The Darkness Within

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

The following evening, Sergei once again sends Ksenia up to request my presence at dinner. Ksenia moves towards the walk-in closet not far from the bathroom, and steps right in, rummaging through the impressive amount of clothing and accessory items that arrived today. When Sergei said clothes will arrive tomorrow, I assumed a few necessities. Instead, it looks like he emptied out a high-fashion mall.

I suppose the fortune he must've spent would only be peanuts to him. His file never put a dollar figure on his wealth, but it probably matches the richest people around the world, considering just how much power he wields in Eurasia. He gets tithes from an excessive amount of businesses—ranging from family restaurants to various successful companies. He's also deep into oil drilling. I doubt he has reason to bat an eye to any expense.

"Mr. Novikov would like you to wear this dress," Ksenia tells me in Russian, walking to the bed and draping a emerald-green satin gown on the neat bedspread.

This dress isn't bejeweled like the last one Sergei had me wear, but it's no less marvelous. Knowing I don't truly have a choice, and not wanting to waste energy fighting small battles, I head into the bathroom and slip into the dress.

It's certainly a bold one, but in an elegant way. The V-neck reaches all the way to my bellybutton, exposing the black lace of my bra, and I'm quite positive Sergei intended it that way. The vivid color of the dress matches my irises, making them look like they almost glow. I briefly glance at the makeup products on the counter—also brought in this morning.

Not necessary, I decide. I don't need makeup to boost my confidence like many women, since I find looks are irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. If Sergei wanted me to put on makeup or do my hair for him, he would've asked. Since he didn't, I assume painting my face is optional.

Emerging from the bathroom, I find Ksenia waiting by the door for me. She opens it and motions for me to leave silently, following me into the hall before walking ahead, leading the way.

Deciding to establish a friendly contact of some sort—the same thing I try to do with the guards at prisons—I speak. "Do you prefer Ksenia or Ksusha?" I question her.

Since Russian is my native tongue, I know the language beyond fluency. In Russian, many birth names have softer versions that people prefer to be called by. Women named Maria are often called Masha. Aleksandra translates to Sasha. Ksenia, generally, to Ksusha. Kira, however, doesn't have a soft version. Neither does Sergei, to my knowledge.

Ksenia does a double-take, seeming shocked that I have such depth of knowledge on the rich language. She blinks a few times, taking my measure with hesitant eyes before smiling slightly. "Ksusha works."

She's silent the rest of the walk, but I sense her softening slightly towards me. Good. Making friends on the inside is imperative if I intend to survive in this household, let alone escape it.

As soon as we reach the dining room, she scurries away, likely having other duties to attend to. Mentally bracing myself, I step into the opulent dining room. Sergei, like last time, is sitting at the head of the table—which already has an elaborate spread on it—this time speaking to someone on his phone.

"If you think I give a shit, you're mistaken," he says to whoever's on the other end of the line, briefly meeting my eyes and waving me over. Sergei uses the mildest, lightest tone, but somehow manages to sound as menacing as if he were railing at the top of his lungs.

He follows my movements with glittering, enticed eyes, taking in the dress with obvious pleasure.

"That's enough. You know your task. Either follow through, or I'll be paying you a visit under unpleasant circumstances." With those words, ringing with commandment, he ends the phone call and drops his phone in the pocket of his tailored jet-black pants, before straightening a nonexistent rumple in his matching dinner jacket.