Page 14 of Ruinous Need

LISETTE

I STUMBLE INTO a wall of fabric outside my bedroom door, confused at what I’m seeing. Has Viktor barricaded me in my bedroom?

Then I take in the brand names.

This isn’t a barricade.

He’s gone shopping.

I guess this is some kind of apology for the stinging pain that’s still making it hard for me to sit down, two days after his punishment. Two days after my twisted orgasm under the admittedly skilled and surprisingly tender hands of my captor.

Couldn’t he just apologize to my face like a normal person? I guess he’s not a normal person, though.

If I were talking to him — and I’m still not, orgasms notwithstanding — I would text him that this is overkill. My ass is sore, but it’s not sore to the tune of what must be thousands in designer clothes.

The tower of duffel bags is piled almost as high as the door frame, looking like they’re about to burst their seams.

I drag one down from the top. It’s full of lacy lingerie.

The elaborate type of underwear I never waste money on.

Outside of my boyfriend in the first year of college and a brief fling with the lead dancer at the ballet, both long gone, no one’s going to see it.

The fabrics are soft and strong against my hands, despite the gauzy appearance.

Every piece screams decadence. They’re even scented with exotic, rich perfume that must have been thick in the store they came from.

The tags on these pieces of lingerie don’t even have prices, which makes me shudder to think how much Viktor has spent.

My favorite is a set in peacock blue with tiny opalescent beads embedded in the fabric.

When I try it on, it’s surprisingly comfortable and cool.

The bra sweeps low in a demi cup, making it look like I actually have breasts for the first time in my life.

The panties are high-cut, emphasizing the gentle flare of my hips and the nipped-in section of my waist. I guess this is what it’s like when underwear costs more than $20 from the sales rack.

In the mirror, I don’t look boyish and flat. I look like a woman with curves. Subtle ones, admittedly, but they exist.

Maybe I even look good. I bite my lip when I find myself staring at my reflection for too long.

Contemplating what Viktor would think if he could see me now.

My eyes keep returning to the pink skin contrasting against the blue of the silk panties, still raw from his hand.

I trace my hand over the mark. Still tender to touch. Still aching with the imprint of him.

I try to dissolve that thought. He’s not here. And I don’t want him to touch me again, anyway. Not with those big, firm hands. Not with that cruel touch that doesn’t stop even when I’ve found my pleasure.

All attempts to stop my brain from running wild are futile. I’ve barely been able to get what happened two nights ago out of my head.

My desire for him is like an open wire of electricity. At the slightest touch it sparks, sending pain and passion in a confusing mix through my body.

Stop. Thinking. About. Viktor.

I turn my focus back to the pile of clothing.

The other bags are overflowing too. Lounge-wear, soft cotton bathrobes, and floaty dresses that make me long for a summer holiday somewhere far from the New York winter.

Somehow it’s in my favorite colors and precisely my right size, too. Bright and cheerful. The opposite of his black sweatpants. Even if they did smell addictively good…

I push that thought away.

I’m replaying the events of two nights ago on a loop in an incessant fantasy that makes my core tingle, and now I’m craving the smell of him too?

Insanity.

“Hello?” comes a voice from the other side of the wall of clothing, startling me out of my weird craving for Viktor’s clothes. A woman’s voice. What the hell?

She laughs on the other side. “Is that you, Lisette?” Her voice is musical and soft. “This is a lot of clothing.”

I hear her dragging things around to get through the pile and then she’s right in front of me.

“Hi. I’m Daria Sulikova. I think Viktor told you about me.”

She’s a striking brunette who’s almost double my height, her hair cut into an immaculate and gleaming bob. There’s an edge of danger to her, like there is with Viktor.

I’d totally forgotten that Viktor had told me a new guard would be arriving today. Markov is still here, too, but since Marianne they’ve been on high alert and thought back-up would be needed.

I look down at the random kaftan I’ve tried on. At least it’s not the lingerie set.

“I’m Lisette, but I guess you knew that already.”

“Do you want some help unpacking the clothes?”

“Please. I think this is Viktor’s way of saying sorry, but it’s a lot.”

Daria nods, grabbing down a bag stuffed full of dresses which I have absolutely no occasion to wear.

“Well, you are about to become Queen of the Bratva. I guess they want to make sure you look the part, even while you’re… here.” She gestures around at the starkly undecorated room in Viktor’s apartment.

I’m so relieved to have someone to vent to about my situation while we unpack the clothes that I start treating Daria like a best friend.

I guess it’s a kind of Stockholm syndrome — any human connection right now is appreciated, especially if it’s not as emotionally charged and intense as interacting with Viktor.