitting here, counting the seconds until Vas will return to my side and open his mouth. It doesn’t matter what he says, so much as the fact that he chases away that low buzzing that starts up in the silence.
He’s been much more open since my face got cut up like a slab at the butcher.
For the hysterical price of my useless blood, he’s told me all about his previous stints in captivity with soft whispers, narrating every daring escape and lucky break like he’s reciting some ancient war ballad passed down from years of wisdom and valor.
A chance attack the moment his captors turned their backs.
Breaking his thumb to wriggle free from a loose restraint.
He says the best opportunities arise during periods of transition. Unfortunately, they always take care to separate us during transitions.
When the rhythmic breathing comes to a halt, I look up. Sweat gleams down angry wounds as he climbs out of the plank, rising to his full height. His head tilts. I hear his words in the subtle gesture.
You should rest, moya zlaya.
He still hasn’t told me what the nickname means. If he truly won’t tell me until we’re free, I may never know. Still, the curves of the two words in my head loosen some wound-up spring inside.
“Done?” I ask, enjoying the sight of sweat sliding down his abs, despite the red tears of skin. I hope the injuries don’t get infected.
A soft nod.
“Come back and hold me,” I whisper.
I try to bury the desperation in my voice, but it makes the request sound more like a command.
He doesn’t take offense, thankfully, cutting a direct line to my side.
Then he lifts me up and slides behind, settling my body between the safe confines of his own.
No assholic comments or mindless taunts accompany the action as he fits behind me like we’ve been huddling together for years instead of days.
“You can sleep. I will keep watch,” he whispers into the crook of my ear.
“I’m not tired,” I lie. Musk and sweat fill my nose, a comfort in the cell’s cloying stench.
“Mhm.” I can hear the rise of his eyebrow in the sound. One of his hands brushes the skin of my cheek, assessing the wound for fever. The pain hasn’t worsened in the past few days, but there’s no way it won’t find an infection in this nasty cell.
“I’m not.”
“Whoever taught you how to lie owes you a refund.”
I snort. He’s talking out of his ass. I know for a fact that I’m an excellent liar, even though no one bothered to coach me.
“Do you have any parents?” I suddenly ask.
The question is random and intrusive, and I’m a little shocked it fell out of my mouth so freely, since it’s a topic I’ve always dreaded coming up.
I half-expect him to set the price of that answer to some astronomical value that would equate to my entire life supply poured across the floor, so I’m surprised when he responds immediately.
“My father was Bratva. He died when I was a boy.” His head tilts, brushing past a few loose strands of my hair. “My mother’s alive, but wants nothing to do with me, and vice versa.”
“Sounds like a fool,” I mutter, earning a comforting swipe of his thumb.
“I have a baby sister.”
His face changes when he says the words, more quietly than I’ve ever heard him speak. I straighten.
“She’s the only good thing my mother ever made, not that she appreciates it. One day, I’m going to take her away. Give her the opportunities she deserves.”
I contort, trying to see more of his expression in the shadows. His words from that first day run back through my head.
I have someone depending on me.
At the time, I had assumed it was a lover.
Relief encases my next breath, which immediately morphs to slick shame when I remember whose fault it will be if that little girl never sees her brother’s face again.
Vasiliy was right on the first day, when he deduced that our captors were only interested in me.
Sure, they keep throwing him into the chair, but I have a feeling that has more to do with their pride in accidentally kidnapping a big name in the business.
With the way they talk about his techniques and various achievements, it’s clear to me that Vas is somewhat of a savant in the interrogation world.
Perhaps that should bother me more. It doesn’t. Nothing means much down here. I’m not a washed-up ballerina, and he’s not a criminal henchman. We’re just people waiting for our turn in hell.
Discomfort stems from hearing details of his life.
That buzzing starts up beneath my ears, threatening to spill over with every drowned thought in the poisonous cup.
I wonder what will become of an innocent young girl growing up in this world.
I know Vasiliy would protect her. I know it with more certainty than I’ve ever waged on myself.
But what if he never returns to her side?
What if I’m the reason that little girl grows up alone and abandoned?
“What’s her name?”
“Anya.” He’s smiling when I turn, a soft curve that rarely adorns his lips down here. “But I call her zayka. My little bunny.”
I curl into his broad body, trying to ignore the worrisome stench of blood. I don’t know if it’s his or mine. I suppose it doesn’t matter, since we’re both coated. “Well, when we get out of here, I’ll come over and teach Anya ballet.”
I’m not sure why I say such an optimistic thing.
The arm around me tightens. “I’m not sure I’d enjoy you two ganging up on me.”
“Hush.” I tap his nose. “Not everything is about you.”
A few days ago, you would never have caught me booping this psychopath’s nose. It’s wild how fast things can change in a place so stagnant.
He narrows his eyes at the finger, but doesn’t remove it from caressing the curves of his face. “Have I earned your forgiveness yet, zlaya?”
“Depends.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “What am I forgiving you for?”
“What I said the night we met,” he says roughly, tightening his hold. “About the dancers hanging off those rich bastards’ necks. It doesn’t sit well with me.”
“Oh.” I shake my head, stirring up fresh pain with the movement. “Don’t worry about that, Vas. I was pissed and in pain, and I took it out on you.”
He’s silent for a long time before finally responding.
“Your left leg, right? Did you hurt it in that performance?”
I pull back. “How’d you—”
“You had a slight limp when you were running from me. I’m trained to notice these things.”
Oh.
