Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
I walk to the mirror to look at myself. Considering everything I’ve been through, it’s not a horrible image. They’ve kept me clean. They’ve kept me fed. They’ve kept me upright. That’s the part that makes people on the outside misunderstand what this is. They assume comfort means kindness. They assume luxury means safety. They assume a prison only counts if there are chains.
Mikhail doesn’t need chains. He has power.
I look at my face in the mirror and take inventory. I look pale. My eyes are darker than I remember, which goes well with the bags underneath. My lips are chapped. The bruise under my ribs is fading into sick yellow and green, but it’s still there. The tenderness is still there. The nausea is still there. The baby is still there.
I press my palm flat against my stomach. I need the reminder that I’m not only fighting for myself now. I’m fighting for this little one’s future.
I take my hand away and turn from the mirror, forcing myself to walk the length of the room even though the carpet is soft and the air is cold and my stomach keeps trying to betray me. I count the steps from the bed to the door. I count the steps from the sitting area to the bathroom. I count the seconds between patrol passes outside the window. I’ve been doing this since the moment I woke up here. It’s not for any hope of escape, just habit, I guess.
I hear movement in the hallway a while later. It isn’t one set of footsteps. It’s multiple people moving in a coordinated way, and the sound pulls my attention immediately. They stop outside my door. The lock disengages. Voices murmur low. Then the door opens.
Two guards enter first, scanning like they expect me to be hiding with a weapon, ready to spring out at them. Behind them comes Dahlia and two other women carrying garment bags. They don’t look at me. They move with purpose, like I’m an inconvenience in the path of their job.
The sight of the white garment bag makes me sick, so hard I have to breathe through it in shallow pulls until the nausea settles. I refuse to go to my knees. I refuse to give anyone in this room the satisfaction of seeing me bend.
“I thought we were going out to the fitting,” I say to Dahlia.
Her frown deepens. “Change of plans,” she says in a fake cheery tone. “Mr. Grinkov thought it would be best if the fitting came to you. In light of your delicate condition.”
She smiles brightly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. He’s had a word with her, I imagine. He saw our conversation on his screen and decided that I’m not trustworthy. He’s right.
“Mr. Grinkov would like you to shower and wash your hair,” she says carefully. “Once you’re ready, a glam team will do your hair and makeup to make sure it’s up to your standards for the big day.”
I know it’s no use arguing with her. There are too many guns in this room and too many innocent people who will get hurt if I say no. There’s no reason to argue with her now. I’ll get my revenge on the wedding day. I’ll end this whole nightmare.
When I come out of the bathroom, freshly showered and wearing a robe Dahlia laid out for me, I’m facing a crew of women who’ve set up a makeshift salon. There’s a tower of trunks with makeup on top. There’s another station with a hair dryer and various other hair tools to get me ready. Dahlia is setting out jewelry.
“We’re just checking to make sure everything looks good together,” she explains to me when I raise an eyebrow at her. “In case we need to make any adjustments.”
I roll my eyes and sit down in the chair that’s clearly been pulled out for me. I notice I’m not set up to face the mirror. This is Mikhail’s doing, I’m sure. He doesn’t want me to see myself getting ready. It’s all part of his careful control.
As the hairstylist starts working product through my hair, she bends down to whisper, “You’re very lucky, you know.”
I look at her in surprise. She’s young and very pretty. She probably thinks this is a fairytale come true. It’s time she grows up.
“Lucky?” I repeat incredulously.
“To be chosen,” she says quickly, as if she’s rehearsed it. “To be the wife of a pakhan. Some women would—”
“Some women are stupid,” I cut in.
Dahlia looks up at us with concern. “Perhaps it’s best to have a silent appointment,” she says, looking at the hairstylist with meaning.
The young woman goes quiet and focuses on her tools again, hands trembling slightly. Good. She should be nervous. This is not a fairytale. This is a horror story.