“We’ll be married. You’ll live with me. We’ll be husband and wife.”
I’m afraid to ask, but I have to. “What does … being husband and wife entail? To you?”
He flicks his gaze at me and then back at the road. That one small moment has already left me breathless. “You’ll be on my arm at social gatherings. We’ll spend our days together when I’m not working. You’ll support me.”
“Oh. Ok.” Now, I’m too afraid to ask anything else. I wonder what “spending our days together” means to Mikhail.
“I’ll expect you in my bedroom at night,” he adds, making me freeze.
“Your … bedroom?”
“You look terrified. Do I repulse you?”
I find myself leaning toward the door, away from him. “No. You don’t repulse me.” You terrify me, but you don’t repulse me.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about your lips since I first saw you.”
I blush. “At the funeral?”
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the road. “No. Before then.”
“When?”
“I attended one of your shows. Your parents were still alive. I saw you right then and there and knew I needed to have you.” He looks at me. “Now, you’re mine.”
“Not yet,” I blurt out.
The darkness in his eyes frightens me and yet excites me at the same time. “We’ll be married as soon as we get to Russia. Well, after I buy you an appropriate wedding dress. And then, you’ll be mine.” He turns his eyes back to the road but places his hand on my thigh. It’s so much more erotic than when Boris touched me on the knee.
I hold still, waiting to see what Mikhail will do, but he doesn’t do anything. He just keeps his hand there. My thigh. So close to another part of my body. My legs are clamped shut, both in fear and arousal. I don’t understand the reaction Mikhail stirs within my body. It’s unnatural. I shouldn’t be feeling this way.
Not for a man I don’t know. Not for a man who could hurt me and never face the consequences of it.
“What if I won’t be ready to be in your …” I gulp. “Bedroom?”
He tightens his hand just slightly on my thigh. “I won’t force you, Sofiya. But I expect certain things. And I want to show you the pleasure you can get from a man’s touch. From my touch.” He lets go of my thigh and skims his fingers down to my knee and back up, causing goosebumps to rise on my skin. “I won’t be easy on you. I take what I want, and what I want is you.”
I don’t think my lungs are working properly. I can’t get air into my body. Everything feels woozy.
“Be gentle with me?” I whisper.
A smirk crosses Mikhail’s lips. He doesn’t even look at me as he responds. “I’m not a gentle man.”
I want to ask more questions, but I’m too scared. What exactly does Mikhail want to do to me? Obviously, sex. I’m not that naive. But I feel like there’s more he’s not saying.
“What if I can’t give you what you want?” I force myself to say.
“You will. I know you will.”
Mikhail’s confidence is astounding because I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out in his car at any moment.
I don’t say anything more as we drive to the airport. I don’t think I can speak even if I wanted to.
MILA
Vik and I go home after she’s discharged from the hospital. I’m glad to see she’s able to use crutches to get around. A bedridden Vik would not have been a fun thing to deal with.
“I’ll get your pillows all set for you,” I say as I help Vik up the stairs to her room. “If you need anything, just let me know. I’m here to take care of you.”
“I can walk on my own, Mila,” Vik grumbles, pulling away from me. She’s slow going on her crutches but still somehow manages to look graceful—something I’ve seriously lacked. My father always thought it was cute how I would stumble around, but I can still stumble, even though I’ve become sturdier since I began ballet.
“Here you go,” I say, pulling back the covers of her bed so she can get in. “I can bring you some food. Do you want food?”
“Mila, it’s almost midnight. I’m tired. I just want to sleep. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” I say sadly before leaving Vik’s room. I take a moment to lean against the wall. Vik doesn’t need my help, and Sofiya is gone. I wonder if she’s in Russia yet with her scary, new husband.
I’ve always dreamed of my wedding. I can picture my prince charming—tan and blond with a sweet smile. My heart melts at the thought.
The doorbell rings.
Strange. Who would be visiting so late at night?
I walk downstairs and peer through the peephole. It’s Boris.
I open the door but make sure to keep it partly closed. “Hello.”
“Mila, hello! I wanted to talk with you about something.”
