There’s a feeling that comes over me while I stand there, in the middle of a cold, dark room. The same feeling I had on my knees for hours, reciting my prayers under the watchful eyes of Leader Allen. I was a child then, even if he didn’t always see me that way.
I’m not a child now…
Even if Ivan continues to treat me like one.
“Come,” he says finally, pen still to paper. He makes a final stroke, almost violent—his signature.
I cross the floor. The spikes of my heels barely touch the ground. It used to sound impossibly loud, the clack of shoes. And though I embraced so many loud and bright and immoral things about my new life, that was one I couldn’t shake. So I learned to walk quietly in my heels.
I stand directly in front of his desk, the tops of my thighs inches away from the edge. “Bianca wants to know if she can have tomorrow off.”
Pale gray eyes meet mine. “And the reason she isn’t asking me herself is?”
“Because you’re intimidating and, let’s face it, a cold motherfucker. She’s scared of you.”
That earns me something—a suggestion of a smile, a tilt of his lips. “But you’re not.”
“Should I be?” I challenge, but I already know the answer is yes. I’m scared, but I’m here anyway. What does that say about me? “I can cover for Bianca tomorrow.”
“Can you?” he says, which is his way of saying yes. His gaze sweeps over me like a tangible touch, taking in my ruffled lace bra-and-panties set in a pale, peachy pink. My nipples harden under his hot gaze, even through the gauzy fabric. “You work too much already.”
I give him a saucy smile, the same way I’d do for a customer. “I still find plenty of time to play.”
His lids lower. “Play,” he repeats, tasting the word.
Oh shit. There’s doubt in that one word. And derision. And unarguable dominance. It drops my chin to my chest and my eyes to the floor. I’m no longer the sassy, sarcastic stripper who flirted with Luca upstairs. Now I’m standing under Ivan’s scrutiny, waiting for him to pass judgment.
“And have you been good?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
But with just that one word, I prove myself wrong. He frowns at me. That frown. That stern expression, the forbidding glint i
n his eyes. I dream of his face this way, of all it means, of what comes next. This is a dream.
“Yes, sir.” It’s not what he wants to be called, not exactly.
He gives me a short nod. “You ate?”
On Harmony Hills there were acres of wheat, of corn. And the table—the table was empty. We were fed according to how much we had sinned. When I misbehave, I have a tendency to punish myself. Ivan doesn’t like this.
He’s the only one who can punish me now.
“Enough,” I say.
“You slept well?”
God, this concern. So twisted and fake and perfect. It slices through me, right to the core of regret and longing. I shrug.
One eyebrow rises. “Or did you go out last night?”
He knows I didn’t. The men watching me would have told him I didn’t leave my apartment. When I first came to Ivan, he got me tutors and textbooks. I started at a third-grade level and worked my way to high school level in the year that I lived with him. Meanwhile he dressed me up and sheltered me. And I knew I would never really grow up unless I left. So I demanded to move out, insisted on dancing at the Grand, and he allowed it as long as he could monitor my every move.
I’m a different person now. No one could recognize me, my hair like silk instead of straw, my skin flushed and tanned and powered instead of flat. I’ve filled out too. Good food has given me curves instead of a stick-thin body.
As much as I’ve changed, I can’t leave my past behind.
Someone won’t let me leave my past behind.