Chapter 6

Mishka

He's a monster! A monster!

I paced back and forth in my room, unable to sleep. I was exhausted from the stress of the day and standing most of the night. I had barely slept the night before, rising early to say goodbye to papa and begin my indentured servitude to Anton Aslanov.

And yet I was too angry and humiliated to quiet my mind.

Serving a rich man his dinner had seemed intimidating, but not overly complex. I had told myself I could handle it. But I had never even imagined a meal as perilous as this!

Anton's dinner had stretched on for hours. I had stood in one place for what felt like forever. With my master so close by, I had tried not to shift my weight, or scratch my nose, or move in any way that was not absolutely necessary. It was harder than it looked! But I was determined not to draw his attention.

He veered wildly from ignoring me completely, to staring in an unnerving and overly personal way. The man lingered over every course, asking me probing questions seemingly out of nowhere. It was as if he was firing literal shots at me.

And his eyes! The color was a startling green, with long, thick lashes better suited to a mascara advertisement in a woman's fashion magazine! The beauty of them was only matched by their coldness. They were so hard and cynical. The way he looked me over, obviously finding me lacking, made me stand up straighter, determined to prove him wrong.

It made me want to scream! It was obvious he had grown up with more money than almost anyone on the planet. More money than God! That didn't make him better than everyone. He might be far too handsome and well-built for his own good. Certainly, he looked like a Greek god. He seemed to be highly intelligent. That did not mean he was a good person! In fact, it might very well mean the opposite!

I did my best to serve him throughout the meal, refilling his glass and setting plates in front of him as each course arrived on a large rolling tray. I opened the door to a soft knock, handed over the used plates, and closed the door once the new food was served.

I was calm, outwardly. But inside I was seething. Mortified, too.

Every probing question. Every long, judgmental look. Every smirk.

My hair was unsophisticated. That was at the top of the list, I imagined. The simple gold studs in my ears, my lack of makeup other than a quick swipe of lipgloss which was surely gone halfway through the meal, everything about me seemed up for criticism, or at least disparaging looks. His eyes inspected every inch of me, leaving him with a searching, hawkish look on his absurdly handsome face. My uniform apparently did not fit me well enough, if his frequent glances were any indication.

But that was not the worst of it. After the lengthy meal, he made me follow him to his study, where he continued to read his stack of papers and magazines. I poured him drink after drink until late in the night.

Somehow, Anton did not appear to get drunker as the evening wore on. In fact, his voice never wavered. He never slurred or slipped. His voice was calm and modulated. But the cold ice in his eyes turned to fire as the night stretched past midnight. I wondered repeatedly if I had done something wrong, or if he was just making a list of all the ways I was lacking.

Finally, close to one in the morning, he released me. His words were something like ‘fly up to bed, little sparrow'. I had practically run from the room, afraid that I would cry. And then I nearly had wept, getting horribly lost before I even found the stairway. It was not the servant's stairway, but I didn't care. I had fled to the wide hallway on the second floor, lushly carpeted so that it muffled my hasty steps, and ran, on the verge of tears, to the comfort and safety of my room.

I stripped off the hateful uniform, standing in my basic, budget friendly white bra and underpants, breathing heavily, ready to scream.

I did not know what to do with myself. My skin itself felt foreign to me in this place. I was out of my element, trapped, and with no hope of escape or relief.

Until I saw it. The worn black case, curving gently to match the instrument inside. My beautiful violin was here. I tore open the case, on my hands and knees, and lifted the familiar heft of wood and taut strings into my arms, cradling it like a baby.

I stood and placed the violin under my chin, not caring if my playing made noise, not caring if it woke the whole house. Though I knew, deep down, that it was only Anton and myself at this hour. And his study was too far for him to hear.

I played, violently, but with a precision and passion I had not felt in years. I gave a fleeting thought about trying to keep it quiet and let it slip away like a leaf on a swiftly moving stream. I simply, and unequivocally, did not care if I woke ‘his majesty', or anyone else.

When the sonata was finished, I collapsed on the bed, weeping, remembering what I was there for, and regretting my childish, hateful act of defiance.

I was a brat. I was here to save my father. My captor could have killed him, and me, without blinking an eyelash. But he had given me a chance.

It might be awful, humiliating, and challenging, but it was a chance.

I had no choice but to take it.

I dragged myself into the bathroom to wash my foolish tears away in a hot shower. I felt better the moment the hot water hit my tired shoulders and back, the heat running down my legs, soothing my spirit and my flesh. I slipped into a nightgown that had belonged to my mother and climbed into the enormous bed. I sighed at the feeling of the crisp sheets and firm mattress. I had never felt anything so luxurious.

I was not certain if it was exhaustion, physical or otherwise, or the comfort of the bed, but I fell asleep quickly, and slept deeper than I had in years.