Stolen Heir: Chapter 12

Encounters with Mikolaj leave me feeling raw and frayed. His ferocious blue eyes seem to strip off my skin, leaving every nerve exposed. Then he pokes and prods at all my most sensitive places, until I can’t bear it another moment.

He terrifies me.

And yet, he’s not completely repulsive, not in the way he should be.

My eyes are drawn to him and I can’t look away. Every inch of his face is burned into my mind, from the way his sweep of pale blond hair falls against his right cheek, to the dent in the center of his upper lip, to the tense set of his shoulders.

When he took my hand, I was surprised how warm his fingers felt, closing around mine. I guess I expected them to be clammy or covered in scales. Instead I saw strong, flexible, artistic hands. Clean nails, cut short. And only one strange thing: he was missing half the pinky on his left hand.

Mikolaj isn’t the only one with a missing finger. One of the other guards has the same thing—the dark, handsome one, whose name might be Marcel. I noticed it when he was smoking below my window. He offered Klara a cigarette with the damaged hand, but she shook her head and hurried back inside the house.

I’ve been around enough gangsters to know such things are often done as punishment. The Yakuza do it. The Russians, too. They also remove tattoos when a soldier is demoted, or brand him with a mark of dishonor.

I haven’t gotten close enough to Mikolaj to see what his tattoos represent. He has so many, more than the average criminal. They must mean something to him.

I’m curious, and I don’t want to be. I hate how he draws me in. It’s like hypnosis. I’m humiliated by how easily I agreed to dance with him. He used the thing I love the most to get at me, and when I came back to reality, I couldn’t believe how easily I had lost myself.

This man is my enemy. I can’t forget that for an instant.

He hates me. It blazes out of his face, every time he looks at me.

This will sound incredibly sheltered, but no one has ever hated me before—not like this. I sailed through school with plenty of friends. I’ve never been bullied, or even insulted—at least, not to my face. I’ve never had anyone look at me with loathing, like I’m an insect, like I’m a pile of burning trash.

I always try to be cheerful and kind. I can’t stand conflict. It’s practically pathological. I need to be loved.

I can feel myself squirming under his gaze, trying to think of a way to prove that I don’t deserve his contempt. I feel compelled to reason with him, even when I know how impossible that would be.

It’s pathetic.

I wish I were brave and confident. I wish I didn’t care what anyone thought.

I’ve always been surrounded by people who love me. My parents, my older brother—even Riona, who might be prickly, but I know she cares about me, deep down. Our house staff spoiled and adored me.

Now it’s all been ripped away, and what am I without it? A weak and frightened girl who is so deeply, deeply lonely that I would even sit down to dinner with my own kidnapper again, just to have someone to talk to.

It’s sick.

I have to find a way of surviving here. Some way to distract myself.

So the next morning, as soon as I wake up, I’m determined to start exploring the house.

I’ve barely sat up in bed before Klara brings in my breakfast tray. She has a hopeful, expectant look on her face. Someone must have told her I agreed to eat.

True to my word, I come sit at the little breakfast table over by the window. Klara sets the food down in front of me, laying a linen napkin in my lap.

It smells phenomenal. I’m even hungrier than I was last night. I rip into the bacon and fried eggs, then shovel up mouthfuls of diced potatoes.

My stomach is a bear fresh out of hibernation. It wants everything, absolutely everything, inside of it.

Klara is so pleased to see me stuffing potatoes in my mouth that she continues her Polish lessons, naming everything on the tray.

I’m starting to pick up some of the bridge words as well—for example, when she points to the coffee and says, “To się nazywa kawa,” I’m pretty sure it means “That’s called coffee.”

In fact, the more comfortable Klara gets, the more she starts directing full sentences at me, just out of friendliness, not expecting me to understand it.

As she pulls open the heavy crimson drapes, she says, “Jaki Piękny dzień,” which I think is something like, “It’s a beautiful day.” Or maybe, “It’s sunny today.” I’ll figure it out as I hear more.

I notice Klara isn’t missing any bits of her fingers, and she doesn’t have any tattoos like Mikolaj’s men—none that are visible, anyway. I don’t think she’s Braterstwo herself. She just works for them.

I’m not stupid enough to think that means she’s on my side. Klara is kind, but we’re still strangers. I can’t expect her to help me.

I do expect to leave this room today, however. Mikolaj promised that if I kept eating, I could wander around the rest of the house. Everywhere but the west wing.

So after I finish, I tell Klara, “I want to go outside today.”

Klara nods, but points toward the bathroom first.

Right. I’m supposed to shower and change clothes.

The bedroom contains the giant claw-foot tub that Klara used to bathe me last night. The bathroom is much more modern, with a standing glass shower and double sinks. I rinse off quickly, then pick a clean outfit from the chest of drawers.

I pull out a white t-shirt and gray sweatshorts, like something you’d be assigned to wear in gym class. There are other fancier clothes, but I don’t want to draw attention, especially from Mikolaj’s men.

Klara picks up my dirty clothes off the floor, wrinkling her nose because they’ve gotten pretty filthy over the last few days, even though I haven’t worn them out of the room.

