Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
A bunch of the guests have begun raucously dancing in the center of the room, the party devolving into loud shouting and back-patting as it always does. The band in the corner picks up their music to match the mood, the drums beating deeply and the violin whining like a banshee.
The guests don’t look at me as I serve. They don’t look at any of us, as though the trays are simply floating around the room, their eyes trained not to see us because … well, who wants the sight of a kidnapped nineteen year old messing up their evening?
No, no, I imagine some of these fine ladies saying. Leave that curvy one in the background. She’s far too unlike us, with our pearls, our thin waists, and our shining actor’s teeth.
I find myself smiling at the thought of them even acknowledging me. It would be so absurd, so out of the ordinary.
I quickly kill the smile.
I’ve been here for a month, but it didn’t take me that long to work out that smiling was a big mistake.
Smiling is a sign that we’re human, after all, and that’s just another distraction they don’t need.
Still, I console myself as I make yet another circuit, the heels causing my feet to cramp—still, I haven’t been selected by any of the men yet.
Most nights they come drunkenly clambering into the servants’ quarters, demanding a woman to spend themselves on. I press myself against the wall and turn my gaze away and silently pray they leave me alone.
And so far they have.
But what happens when one of these sick bastards picks you?
I push the question down.
I can’t think that far ahead.
All I can think about is …
Another platter—another circuit.
I don’t even feel like I’m controlling my body anymore. I switch to autopilot and let my mind abscond to a dreamy forest, the leaves laden with snow, nothing around but the creatures brave enough to come out in the cold.
I imagine a guitar on my lap and a blanket beneath me. I feel my fingers on the strings and hear my voice rising into the winter air, dancing, rising higher, sweeter. I’m always working on my craft, always trying to improve. I used to get angry sometimes, sitting there, hating the sound of my voice.
But now I long for it, the freedom to sing, the freedom to dream.
Another platter.
Another circuit.
The night goes on and on.
I try to stay in my world of dreams, feeling the hard press of the guitar strings against my fingers, hearing my voice, feeling my voice.
But the problem with drifting away like that is that it makes me clumsy, especially after several hours of circulating, waiting, praying that I’m not noticed and don’t draw the wrath of any of these thugs.
That’s the most draining part about all of this … how tense I am all the time, constantly waiting for a guard or one of the higher ranking men to lay a hand on my arm.
“You, come with me.”
That’s all they’d have to say and I’d be powerless to resist.
The thought sends sharp stabbing terror through me, my belly going tight, my fists trying to clench against my will. I can’t clench my fists. They might see and take it as a sign of aggression.
Haha, the slave thinks she has the right to get angry.
I’m striding past Dobry and his cabal of goons when I realize, far too late, that I should have been paying more attention rather than disappearing into the safety of my mind.
One of the other servants comes striding across the room at the same time and we almost bump into each other. Charting a course through the growing mayhem is difficult enough with how erratic the Russians become once they start drinking, but the last thing I want to do is knock her platter out of her hand.
I dart back, slipping in my heels.
No, no, no.
I fall and fall, my hands flying and the tray clattering loudly to the floor. Several glasses shatter and champagne spreads like discolored blood across the marble floor, a few of the ladies tsking and stepping back, the music stopping, everybody turning to me.
I land with a painful thump, the impact spreading through my legs and up my spine.
Everything is dead-silent now.
A circle is forming around me, one composed of sneering lips and glaring eyes, and, at the front of them all, stands Dobry.
His combed over hair has come loose and spirals in wires around his head, damp with sweat. His shirt is stained in several places and the bottom buttons have come undone, revealing a slab of his hairy belly. He strides over to me, the guests and the guards parting for their leader.
“You want to make a joke of our party, is that it?” he growls in a heavy Russian accent. “You are jealous that we are having a good time, hmm? Is that your game? Speak, girl.”