Her Hitman - Flora Ferrari Page 0,2

in their elegant dresses, I see a sword and a spark of lightning and the corner of a globe, the sail of a ship, the room so huge that it can contain dozens of separate scenes.

I make my circuit, letting out a breath, glad that I didn’t stumble in my heels.

Before they brought me here, I was never much for wearing heels. I was always more comfortable in boots or sneakers. Heels require an expertise that I never cultivated.

I feel my mind trying to tug me back to the night it happened, but I forcefully drag it back. Thinking about that will only sting me with shame and regret and self-hatred, and I haven’t got time for that.

Another platter—another circuit.

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