Dance, Sugarplum

14. Lyla

CHAPTER 14

LYLA

ACT 2

I wake up in a panic as blood-curdling screams echo around the room. My heart races. It’s still dark, and my mind hasn’t caught up with my surroundings. I sit up fast, thinking I’m still at the theater and likely in danger.

I stop myself from jumping up when I realize I’m wrapped in soft sheets, not my own ratty blankets. The bed doesn’t smell like stunt pads, and the air is comfortable, not oscillating between hot and cold. What the hell is going on? Is Mikhail okay?

I rub my eyes, trying to make sense of the room in the dark. Finally, I adjust to the faint glow of the city beneath my window. I push back my covers and find a pair of slippers beside the bed. The screams have stopped for the moment, and my hands shake, concerned that something awful has happened to the first person to give me a chance since my mom died.

My tangled hair is still damp, leaving marks on the silk nightgown I chose, making me feel even more vulnerable. I took that shower I promised myself and nearly immediately passed out. I’ve always been a heavy sleeper. It’s even worse now that I’m malnourished and exhausted.

Not even when Mikhail was on top of me earlier did I get up that fast. I debate for a second whether or not there’s anything I can or should do to help, but eventually, I pluck up my courage and tiptoe down the hall.

It’s exactly like it was when he led me here, which must have been a few hours ago. Despite the noise, the scene hasn’t changed from what I can see. The hall is dark and empty. I look around, trying to find signs of light and a reason for the noise, but it’s so quiet I’m not even sure Mikhail is in one of these rooms.

I keep going back in the direction we came, glancing down the stairs and wondering if I should risk it or just return to bed and pretend I heard nothing. After glancing down the stairs to be sure someone isn’t lurking in the shadows, I give up and turn to go back to my room.

A raw scream tears up the quiet night, sounding even more terrified than the one that woke me. Shit, Mikhail .

I flinch toward the source of the noise and realize I went too far. His screams come from just a little down the hall. It must be his room. I’m certain it’s his scream. My feet make the decision my head should, and I’m at his door before I can think better.

To my great surprise, the knob gives easily under my fingers. I’m prepared to launch myself at an attacker or whatever I need to do to keep him from getting murdered. The only light comes from outside, so I can just discern the silhouette of his body in the bed. He tosses and turns, living through what seems like a horrible nightmare. But there is no attacker.

My heart rate slows as I watch him twitch and squirm. He screams again but not as loud, and I wonder if there were more of these I didn’t hear before I woke. I’m sure he’s safe now. I should just close the door and go, but I don’t. I paint myself an image of a brave girl who would go and sit on his bed, lay a hand on him, and wake him up.

Hell, he fucked me in my sleep. The least he deserves is a little tit for tat, me invading his fitful sleep like he did mine. I want to tell him it’s okay and stop the horrible sound of his screams. At least to make myself feel better since my heart can’t help aching for him.

Indecision grips me firmly, holding me to the spot. I lost my virginity to him just a few hours ago, and he didn’t even cuddle me. I don’t know what this is, but it’s not some special Christmas romance. Mikhail doesn’t want me here.

I walk slowly, closing the door before he can wake and find me there watching him like a creep. Inaction is the worst option of all. Even after I’m outside with that barrier between us, I hear him grunting inside. The scene I just witnessed is more than enough to fuel my imagination of what he looks like as his rigid body squirms. My stupid heart aches, and tears fill my eyes. I can’t go back to sleep, not when he’s like this. Yet comforting him is out of the question.

The lines between us are blurred, but I know for sure that whatever the deal is, I’m not getting his heart. He’s not going to unburden his soul to me and tell me whatever causes him such pain and fear. I’m his ballerina. I’m probably his whore too.

Letting myself believe he’s taking me seriously or considering me as a permanent structure in his life is foolish. If I were smart, I would put an end to all of this and guard my part in his production more fiercely. Unfortunately, I’m his whore, and whenever Mikhail looks my way, I give him a little more of myself.

Whether or not he wants me, I belong to Mikhail. I hurt for his pain, live for his approval, and my pussy is desperate for his attention. I’m too far gone.

The apartment around me is proof enough of how different the worlds we come from really are. My mother married into money with Carter, but my father was a simple man. Mikhail makes Carter look like he’s middle class. This wealth is generational, obscene, and far outside of something I could be a part of. Maybe I’m his whore, but I’m not the one to hold his hand through his nightmares.

A perfect line draws in front of me. I will never have access to him the way he has it to me, and if I want to enjoy the benefits of this situation, I need to stop fighting that. I need to forget the idea of sitting at his bedside or hoping he’s the one who will finally believe me about Carter. It isn’t going to happen for me.

I sit there, thinking about myself and what use I am to the people around me. My ear stays pressed to the door, and each time he shouts, my chest aches, and my stomach turns. I stay there on the floor until I don’t hear him struggling anymore.

Once it’s all peaceful again, I go back to my room. My limbs are heavy as I move, aged by the weight and intensity of his pain. Despite my exhaustion, it takes me a minute to fall asleep with the sounds of his screams dancing in my head.