Chapter Four
Valentina
I don't look back as I lead him through the foyer. Behind me, the dragging thud of his boots follows.
Elias is in the kitchen as always. The knife in his hand stops when he sees the mountain of scarred meat and grease standing behind me, and he tries to cover up his gasp with a cough.
"Elias," I greet. "Steak, potatoes—don’t skimp on the portions."
The oil on Viktor’s skin catches the overhead LEDs, making him look like a statue of a Greek god. "There is no need," he rasps. "I don't require... this."
"I’m not asking," I say. "I told Elias to cook. Eat it or don't, but it will be there."
I then take him down the hall to the guest wing. I open the door to the guest bedroom that will be his for the next three months. The sheets are Egyptian cotton; the rug is silk. He stands at the door, refusing to step on the carpet with his dirty boots.
Considerate, but there’s no need. The cleaning crew will turn it spotless the next day regardless.
His jaw is tight. "Should I... prepare myself? To show you pleasure tonight?"
Well, he certainly doesn’t shy away from the subject.
The sheer, animal magnetism dripping off him should be intoxicating.
But the idea of touching him makes bile rise in my throat.
Fucking him would probably feel like plunging my hands into a vat of freezing mercury.
I don't want to drown with him in the sea of misery.
"No," I hiss. "And stop calling me Ma’am. Call me Valentina."
"Valentina," he repeats. He looks at the bed, then back at me, his neck working as he swallows. "Am I... am I allowed to sleep on the bed? Even when you are not in it?"
What the fuck did they do to you?
"It’s a bed, Viktor. That is what it’s for. Sleep in it."
It’s like his body slumps with relief at something so simple. It makes my brows furrow.
I gesture to the bathroom. "I’ll have clothes for you tomorrow."
He nods gingerly, and just when I’m running out of ideas on how to navigate this conversation, "Dinner is served," Elias calls out.
I try not to watch as he eats frantically. He lacks even basic table manners, but strangely, it doesn’t bother me.
"Is the steak okay?" I ask.
"It is delicious."
"The chef is good. If you want something else, you just have to ask."
"I do not know how to ask for things, Valentina," he mumbles. "In the brothel, asking only brought the belt. Or the needle."
A brothel. The air in the room suddenly feels five degrees colder.
I take a sip of my wine. "Well, there are no belts here. And no needles."
He doesn't respond, instead going back to the meat, cutting it into perfect squares. Sitting across from him, I feel like I’m encased in liquid nitrogen—frozen, and unable to draw a full breath.
"What was it like?" I ask, swirling the dark wine in my glass. "Before they put you on that stage."
Viktor swallows a piece of meat he barely chewed.
"Fucking," he says bluntly. "More fucking. Whether I liked it or I did not. Usually, I did not. If I did not perform, they beat me until I could not stand," he shrugs. "Then they would use the drugs. Then more fucking. It is a simple business."
I’ve never heard a man talk about rape like it was a boring shift at a nine-to-five. I don’t like it, nor do I understand it.
"Stop," I say.
The nitrogen feeling in my chest is becoming a physical burn. I’ve reached my limit for today. Until I understand why his sadness rubs off on me the way it does, I want him away from me. Safe. Comfortable. But not near enough where he can suffocate me.
I push my chair back, the legs screeching violently against the floor.
"If you're finished eating, go shower," I command. "There’s a bathroom connected to your bedroom. Elias will leave some pajamas outside your door—they’ll be tight, but they’ll do for tonight."
His eyes flicker with a confused light, as if he’s trying to figure out why I’ve pulled back.
"Goodnight, Viktor," I say.
I rush for the stairs, needing to be in my own room, behind my own locked door. I’ve had enough for today.