Chapter 12

Mishka

Iswallowed a sigh. As usual, I was tired by the end of the day. I woke early every day, intending to practice, but never seemed to find time unless I was given the afternoon off.

Dinner was progressing as ‘usual', as if there was anything usual about this situation. Anton ate a sumptuous meal. I scurried around clearing his plates and tending to his needs. He did not lift a finger, other than one holding a fork or a wine glass.

But that was different. He was drinking red wine, and not to excess. And he asked for water. Sparking mineral water, of course. Shockingly expensive. But it sent a little shiver of… something… through me.

I could not, and would not, examine that feeling too closely.

He had listened to me, it seemed. For my offer of water had influenced him, which seemed shocking. I had no way of knowing if his behavior was normal or not. If the excessive vodka consumption over the past two weeks was the normal. Or if he often drank red wine.

I really did not know him well. Yet. Even if I spent months observing him at close proximity, I wondered if I ever would. I could work here for years and never know. I could work here for a decade.

My heart started thudding in my chest at that thought. The room seemed to tilt as that potential reality set in. Years of this mind-numbing service, all to repay my father's debt for a business that was not my dream. Not my future.

Anton as much as owned me. We both knew it. I was completely vulnerable to his whims. So far, they had been benign, but I had no idea what the future might bring. Perhaps he was just biding his time. Perhaps he would continue this odd arrangement forever, like a cat toying with a mouse.

Was this my fate? Would I be a marionette, standing at attention for the rest of my life? Was I truly his, body and soul?

Would I ever play violin in front of an audience again, other than hidden in an isolate music room? Would I be allowed to attend my audition for the Moscow Symphony in six months? What was the point, if I would not be allowed to accept the position if I actually succeeded in receiving an offer of my dream career?

I needed to practice and prepare, not be standing around, pouring wine for a spoiled, criminal, aristocrat.

I swallowed back my tears. I would figure this out. And my father's life, and the chance of saving it, was more important than my hopes and dreams. The Symphony was a long shot, anyway. So why did I feel like my future was crumbling before my eyes?

I could risk losing the candy shoppe. If my father did… not survive… then the Aslanov's could have it to settle the debt. I would be free.

But if he lived, then surely my service now would help to pay down the debt, so he could continue working in his beloved storefront, making generations of children smile, and flirting benignly with their mothers, grannies, and nannies.

I exhaled. I was not going to be here forever. If I missed my audition, perhaps I could reschedule, or try again for the next cycle. It had been a long application process, started nearly a year ago, and something I daydreamed about for as long as I could remember. Since I was a little girl with tender fingers, before my calluses had developed.

And through it all, papa was there, rooting for me, cheering me on. I could not ask for a better man in my life. I could not ask for a more loving, supportive, and caring father.

I stiffed my back, having worked through the problem in mind as I stood there in silence. I could navigate this. I could tolerate it. I had made sacrifices before and I could again. My school friends had wanted to hang out and play video games on weekends and after school. I never could do that, having music lessons and chores at the candy shop. I had never really regretted missing out on those wasted hours hanging around.

That was all this was. A sacrifice. A decision. A choice.

This was not a life sentence. Merely a moment in time. And papa was seeing the doctor today. We would know more soon. I closed my eyes, saying a silent prayer that the news was good. That we both were given a reason to be hopeful.

I snapped back to attention at the sound of a chair scraping.

"You are lost in your thoughts tonight, little Mishka."

I stared at him. He was pouring himself a glass of wine, his powerful body moving in a relaxed, almost lazy, manner. He leaned against the banquet and looked at me, his movements resembling that of a large, predatory cat. My eyes widened, then rushed towards him, only to stop steps away from him, confused.

"Hmmmm, the wine is already poured. Were you planning to bring me more water, instead?"

I blushed and shook my head, stepping away. Then I curtsied, feeling absolutely mortified. He laughed, which only made it worse.

"It's alright, little Mishka. I am done with dinner. Grab the wine and follow me to my study."

I curtsied again and did as he asked.

"Bring all three bottles and another glass, too," he said, giving me an indolent smile.

I nodded, following him from the room. He must want a fresh glass for the second bottle. I suppressed my snide observation that if he drank two or three bottles of wine, it was just as bad as the sheer volume of vodka he had consumed at other meals.

I knew the routine now. He wanted me to walk ahead of him down the long windowless hallways. I stepped aside and waited while he entered the code into the keypad. Then I followed him inside, setting the wine and extra glass on the bar. I stood beside it, waiting.