I’ve spent so many years hiding the injury, it feels almost aggressive for him to point it out. My first instinct is to be defensive, but then logic falls over me like an icy storm.
None of that shit matters anymore.
I could never dance another eight-count as long as I live. Another statement I don’t wish to think about too hard.
“My left knee. But it was injured long before that performance.”
“Did you get it treated?”
I fidget with the dark waves of his hair, avoiding his searching gaze.
“Octavia—”
“No. I didn’t get it treated.” I sigh. It all sounds so pathetic now, given the current circumstances. “We are contractually obligated to provide all health records to the company directors, and I couldn’t afford for them to know I’m damaged goods. They’re already trying to phase me out, as is.”
“I don’t understand. You’re what, in your twenties?” he asks, bewildered.
“Twenty-one. That’s just the way it is, Vasiliy. They want you when you’re a prodigal teen, but the second you come into your adult body, the first sign of wear and tear, and they start looking for your replacement. Young girls are moldable. Impressionable. Adult women are not.”
“Perhaps I don’t want my little sister to enter that world, after all.”
A low laugh leaves my throat. “I doubt anything could stop her if she truly wanted to dance. Besides, I’m sure every career has a hidden underbelly that affects some more than others. For what it’s worth, I didn’t have anyone looking out for me. Not like she has you.”
“Didn’t make many friends in the ballet?” he asks, raising his brow.
“One, maybe,” I whisper as warm brown eyes and a single red rose bloom in my mind.
I’d be lying if I said Bambi hadn’t crossed my mind often in this place.
It’s that stupid rose—the one she hand-delivered to the dressing room the night of the performance.
I think I left it on the table below the mirror.
Surely someone’s thrown it out by now. For some moronic reason, the thought of that small, precious gift sitting in a trash can makes my empty stomach turn.
However, most of my thoughts about the shy, doe-eyed girl center on concern.
I know for a fact that not a single soul in that company will look out for her.
The moment they catch sight of her kind heart, they’ll stomp it out like a sparked flame.
She doesn’t see the threats as I do. She doesn’t know the risks lurking behind every dark studio wall, or the deals that go down in her mentors’ offices.
I shake my head. “I knew better than to get attached. What about you, any friends?”
He smirks. “I knew better than to get attached,” he repeats with a strange expression. “Why stay, then? No offense, but surely there are easier minimum wage jobs,” he says, voicing the thought I’ve had many times before.
“Because I’m no good at anything else.”
His tongue clicks. “There is no way that’s true, zlaya. Maybe you never had the time or options to find something you enjoy.”
“Tell me what zlaya means, Vasiliy,” I say, diverting the conversation to somewhere less uncomfortable.
His lips try to form a knowing frown, but his swollen jaw immobilizes the muscles. “Not until we get out of here.”
I blow out a heavy sigh, brushing my finger over the dark abstract lines and swirls that decorate his skin.
I like the fact that they don’t form obvious shapes or words, simply trailing freely across his skin like branching strands of veins.
I was never allowed to get tattoos while dancing for the company, but if I were, I think I’d want something similar.
Meaningless and random in a beautiful way.
“I don’t hate dancing,” I whisper, trying to fish out the right words to explain feelings I’ve never dared to voice. “In fact, I might even love it if it weren’t for the dirty politics and the old, perverted men.”
“I get it,” he whispers, pulling at the tight hair tie that’s been tugging at my scalp since the night of the performance. “Believe it or not, I feel similarly about the Bratva.”
I haven’t removed the tight ponytail since the performance. Now that it’s finally out, Vasiliy’s fingers dragging down my scalp, a wave of euphoria hits me hard. I lean into his touch like a purring cat.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers into my throat, more familiar than strangers. Less confidently than lovers. Something in between. “I’ll help you find your hidden talents. I have a feeling they hide in more violent places than the stage.”
I tip my nose against the ever-present comfort of his chest. Breathe in his singular scent of musk, shaded with the iron bite of dried blood. It feels almost greedy to hear his lilted voice speak again, saying words only meant for me.
“Yeah, right. If we get out of here, I bet you’d run away from me as fast as humanly possible.”
His head pops up, eyes squinting through the dark. “What gave you that impression?”
“That’s just what happens,” I sigh, looking away.
“Besides, I’m the girl who got you into this whole mess.
I’m the reason you may never see your sister’s face again.
Don’t think I haven’t noticed that almost every question they ask you circles back to me.
” Well, me and whoever this Annika chick is.
“You keep telling them random nuggets of Bratva lore to try to pull their attention off of me, and it’s still not working. ”
A handsome smile splits his lips. “You noticed that, did you?”
Obstinate as ever. “Do they teach you that in mob interrogation school? The whole pull attention with a new question trick?”
His chest shakes beneath my cheek, eliciting another painful-sounding cough. “It’s more of a learn-on-the-job thing.” His hand tugs at a knot in my hair with such gentle deference that it’s hard to remember he’s the same person who shoved me to the ground a few days earlier.
“Do you ever imagine they’re the ones in the chair and you’re the one holding the knife?” I ask quietly.
“Every single day.”
My heart pumps harder. “Me too.”
If I close my eyes, I can almost convince myself that I’m anywhere else, lounging in a beautiful man’s lap while he plays with my hair. That I’m not plagued with homicidal fantasies that help me pass the time.
At least a portion of that is true.
“I wouldn’t, by the way,” he suddenly says, breaking our easy silence.
“What?”
“If we get out. I wouldn’t run away as fast as possible.”