Beast and his Beauties

Russia constantly strives to remain an important and active world power. Shaking the stereotypical “red scare” era was, surprisingly, far more difficult for Russia than for Germany. Perhaps because Germans denounce all and any cultural references tying them to the Nazis. Russia, on the other hand, has retained a sense of bitterness and mistrust, according to the western world. Bound by its traditionalism in a patriarchal society and tied more closely to a system of corrupt government officials, Russia’s system of law and order is rarely taken at face value. It is a world where the mafia transcends the daily life of a nation, and where money and dominance are key. Success is based solely on how deeply the people fear you; be they ants, peers, or superiors.

Red Rose Inc. captured its power and wealth from a society devastated by thievery and unrest, in a time when the business was little more than the whims and hostile takeovers of a single family name. In the centuries before the rise of the Soviet Union, the Demidovs capitalized upon the state of their motherland. When the Socialist party ruled Eurasia, underhanded business and rule could not be expunged. Even now, while democracy works to leave its uninvited footprint all over the globe, Russian power is unevenly branched amongst those millionaires and billionaires who can dig their fingers the most deeply into governmental and economic affairs.

Viktor Demidov is no exception. He is a tycoon praised as a provider of financial growth and of employment stability to many in his homeland and elsewhere. While his influence tends to rest only in the fear of his economic power, such influence has provided him with a life free of repercussion or investigation. He can live and command and impress millions across the world, without becoming personally involved in the seedy underworld which inundates Russian business and law. There was no consequence. He knew no fear.

Save only for himself.

While modern society has provided the Demidov family with every possible luxury and all venues for gain, historical Russia hated the kin of the very same name. Generations have suffered for the misdeeds of just a few men, and Viktor is no exception. The losses and pain compound with each new son, until January of 1962. Familial agony came to completion in the birth of Viktor Ivanovich Demidov, to Ivan Pavelovich Demidov and Mariya Verovna Demidov. The global media and medical journals categorize Viktor as an unfortunate carrier of patriarchal genes that lead to calcification, scarring, and deformities—all of it late-onset. As the boy reached puberty, the first hints of his genetic disease came to the fore. Symptoms developed as he aged, rapidly and hideously, until he was faced with a life of wealthy seclusion in the mountains of his home for the sake of retaining his place in society; not just his place among the respected and successful, but also his place among humans.

Barely two weeks after his interview with Forbes magazine journalist Jacob Evans, Viktor and his most immediate assistants had begun to set into motion a series of plans intended to gift him with a bride—and an heir. This was not the first time he will have reverted to such devious activities, and while he feared his growing years, there was a chance it would not be the last time this occurred. He needed women, and he needed them entirely detached from the lives they knew. This was not the difficult part of his task. Removing the rights and pasts and names of women was nothing new to Russian men of power. Forced prostitution and forms of modern slavery were a commonality that the western world tried hard to ignore. The secrecy of Viktor’s intentions was none too unique.



Jaeda had been on the international music scene for a handful of rocky years. Her sense of self worth and destiny clashed so garishly with everything Viktor had been raised to seek in good and loyal women. She fascinated him. The only thing worse than a man who had everything he could possibly want, was the same man when denied something so far out of his reach. Functioning at the heart of such a massive multicultural business, the Russian tycoon kept his hands wrapped around the pulse of society. With a fleet of employees available for intelligence purposes, he had been introduced to Ms. Smith’s voice and mind, and had been left wanting for one last thing: her body. Her presence. That which made her real and palpable.

On the morning of November 4th, several weeks following the end of a successful national tour, Jaeda Smith was taken from her home in Middle America. With the lull in her activities and desire for rest and privacy, her “missing person” status was not filed for several weeks. It mattered little. The man and woman who appeared at her door with business cards and big smiles were far too kind and far too promising. “Our employer is looking for an international symbol of talent, education, and ethnicity.” It was a temporary position they offered her, with full benefits and a once in a lifetime chance to see the world. “Our CEO would like your support for advertising and social networking.” When they returned to Russia on a Red Rose registered private jet, no one need know. The dark-skinned beauty had been given all necessary paperwork and adequate time to pack. She had been picked up in a fine black Mercedes, flown across the Prime Meridian, deposited in another luxury vehicle, and given a strong glass of bourbon. The bourbon marked the end of her awe and wonder for the afternoon.

