Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Bring all three bottles and another glass, too,” he said, giving me an indolent smile.
I nodded, following him from the room. He must want a fresh glass for the second bottle. I suppressed my snide observation that if he drank two or three bottles of wine, it was just as bad as the sheer volume of vodka he had consumed at other meals.
I knew the routine now. He wanted me to walk ahead of him down the long windowless hallways. I stepped aside and waited while he entered the code into the keypad. Then I followed him inside, setting the wine and extra glass on the bar. I stood beside it, waiting.
I noticed that the gas fireplace was lit. Anton surprised me by walking over to it, then sitting in one of the two plush looking wing chairs at the small table in front of the fire, where a beautifully carved stone chess set sat. The pieces were all in different colors, made of semiprecious stones. It was beautiful.
“Do you play?” he asked, not turning to look at me.
I nodded, shifting back and forth imperceptibly in my heels to ease the pain. Even walking was painful now. But standing still and waiting was the worst.
I had never been a patient child, and it hadn’t improved much so far in adulthood. Even after two weeks I had not gotten any better of simply standing and waiting on him. This new job rubbed against my nature in so many ways.
“Would you join me?”
“You want me to play?” I asked, shocked and suspicious. I could not hide my incredulity.
“I can’t very well play myself.”
I hesitated, surprisingly tempted. It would be enjoyable to play. And my feet begged me for respite.
“Pour yourself a glass of wine and sit, please.”
“Is that part of my duties?” I asked stiffly. He smiled wolfishly at me and tapped his fingers together. “Is it an order?” I added, feeling unaccountably stubborn.
“Yes, Mishka. It is an order.”
I lifted my chin, feeling oddly relieved that he had taken the choice away from me. I had been so incredibly conflicted. But I did not do as he said. Not yet.
“And the wine?”
He barked out a sharp laugh.
“That is for your enjoyment. And mine,” he added.
“Yours?”
“It will be easier to beat you if you are imbibing. I fear that sharp brain of yours.”
I stared at him, my eyes narrowing. But I turned, crossed the room, and poured myself a glass of wine. Then I walked towards him, feeling incredibly awkward. I stared at the seat, then sat, feeling like I was irrevocably crossing some sort of invisible line.
A line he had insisted I cross. It felt sacrilegious somehow. We were in new territory, no longer master and slave. Though that was the basis of our relationship, if you could call it that.
He stared at me, his eyes blazing over his steepled hands. He held out two pieces. I chose white. So, it was my move first.
He tipped his head towards the board, indicating that I should begin.
We began to play. He was an excellent player, which did not surprise me. This was Russia, after all, and he was clearly very intelligent. But I was no slouch either. I had played for years, with my father, and with the old men in our neighborhood when I was not busy with schoolwork, chores, or practice. I was hardly competition worthy, but I might have been, with more practice.
Music and chess had a lot in common. Patterns, positions, and passion all came into play. You had to be mentally dexterous, and not be numbed by the repetition. Each move, each piece, each note, was an individual, its tenor altered only by its placement in relation to the other pieces, notes, and your fellow players.
There was an intimacy to playing chess with someone that I was not prepared for. I had forgotten. We spoke very little, but I did sip my wine, which was delicious. When the game lagged a bit as the board started to clear with dwindling pieces on both sides, he stood and served me wine.
“My lady,” he joked as he poured for me.
I looked up at him in surprise. Then I smiled, feeling very much like the cat that ate the canary. I couldn’t help it. The smile he gave me was crooked, wry, and heart stompingly adorable. Did my captor have… a soft side?
My heart started thudding as he took his seat across from me, stippling his fingers in that arrogant way of his. I looked back to the board, trying to focus on my next move. He was distracting me on purpose! Why did he have to be so charming and adorable?
“You know you look like a Bond villain when you do that,” I said without lifting my eyes from the board.