The Darkness Within

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

Several weeks pass, and the season changes from subzero winter to unpredictable spring.

Days are relatively routine. In the mornings, Sergei and I eat breakfast together. Then we separate; me going to the library, him going to his office.

He's started giving me work assignments—anything from translating documents, to joining him on interrogations, to psychological evaluations on various business partners and prospects. Sergei likes to know everything about those within and orbiting around his empire—that's why he's boss, really. He gathers all information possible, which allows him to stay several steps ahead of everyone else. When I finish my tasks, I move to studying new languages, or reading at my leisure.

In the middle of the day, at 4pm, we meet up for a few hours of training. Then we shower, most often together—on Sergei's command—before going back to our personal areas. And every night, we continue dining together.

Initially, it struck me as strange that Sergei didn't push the boundaries I set whatsoever. I expected him to start taking a sledgehammer to the barrier between us, but he didn't. Then, I realized that he was allowing me to sink into a satisfactory routine with him. He gives me interesting things to do—exercising all of my skills in various ways that my previous work as a psychiatrist failed to do.

In effect, further cementing my place beside him.

He watches me as hungrily as he has from the beginning, but never puts his hands on me, outside of training. When in his gym, he seems to delight in pinning me against surfaces and holding me in place just a tad too long. His hands accidentally land on mentionable body parts in random interims.

Outside of that, and his eyes that blaze brighter with a starved lust every day, he's the perfect gentleman.

Today, however, he takes things a step further at the very beginning of our training session. He takes me into a separate room decorated in various round targets along the walls, and offers me a challenge.

"I know I went hard on you yesterday," Sergei says with a bland smile, selecting a number of throwing knives perched on a small table in the center of the room. Went hard on is a serious understatement. By the end of our workout, I physically couldn't move. Which gave Sergei reason to carry me upstairs—no doubt a pre-planned affair.

"So I'll offer you a way out of training today," he goes on.

"Go on," I say, the soreness in my entire body needing reprieve.

His eyes flicker with something that could be glee. "We each get six knives, and six throws. Whoever gets the most bullseyes win." With that, he hands me six beautiful silver knives. "If you win, you can skip our session today."

Which, considering my state, is very enticing. "And if you win?"

His smile widens. "We'll cross that bridge when we get there."

Without much forethought, I agree, because the small chance that I get to go back to the library and rest is too good to pass up. Every part of my body aches—the muscles so sore that it takes considerable effort not to grimace every time I move.

Whatever Sergei has in mind can't be that bad. I know he won't cross any of my limits, at least. I also have been practicing with edged weapons consistently for months, now, and I pick things up pretty fast.

Then again, so does Sergei.

"Ladies first," Sergei murmurs, giving me a slow, appreciative up and down that I suspect is meant to be distracting. I stack five knives in my left hand, grip the blade of the sixth in my right hand, and let it sail into the target ten yards off—against the far wall of the room. It sinks to the hilt into the black ring at the center of the target, a perfect bullseye. The next three bracket it perfectly, but on the last one, Sergei intentionally trips me up.