“Umyję je,” she says.

I’m hoping that means, “I need to wash these,” not, “I’m chucking these in the trash.”

“Don’t throw them away!” I beg her. “I need that bodysuit. For dancing.”

I point to the leotard and do a quick first to second position with my arms, to show her that I want to wear it when I practice.

Klara nods her head.

“Rozumiem.” I understand.

Klara insists on blow-drying my hair again, and styling it. She does a sort of half-up, half-down thing with braids around the crown of the head. It looks nice but takes way too long when I’m impatient to start exploring. She tries to paint my face again, but I push away the makeup bag. I never agreed to put on a full-face every day.

I hop off the chair, determined to get out of this room. As I pad toward the door in sock feet, I almost expect it to be locked again. But it opens easily. I’m able to walk out in the hallway, unescorted.

This time I look into every room as I pass.

Like most old mansions, there dozens of rooms, each with its own odd purpose. I see a music room with a giant Steinway in its center, the lid partially raised, and the legs elaborately carved with flora and marquetry. The next room contains several old easels and a wall of framed landscapes, which might have been painted by a previous occupant. Then three or four more bedrooms, each decorated in a different jewel tone. Mine is the “red room,” while the others are done in shades of emerald, sapphire, and golden yellow. Then several sitting rooms and studies, and a small library.

Most of the rooms still have the original wallpaper, peeling in some spots and water damaged in others. The majority of the furniture is original too—elaborate cabinets, upholstered armchairs and chaises, mother-of-pearl end tables, gilded mirrors, and Tiffany lamps.

My mother would kill to walk around in here. Our house is modern, but she loves historical decor. I’m sure she could tell me the names of the furniture designers, and probably the painters of the art on the walls.

Thinking about my mom makes my heart clench up. I can almost feel her fingers, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. What is she doing right now? Is she thinking about me, too? Is she afraid? Is she crying? Does she know I’m still alive, because mothers always know somehow?

I shake my head to clear it.

I can’t do this. I can’t wallow in self-pity. I have to explore the house and grounds. I have to make some kind of plan.

So I go through every room. I mean to be strategic, but I soon get lost in aesthetics once more.

I don’t like to admit it, but this place is fascinating. I could spend hours in each of the rooms. The interiors are so intricate. It’s layer after layer of pattern: painted friezes and woven rugs, murals and door surrounds. There isn’t a single mirror or cupboard that isn’t carved and ornamented in some way.

I almost don’t look out the windows at all, but when I do, I notice something very interesting: through the towering oaks and maples, and the even taller ash trees, I see the corner of a building. A skyscraper. It’s not one I know by sight—nothing as distinctive as the Tribune Tower, or the Willis Tower. But I’m quite certain that I’m still in Chicago.

That knowledge gives me hope. Hope that family will track me down before too many more days slip by.

Or I could escape.

I know I have this damned bracelet around my ankle. But it’s not invincible, and neither is the Beast. If I can get off the grounds, I’ll be right in the city. I’ll be able to get to a phone, or a police station.

With that thought in mind, I head down the staircase once more to the main floor. I want to explore the grounds.

I find my way back to the formal dining room, and the ballroom. I don’t go inside either, having seen them well enough last night. On the other side of the ballroom is the grand lobby and the front door, which is twelve feet high and looks like it requires a winch to open. It’s locked and latched—there’s no going out that way.

I see Jonas walking toward the billiards room, and I duck into the nearest niche, not wanting him to see me. I’ve already passed two other soldiers, but they ignored me, obviously instructed that I’m allowed to walk around the house.

I don’t think Jonas would be so courteous. He seems to enjoy harassing me almost as much as his boss does.

Once he’s passed by, I find my way back to the glassed-in conservatory. It’s much hotter by day than by night. Still, my skin feels chilled as I pass the bench where Mikolaj was sitting. It’s empty now. I’m alone, unless he’s hiding somewhere else in all these plants.

Unlike that night, the back door is unlocked. I can turn the knob and step outside for the first time in a week.

The fresh air feels like one hundred percent pure oxygen. It rushes into my lungs, clean and fragrant, giving me an instant high. I’d gotten used to the dusty dankness of the house. Now I’m intoxicated by the breeze on my face, and the grass under my feet. I strip off my socks so I can walk around barefoot, feeling the springy earth against my arches and toes.

I’m inside a walled garden. I’ve been to famous gardens in England and France. Even they couldn’t match the pure density of this place. It’s thickly green, everywhere I look. The stone walls are covered in ivy and clematis, the flowerbeds carpeted with blooms. Shaggy hedges, rose bushes, and maple trees crowd together, with barely space to walk down the cobbled paths. I hear water flowing over fountains. I know from the top-down view out my window that this garden contains dozens of sculptures and baths, but they’re hidden in the labyrinth of plants.

I want to spend the rest of the day out here, drowning in the scent of the flowers and the droning of the bees.

But first I want to grab a book out of the library, so I can read outdoors.

So I head back inside, still barefoot because I abandoned my socks on the lawn.

