Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,48

away.

16

Nessa

I wake in the morning, sticky and sweaty and flooded with shame.

The memories swirling around in my brain are just nightmares. They have to be.

There’s no way on god’s green earth that my very first kiss was with my kidnapper.

I could not possibly be that stupid.

And then to touch myself afterward!

My face is burning with humiliation, remembering it. I ran back to my room, intending to hide. But I was flustered, throbbing, aching for something. And when I put my hand there just for a second, it felt meltingly good. It felt like pleasure and relief and a desperate need to keep going, all at once.

And that orgasm . . .

Oh my god. You could take every time I touched myself before, grind it up in a blender, crank it up by a factor of ten, and it wouldn’t even approach what I just experienced.

It’s insane and impossible, so there’s no way it actually happened.

I keep telling myself that while I stumble into the shower, stripping off my nasty bodysuit and soaping myself for what feels like an hour. I scrub every inch of my skin, trying to rid myself of the sensations that keep popping up—the way his hands felt, yanking my hair. The way his mouth tasted, like salt and cigarettes and citrus and blood. The surprising warmth of his lips. And the way his tongue slid up my neck, igniting each neuron in my brain like a string of firecrackers.

No, no, NO!

I hated that. I didn’t like any of it. It was awful and crazy and it’s never happening again.

I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my body and swiping my palm across the foggy mirror. My own startled face looks back at me, lips swollen and eyes guilty.

I grab my toothbrush and scrub my mouth viciously, trying to remove the taste of him.

When I come out of the bathroom, Klara is standing by my bed. I give a little shriek.

“Dzień dobry!” she says cheerfully.

“Hey,” I say dully, too depressed to respond in kind.

She purses her lips, looking me over. After we created the perfect little dance studio just yesterday, she expected to find me cheerful.

“Popatrz!” she says, pointing to the bed. Look!

She’s already made the bed, pulling the covers tight and tucking them in as always. Then she’s spread out a dozen pieces of dancewear, including leotards, tights, warmups, socks, and two pairs of brand new pointe shoes.

This isn’t just any dancewear—it’s Yumiko bodysuits and Grishko shoes. The warmups are some of the newest pieces from Eleve. It’s better than what I have in my own closet at home. Picking up the pointe shoes, I see they’re the exact right size.

“Where did this come from?” I ask Klara weakly. “Did you buy this?”

She just shrugs, smiling.

She might have picked it up, but I don’t think she paid for it. Not that I’d want her to—I doubt she makes much money. But the alternative is worse. Did Mikolaj tell her to get all this? Because I let him kiss me?

It makes me shudder.

I want to pull it all off the bed and throw it in the trash.

I can’t do that, though. Klara looks too pleased, too hopeful.

She thought I’d be thrilled to have something better to wear than my one, increasingly tattered, bodysuit.

“Thanks, Klara,” I say, trying to force a smile.

Meanwhile, my stomach is clenched up in a knot.

I’m so confused. One minute I think the Beast is going to kill me, and the next he’s buying me gifts. I don’t know which is worse.

Klara gestures for me to put one of the outfits on.

God, I really don’t want to.

“Tutaj,” she says, picking one out for me.

It’s a backless lavender leotard, with knitted gray legwarmers and a matching crop-top. It’s really lovely. And just the right size.

I pull it on, appreciating the fine, stretchy material, how new and well-fitting it all is.

Klara stands back, smiling with satisfaction.

“Thank you,” I tell her again, more sincerely this time.

“Oczywiście,” she says. Of course.

She’s brought me breakfast—oatmeal, strawberries, and Greek yogurt. Coffee and tea as well. When I’m done eating, I head straight to my studio to get back to work.

I’ve never felt so compelled to work on a project before. Far from ruining it with his interruption, Mikolaj has given me more ideas than ever. I don’t want to say that he inspired me, but he certainly stirred up some emotions that I can pour into my work. Fear, confusion, angst, and maybe . . . a