“Play the Andante again,” he orders.
***
This time, I’m achingly conscious of the red, throbbing feeling in my punished palms. I try to push it to the back of my mind and focus on the music, but I can’t. The pain is too present.
Nikolai has moved, and is standing behind me. I can feel the displeasure radiating off him, and I tense. The second punishment will not be as mild as a ruler on my palms. Nikolai has always been ruthless in the pursuit of his goals.
So I do the only thing possible. I don’t try to push away the pain and bury it, because I can’t. I open myself up and I invite it in. The second minute of the Andante, I’m open in a way that I haven’t allowed myself to be in six years. The music flows, and I don’t try to control it. I just shape it with my fingers, and let it spill through.
At the end, I close my eyes. I feel drained. I also know I’ve played the Andante in a way I’ve never played it before.
“Better,” he notes. “But you still have progress to make.”
Better. I hug the word of praise to myself, knowing that praise from Nikolai is a rare thing and is to be cherished. If this is the result, then I’m ready to face anything that Nikolai Zhdanov has in store for me this week.
***
It is after midnight when he finally stands up. I’ve played my entire audition program twice, and he’s stood behind me and watched. As I play, I’m achingly conscious of him, of his beautiful, scarred hands and his strong body, and of the fire that hides underneath his carefully blank expression.
“We have an intense few days ahead,” is all he says. “Get some sleep.”
“Where?” I ask.
He points to the cage, and I notice there’s some kind of lumpy bedding there.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I state flatly. It doesn’t come out as a question.
He sounds indifferent as he answers. “You can sleep in the cage with the bedding, or on the floor without.” He points to the ceiling, where I note several blinking security cameras that I hadn’t seen earlier. “You cannot pull the bedding out of the cage.”
“You get your jollies spying on women?” There’s judgement in my voice, though I try to keep my tone expressionless. Although it’s been six years since I’ve seen him, I did know Nikolai fairly well when I was younger. This just doesn’t seem much like him.
He laughs, an easy, relaxed sound. “No, but when I leave women restrained in here,” he points to the Saint Andrews Cross and the cage, “it’s for their safety that I watch.”
Ah.
“Are you going to lock me into the cage?” I sound nervous.
This time, when he laughs, it isn’t easy or relaxed. It is a dark threat and I shiver as I hear it. “I don’t hold the key to your cage, Allie,” he says. “You do.”
We eye each other for the longest time. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. My thoughts are a turmoil; the stress of the failed audition, the bus ride to Boston, the events of the day, all of it has taken a toll. I’m exhausted.
“Goodnight, Allie.”
I crawl into the cage and curl up. I want to think about what tomorrow has to bring, I want to worry and fret about the Juilliard audition, and I want to delve into why I’m still attracted to Nikolai.
I’m too tired to do any of this. I fall asleep.
Chapter 3
Saturday, March 2
I wake up to the smell of coffee wafting through the house. A ray of sunlight shines in through the high window set in the basement. Crawling out of my cage, I stretch, before ducking into the adjacent half-bathroom and rinsing my mouth out with hot water. I wish I’d been smart enough to at least pack a toothbrush.
Still, Nikolai would hardly want to hang out with me with my breath smelling like a mixture of stale burgers and beer in a bacteria-infested stew, would he? I hold onto hope.
I’m resolutely avoiding thinking about what today has to offer. I’m trying to not focus on the wall of whips and chains and paddles, because it fixes me with a strange mix of terror and anticipation, and I don’t understand the way I feel. Surely, I don’t want to be whipped by Nikolai. Do I?
My body heats as I imagine the scene. I will be naked, of course, and Nikolai will be clothed. My arms will be tied behind my back and my breasts will jut forward. His eyes will be expressionless, and then he’ll snap his fingers, and I’ll beg him to whip me. “Good,” he’ll say. Only that one word. “Good.”
Snap out of it, I order myself. It has been a long time since Nikolai Zhdanov approved of anything I did. Good is not the word I’m going to hear from him.
***
Nikolai is reading the Globe when I head upstairs. “Good morning,” I say. I’m wearing the white shirt and navy blue pencil skirt I wore yesterday to my failed audition.