I take a wrong turn by the kitchen and have to double back, looking for the large library on the ground floor. As I’m passing by the billiards room, I hear the low, clipped voice of the Beast. He’s talking to Jonas, speaking in Polish. They’re sprinkling in words and phrases in English, as people will do when a sentence is easier to say in one language than another.

“Jak długo będziesz czekać?” Jonas says.

“Tak długo, jak mi się podoba,” the Beast replies lazily.

“Mogą śledzić cię tutaj.”

“The fuck they will!” Mikolaj snaps, in English. He lets out a torrent of Polish in which he is clearly telling Jonas off.

I creep closer to the doorway. I can’t understand most of what they’re saying, but Mikolaj sounds so pissed that I’m almost certain he’s talking about my family.

“Dobrze szefie,” Jonas says, chastened. “Przykro mi.”

I know what that means. Okay, boss. My apologies.

Then Jonas says, “What about the Russians? Oni chcą spotkania.”

The Beast starts to answer. He says a couple of sentences in Polish, then pauses abruptly.

In English, he says, “I’m not familiar with Irish customs, but I think listening in doorways is considered rude worldwide.”

It feels like the temperature dropped twenty degrees. Both Mikolaj and Jonas stand silent in the billiards room. They’re waiting for me to answer, or to show myself.

I’d like to fade into the wallpaper instead. Unfortunately, that’s not an option.

I swallow hard, and step into the doorway where they can see me.

“You know I can tell exactly where you are in the house at all times,” the Beast says, fixing me with his malevolent stare.

Right. This damned ankle monitor. I hate how it’s always clattering around on my foot, digging into me when I try to sleep.

Jonas seems caught between his desire to smirk at me, and his discomfort at the dressing-down he just got from Mikolaj. His smug nature wins out. Cocking an eyebrow, he says, “Only been out of your room a few hours, and you’re already getting in trouble. I told Miko we shouldn’t let you out.”

Mikolaj throws Jonas a sharp look, both annoyed at the intimation that his subordinate can “tell him” anything, and irritated by the use of the nickname.

I wonder how he’d like my name for him.

Who am I kidding? He’d probably love it.

“What are you hoping to hear?” the Beast says mockingly. “The codes to my bank accounts? The password to the security system? I could tell you every secret I know, and you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”

I can feel my cheeks flushing pink.

He’s right. I’m completely powerless. That’s why he’s letting me wander around his house.

“I’m surprised your parents didn’t train you,” Mikolaj says, drawing closer to me. He looks down at me, his face twisted with disdain. “They should have raised a wolf, not a little lamb. It almost seems cruel.”

Even though I know it’s intentional, and even though I’m fighting against it, his words burrow into my brain like barbs.

My brother Callum knows how to fight, how to shoot a gun. He was taught to be a leader, a planner, an executor.

I was sent to dance classes and tennis lessons.

Why didn’t my parents consider what might happen if I ever left the safety of their arms? They brought me into a dark and dangerous world, and then they armed me with books, dresses, ballet slippers . . .

It does seem intentional. And neglectful.

Of course, they never expected me to be kidnapped by a sociopath bent on revenge.

But maybe they should have.

“I wish you could fight back, moja mała baletnica.” My little ballerina. “This would be so much more fun.”

Mikolaj looks down into my frightened face.

He cocks his head, like a wolf trying to understand a mouse.

He smells like a wolf would smell. Like the musk on a real fur coat. Like bare branches in the snow. Like bulrushes and bergamot.

He looks at me until I shrink under his gaze. Then he grows bored and turns away from me.

Without thinking, I cry out, “I don’t think your father was much of a model! Cutting off his own son’s finger!”

Mikolaj whips around again, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“What did you say?” he hisses.

Now I’m sure that I’m right.

“The Butcher cut off your pinky,” I say. “I don’t know why you’re so determined to get revenge on his behalf, if that’s how he treated you.”

In three steps, Mikolaj has crossed the space between us. I can’t back up fast enough. My back hits the wall and he’s right in front of me, close enough to bite me, breathing down in my face.

“You think he should have coddled me and spoiled me?” he says, pinning me against the wall with his fury. “He taught me every lesson worth knowing. He never spared me.”

He holds up his hand so I can see the long, flexible fingers—perfectly shaped, except for that pinky.

“This was my very first lesson. It taught me that there’s always a price to pay. Your family needs to learn that. And so do you, baletnica.”

Like a magic trick, a steel blade appears in his hand, taken from his pocket faster than I can blink. It slashes past my face, too quick for me to even put up my hands to protect myself.

I don’t feel any pain.

I open my eyes. Mikolaj steps back, a long strip of my hair wrapped around his hand. He’s cut it right off.

I shriek, trying to feel where he took it from.

I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s deeply upsetting seeing those familiar light-brown strands draped over his palm. It feels like he stole a much more vital piece of me than hair.

I turn and run away, sprinting back upstairs. Jonas and Mikolaj’s laughter rings in my ears.

I run into my room and slam the door shut. As if Mikolaj cared to follow me. As if I could keep him out.