By the time the drug in her drink had worn away, the car was pulling around a series of wide curves in a dangerous mountain road. The woman across from her, sporting short black hair and staring at her with curious green eyes, cracked a smile and rolled those big greens. “You must have been exhausted. You slept through half of my tour before I decided to stop talking.” The black vehicle circled a large driveway before an aged building of gothic buttresses and dark towers. The woman helped tote Ms. Smith’s bags into the foyer, before motioning to a high-backed chair in a wide, deep hall. The chair sat back against a meticulously painted wall. The seat was heavy, carved wood with richly colored cushions on bottom and back. Through the dark mosaic glass of the front doors and beyond the round driveway stretched a vast, barren winter landscape: gnarly grey trees, receding black and white mountains, and an icy roll of black roads and hills. Within the foyer, wall-posted lanterns cast dim circles of light around their own glass bulbs and the wall behind. Antique portraits filled some of the gaps between spaced lamps, and a pair of desks rest against the west and east walls directly across from one another. The oriental rug that followed the length of the foyer was plush and dark, leading right up to the separated doors at the far end of the hall. The place smelled as old as it looked, and felt just as cold as the icy view outside. “Please wait here just a moment while I inform the host of your arrival.”



The doctors in America had been ill-equipped to care for Mr. Aparina. His lack of insurance and failing health made him a poor candidate for willing specialists. Ah, but in Russia, if you had something to lose then you also had everything to gain. The arrival of the small family to the cold, warped democracy marked the beginning of their renewed chances. The Russian Federation welcomed these visitors, and the specialist they had come to see was scheduled to meet with them on October 27th.

Viktor had become aware of the Aparina family on the 28th, when his primary doctor, Ivan Maslov, informed him offhandedly of a family with whom he had met one day prior. “While you suffer more than any man I have ever known, Viktor, this man may die too soon. Such a lovely wife and child, too. His daughter, ah.. Her name was Larisa, I do believe. Such a comely looking thing. Healthy, you know. Dedicated. Short hair, large eyes. You would like her, I think. In some ways, she reminds me of Katja. Oh, but she is too home-oriented to be like Katja, now that I think of it. Alright, let me see your new scar.”

Ivan could not have guessed that his idle chat could have sparked an old hunger in the greedy beast. During the second week of the Aparina’s stay in Moskva, a man and a woman entered the parking garage of the hotel in which the family currently resided. For all the power and intelligence their employer held in Mother Russia, they had plenty of photos of the girl in question. The moment her brown head peeked from around the corner of an elevator and came out into the garage, the pair was upon her—smothering her with chloroform. For a girl who only moments ago had been on her way out for some painkillers for her father, she was now only so much dead weight in the young man’s arms. He deposited her in their ominously tinted Mercedes. Later that evening on the 30th of October, Larisa Aparina would wake in a dimly lit main room. Behind her stood separated doors that led to a long and richly rugged foyer. Directly ahead crackled what appeared to be a fresh fire in a gaping fireplace. To the right and left, stairs curved up the wall to lead into separate halls for the east and west wings. Beneath each set of stairs, a single door. The chair in which she sat was finely carved wood with a high back and plush cushions. She had been spilled into the thing so that she could slump aside without falling to the floor. Of course, she may very well have ended up a boneless lump on the rug beneath her. The ceiling reached too high to be visible, dark and endless. The flames at the foot of the room were the only source of light in this cavern of an entrance. Deep in the east wing hall at the top of those ornate stairs, movement scraped the floor. The feet upon the floor were hard and calloused, and the dry wooden boards carried every subtle sound.



Red Rose was an international, equal opportunity employer. Their headquarters on the American west coast supported thousands of working families. The Snow residence was no exception. The father of the household, though hardheaded and prone to outbreaks in the office, was an all-around decent worker and had been employed within the Demidov corporation for years. His position granted him superiority over a number of other men and women. When his peer-fed complaints about his mooching, useless, socially inept daughter became subject to public notice, his unprofessional attitude then came to the attention of his manager—and his manager above that, and her manager above that. For the sake of liability and responsibility, Mr. Snow had been scheduled to meet with an on-site counselor about his family life on the morning of October 13th. Amidst the warnings of “your level of professionalism and work ethic have been below par for the last number of months, Mr. Snow”, the counselor pulled from this frustrated husband and father nearly a million and one details about his wife and daughter. Oh, Ruby. The things this man has said about you.

Documentation reached the Perm headquarters in snowy Russia within the same week. Viktor was far more interested in the descriptions of Ms. Ruby Snow than in the hotheaded frustrations of his American employee. Shortly after, a series of photographs were called to his office, and the business mogul was wringing his leathery hands with greedy impatience. Her skin was so powdery and kissed with sweet patches of pink. Her hair, so dark, and her hands, so small. He had to have her.

