“Because you’d try to use it to hurt them,” I say.

He purses his lips in mock concern.

“Doesn’t it bother you that they don’t include you?” he asks me.

I press my lips together, not wanting to dignify that with a response. But I find myself blurting out, “You don’t know anything about us.”

“I know your brother will inherit your father’s position. Your sister will do her level best to keep everyone out of jail. But what about you, Nessa? Where do you fit into all that? I suppose they had a marriage arranged for you, like they did for your brother. Maybe to one of the Gallos . . . they have three sons, don’t they? You and Aida could have been sisters twice over.”

His words chill my flesh worse than his gaze. How does he know so much about us?

“I don’t . . . I’m not . . . There isn’t any marriage pact,” I say, looking down at my fingers. They’re twisted so tight that they’ve gone pale and bloodless, like a pile of worms in my lap.

I shouldn’t have said that. He doesn’t need any more information than he’s already got.

Mikolaj chuckles.

“That’s too bad,” he says. “You’re very pretty.”

I can feel my cheeks flaming, and I hate it. I hate that I’m shy and easily embarrassed. If Aida or Riona were here, they’d throw this wine right in his face. They wouldn’t feel frightened and confused, fighting just to keep from crying.

I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood in my mouth, mingled with the remains of the wine.

I look up at his face, which is unlike any face I’ve seen before—beautiful, brittle, terrifying, cruel. His thin lips look like they were drawn in ink. His eyes burn right through me.

It’s so hard to find my voice.

“What about you?” I gulp. “Mikolaj, isn’t it? I suppose you came from Poland, looking for the American Dream? No wife to bring along to your dreary old mansion, though. Women don’t like to sleep with snakes.”

I intended to offend him, but he only gives me a cold smile.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “I never lack for female company.”

I make a face. I can’t deny that he is handsome, in a stark and terrifying sort of way. But I can’t imagine wanting to get within ten feet of someone so vicious.

Unfortunately, I’m well within that radius, and soon to be closer.

Because now that we’ve eaten, Mikolaj expects further entertainment.

He leads me out of the dining room, into the adjoining space. It’s an actual ballroom, with a polished parquet floor and a vast chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. The roof is painted deep navy, with speckled spots of gold for stars. The walls are gold and the curtains dark blue velvet.

It’s the only room I’ve seen so far that I’d actually call pretty—the rest of the house is too gothic and depressing. Still, I can’t enjoy it, because music is playing, and Mikolaj apparently expects me to dance.

Before I can get away, he’s grabbed my right hand in his, catching me around the waist with his left. He pulls me in against his body with arms stronger than steel. He really is fast. And an irritatingly good dancer.

He whirls me around the empty ballroom, his strides long and smooth.

I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to talk to him. But I can’t stop myself from asking, “How do you know how to dance?”

“It’s a waltz,” he says. “It hasn’t changed much in two hundred years.”

“Were you around when they invented it?” I say rudely.

Mikolaj just smiles and forces me to twirl around, dipping me back.

I recognize the song playing: it’s “Satin Birds,” by Abel Korzeniowski. Melancholy and haunting, but actually quite a beautiful song. One of my favorites, before this moment.

I don’t like to think that an animal like this actually has good taste in music.

I hate how easily our bodies move in tandem. Dancing is second nature to me. I can’t help following his lead, swift and smooth. Nor can I help the surge of pleasure that bubbles up inside of me. It’s wonderful to have so much space to move after five days of helpless captivity.

I find myself forgetting whose hand is sliding down my bare back, whose fingers are twined in mine. I forget that I’m locked in the arms of my worst enemy, that I can feel the heat radiating out of his body into mine.

Instead I close my eyes and I’m flying across the floor, spinning on the axis of his hand, dipping over the steel bar of his thigh. I want to dance so badly that I don’t care where I am or who I’m with. This is the only way to escape right now—by losing myself in this moment, recklessly, and irrevocably.

The starred ceiling whirls over my head. My heart beats faster and faster, having lost its stamina after a week of lethargy. The green silk gown flows around my body, barely touching my skin.

It’s only when his fingers trail down my throat, running down the bare flesh between my breasts, that my eyes pop open and I jerk upright, stopping dead on the spot.

I’m panting and sweating. His thigh is pressed between mine. I’m painfully aware how thin this dress really is, no sort of barrier at all between us.

I yank myself out of his arms, stumbling over the hem of the gown. The thin silk tears with a sound like a shot.

“Let go of me!” I snap.

“I thought you liked dancing,” Mikolaj says mockingly. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“Don’t touch me!” I say again, trying to sound as furious as I feel. My voice is naturally soft. It always comes out too gentle, even when I’m at my angriest. It makes me feel like a petulant child.

That’s how Mikolaj treats me, rolling his eyes at my sudden change of mood. He was toying with me. As soon as I stop playing along, he has no more use for me.

“Fine,” he says. “Our evening’s at an end. Go back to your room.”

God, he’s so infuriating!

I don’t want to stay here with him, but I don’t want to be sent to bed. I don’t want to be locked in there again, bored and alone. As much as I despise the Beast, this is the longest conversation I’ve had all week.

“Wait!” I say. “What about my family?”

“What about them?” he says in a bored tone.

“Are they worried about me?”

He smiles without a hint of happiness. It’s a smile of pure malice.

“They’re losing their fucking minds,” he says.

I can only imagine.

They would have noticed the very first night I failed to come home. I’m sure they tried to call my phone hundreds of times. They would have called my friends, too. Sent their men to visit Loyola and Lake City Ballet, trying to trace my steps. They probably hunted the streets for my Jeep. I wonder if they found it by the side of the road?

Did they call the police, too? We never call the police if we can help it. We make nice with the commissioner at parties, but we don’t involve cops in our business, any more than Mikolaj himself would do.

This is the only time I’ve seen him smile—thinking how terrified and anxious my family must be. It makes me want to run over and scratch his ice-chip eyes out of his head.

I can’t believe I let him dance with me. I feel my skin burning with disgust, every place that he touched me.