I noticed that the gas fireplace was lit. Anton surprised me by walking over to it, then sitting in one of the two plush looking wing chairs at the small table in front of the fire, where a beautifully carved stone chess set sat. The pieces were all in different colors, made of semiprecious stones. It was beautiful.

"Do you play?" he asked, not turning to look at me.

I nodded, shifting back and forth imperceptibly in my heels to ease the pain. Even walking was painful now. But standing still and waiting was the worst.

I had never been a patient child, and it hadn't improved much so far in adulthood. Even after two weeks I had not gotten any better of simply standing and waiting on him. This new job rubbed against my nature in so many ways.

"Would you join me?"

"You want me to play?" I asked, shocked and suspicious. I could not hide my incredulity.

"I can't very well play myself."

I hesitated, surprisingly tempted. It would be enjoyable to play. And my feet begged me for respite.

"Pour yourself a glass of wine and sit, please."

"Is that part of my duties?" I asked stiffly. He smiled wolfishly at me and tapped his fingers together. "Is it an order?" I added, feeling unaccountably stubborn.

"Yes, Mishka. It is an order."

I lifted my chin, feeling oddly relieved that he had taken the choice away from me. I had been so incredibly conflicted. But I did not do as he said. Not yet.

"And the wine?"

He barked out a sharp laugh.

"That is for your enjoyment. And mine," he added.

"Yours?"

"It will be easier to beat you if you are imbibing. I fear that sharp brain of yours."

I stared at him, my eyes narrowing. But I turned, crossed the room, and poured myself a glass of wine. Then I walked towards him, feeling incredibly awkward. I stared at the seat, then sat, feeling like I was irrevocably crossing some sort of invisible line.

A line he had insisted I cross. It felt sacrilegious somehow. We were in new territory, no longer master and slave. Though that was the basis of our relationship, if you could call it that.

He stared at me, his eyes blazing over his steepled hands. He held out two pieces. I chose white. So, it was my move first.

He tipped his head towards the board, indicating that I should begin.

We began to play. He was an excellent player, which did not surprise me. This was Russia, after all, and he was clearly very intelligent. But I was no slouch either. I had played for years, with my father, and with the old men in our neighborhood when I was not busy with schoolwork, chores, or practice. I was hardly competition worthy, but I might have been, with more practice.

Music and chess had a lot in common. Patterns, positions, and passion all came into play. You had to be mentally dexterous, and not be numbed by the repetition. Each move, each piece, each note, was an individual, its tenor altered only by its placement in relation to the other pieces, notes, and your fellow players.

There was an intimacy to playing chess with someone that I was not prepared for. I had forgotten. We spoke very little, but I did sip my wine, which was delicious. When the game lagged a bit as the board started to clear with dwindling pieces on both sides, he stood and served me wine.

"My lady," he joked as he poured for me.

I looked up at him in surprise. Then I smiled, feeling very much like the cat that ate the canary. I couldn't help it. The smile he gave me was crooked, wry, and heart stompingly adorable. Did my captor have… a soft side?

My heart started thudding as he took his seat across from me, stippling his fingers in that arrogant way of his. I looked back to the board, trying to focus on my next move. He was distracting me on purpose! Why did he have to be so charming and adorable?

"You know you look like a Bond villain when you do that," I said without lifting my eyes from the board.

He let out a sharp bark of laughter. I quirked my lips without looking up. He continued staring at me while I realized I was probably going to be in check within a few moves. I could not figure out a way out of it.

"Drink some wine. It makes defeat easier to swallow," he offered, clearly realizing that I had reached the same conclusion.

"Does it?" I asked, tipping over my King and resigning. I took a sip of wine. He was relaxed, smiling, and so sure of himself.

His next words made me laugh and groan at the same time.

"I wouldn't know."

"You've never lost?" I asked incredulously, still holding my glass. I felt… almost relaxed. Almost… flirtatious.

"A few times," he allowed. "When I was younger. When playing masters."

"Masters?"

"Yes. Masters."

I raised my brows. I knew what he meant. If the only people who had ever defeated him were actual champions, then I didn't stand a chance. I doubted I could beat him in chess, or anything else, other than the violin. I had one thing I could excel at, if nothing else.

"You played very well," he added, sending a rush of warmth through me at his words of praise. "Again," he added. It was not a question. It was a command.

I watched as he reset the board.