October 20th, and the early autumn air sent a ruffle through Ruby’s modestly cut dress. Her penchant for walking the distances between home and the library made work so much easier for the man and woman who watched her from the curb. She was easy to spot and put no rush in her step. And oh, how she seemed to adore scenic routes. The woman that leaned out of the open back door of her glossy black Mercedes carried a lovely smile and an innocently questioning brow. “Excuse me, miss. Am not familiar with these signs in dis country. You can maybe be telling me how to find library, da?” The moment that youthful face came too near beneath the spread of a lacy umbrella, a man in passing set his foot just before a shiny black heel and his palm thumped in the center of her back. The rush sent Ruby tumbling into the spacious back seat, while the woman covered her mouth and nose with a thickly scented washcloth. Before she had even lost consciousness, the door had closed and the man had relocated to the driver’s seat. A jet in a private airport awaited them.

The bedding beneath Ruby’s peachy fingers was soft and the color of cream. The bed itself was set in a northeastern dark corner of a deep but rather narrow room. Polished wooden floors were lined with runners and round rugs. A fireplace nearer the door than the bed was the only source of light. A door at the other end of the room from the south entrance was closed and locked, as was another door set in the western wall just ahead of a deeply set benchseat window. Beyond the window, a cold black landscape of a winter’s night. Just to the right and outside of the chilled panes stretched an iron-railed balcony. Ah, the door beside the window opened onto that very balcony—or would have, were it not locked. The ceiling was too high and the bedroom was too empty; save for bed, rugs, dresser, window, fireplace, and doors.



The doors beyond the rooms in which they resided upon entry were locked. All there was to do was sit, and wait…

Jaeda hadn't always been an alternative star, singing and being a lecturer for high schools cross America. Even taking trips to Africa and Spain, talking to the impoverished cities and villages. Always trying to give moral to the people who needed. Always sharing kindness with those who were given none. But deeper within the beautiful star was something else- the study who fought on a regular basis against the government and against several other problems. Fighting to feed starving children in Africa, as well as fighting to end the war in Darfur.
Jaeda tended to show a little extra love to Africa, be that not just was it her ancient place of origin somewhere along the line, but as well that it held some of the most drastic conditions and inhumane societies.

As her popularity had began to blossom say some few years ago, she began on her most important goal; self-esteem for the young women of America. Everyone seemed to find that a strange goal for a new star. Since that when comparing herself to others and battling down famous rappers, she seemed to be making a hardship for herself.

But things got better, and they never went down. Wrote a book or two, contributed a few of her childhood stories from the Brooklyn streets. Jaeda learned to always give, and never take. Sharing her fame always with those who needed it.

----------------------------------------

As of recently, she had been searching for some source of funding to set up a line of tours across the world. Tours that where each concert would give certain portions of the money made back to the communities. But of course such a careful little project would require a good starting amount of funding. Backing, a good bit of something to start her off.

Had not this Red Rose corporation come, she would've had to seek out something else that would desire labeling rights. So this seemed like a blessing, well, a little bit. But things got strange...

The jet and the ride were very nice, but never had she fallen asleep nor passed out from a little bourbon. Her head ached as she woke, stirring in the back seat to hear the lady kindly tell her that she had slept through her tour, or at least a fair bit of it.

Jaeda nodded with a soft apology before looking up at the beautiful towering building, like a castle made from the imagination. Was this really it? The Red Rose corporation? Something so towering and gorgeous? A smile lit Jaeda's full caramel lips as she moved inside.

There she sat patiently, her long mocha legs well toned as they folded. Jaeda spent her time waiting with her right hand letting limber smooth fingers pulling at the hem of her skirt, her other hand tapping restlessly on her lap. Something was so strange about this beautiful haven. And in her long time of traveling, never had she been anywhere like it.

The day was quiet, almost unsettling. It felt at home in some ways as Larisa and her mother strived to keep her father alive.
His illness had spread vastly over the past few years, to the point where even the doctors couldn't help. He was transported to Russia a day later. Larisa and her mother had to follow, they couldn't just sit at home and wait for a miracle to happen.

It was October 30th, two weeks after the flight. Larisa's father was asleep, the painkillers the doctors had prescribed seemed to be working, but they were almost out. It happened every once in a while and usually her mother took care of going out to get them while Larisa made sure her father was well accommodated.
To give her mother some more time with her father, Lara insisted on picking up some more.

As Larisa stepped out of the elevator and into the garage, she found herself on the ground, struggling to push of a man and a woman as they smothered her mouth with chloroform.
Her vision slowly darkened with each breath, and soon the girl was unconscious.

*****************************

The room where Larisa awoke in was dim. A fire was crackling in the background, giving the scene a eerie vibe.
She pushed herself from a beautifully designed wooden chair.
"Ugh!" She groaned raising a hand to her forehead. The effect of the anesthetic forced upon her was slowly losing it's power, leaving her with a heavy headache.

Larisa blinked, staring anxiously around the dark room, wondering were she was exactly.
Her eyes quickly dashed to the roof as she heard footsteps above, and she noticed then how high it was, since she couldn't seem to see it in the light from the fire.
Lowering her head to turn around, Lara spotted some doors. They might have lead out of this point if she didn't find them locked, but then again- according to the looks of this room- maybe they wouldn't. Sighing, she tried another two doors on either side of the room. Locked.

Whomever brought me here wasn't planning on my leaving. She thought sadly as other thoughts of her sick father and lonely mother drifted into the boundaries of her mind.
Sighing again, she took a seat in the chair she woke up in, and stared blankly at the fire crackling ahead.

Each morning began similarly for the wealthy property owner. Regardless of which month and of which woman he was expecting by the end of the day, Viktor arose early and bathed vigorously; as though scrubbing harder might slough off enough dead skin cells to make him look a bit more normal. Of course, this never worked. Try as he might to retain acceptable eating habits, he frequently could not seem to make himself eat steady meals throughout the day. In part because his body continued to demand larger, meatier intake. In part because when his mind was that collected and that focused, it was all but painful to experience the workings of his body while he consumed food. In short, more often than not, Viktor did not eat breakfast. When dressed and briefed on any change in stock or value or investor relations or international employment specs, Viktor would attend a number of meetings in which he was little more than a omniscient vocal presence. The technology housed in his at-home office kept him connected with the primary headquarters in the corporate blocks of Perm Krai.



He had only just risen from his last meeting of the afternoon, when Katja called him from the main entrance. “Ms. Smith has arrived from America.” A curved nail depressed a button at his awkwardly devolved ear, and he sighed approvingly. Without a single mirror in his office or bedroom, he was unable to check his appearance. It didn’t matter, for he had only two states: intense hideousness, and slightly covered hideousness. That morning he had dressed in a fine pair of dark slacks suitable for home wear, and over it his favored casual robe. While one may argue that he could easily wear normal suits to hide himself, his warped body continued to make shirts and shoes and underwear more and more uncomfortable. And so, while he exited his office and Katja ushered their guest down the foyer and into the main entrance, the robe and slacks would have to do.

The entrance was wide and deep, with a ceiling almost too high to be visible. In fact, it wouldn’t have been if not for the late-afternoon light shining in from windows on the outsides of the staircases at the left and right sides of the room. The fireplace at the center of the north wall gave the chairs and rugs a warm glow, in comparison to the wintery white light at the east and west windows. An aged Russian tapestry here and there gave the entrance some substance. Otherwise, it would have been rather barren.

Katja request she have a seat. “Obviously this is not the Red Rose headquarters. That building is in town. This is Mr. Demidov’s private residence. He is unable to leave it, and so you are meeting him here.” Oh, the poor fellow. So sick and deformed that he can’t leave his own home. The Forbes interview had touched frequently on that subject, hadn’t it? Regardless, Katja bid her farewell and turned for the doors of the main room. Her steps tapped on the plush red runner in the foyer outside the entrance room while the door closed behind her.

..Abandoning her.

The moment Katja’s steps carried her outside and to the Mercedes still awaiting her, a figure had appeared in the wide doorway at the top of the staircase that led up into the east wing. He had come so quietly, as though the space between his office and this main entrance was nonexistent. As though the moment he had stepped out of his personal library, he had stepped through the threshold of the room in which Jaeda now sat. And then, had appeared there. Massive and so dark. There was no visible gleam in his eyes, despite two light sources below. The eyes were too small to capture much light. Try as he might to be human about this meeting, he lingered at that top step; drawing slow, scented breaths and tasting her on his air. Photographs and video footage did not do this woman justice.

“Ms. Smith. It is very good to be meeting you.”

The voice rolled like so much gravel. Too deep, too dark. His tenor almost devoured the articulation of his words. He closed long, greyed fingers over the rail, and began an incredibly slow descent of the staircase. His robe, of wide sleeves and ornately embroidered trim at collar and cuff, dragged on each step directly behind him. His head was smooth. His fingernails curved, long and black—rotten, perhaps?—as his hand slid down the railing. If he’d once had a nose, it was all but impossible to tell now. He had not yet reached the light of the window, and so the dim upper half of the steps kept him in partial shadow.

This is your new business associate, Jaeda. In a way, your new boss.



Who indeed, Ruby? Such a disappointing and enclosed young woman was of little use to anyone. She knew so little of the world around her; nothing of labor or intense responsibility. She knew only what her authority figures allowed her to know, and what little else she was able to scrape up in her reserved little life. Even her occupation was limiting. That tiny library required so little of her, and the wages reflected that fact. Ruby was so incredibly unimportant, the very idea that she would be snatched off the street seemed rather implausible, didn’t it? It hardly made sense; let alone being dragged across the world into the home of one of the most powerful businessmen on God’s industrial earth.

The room in which she found herself was far more befitting of a sheltered aristocrat, though perhaps on the more barren side of wealthy. After all, no one had lived in that room for decades—if ever. If not for the walls, the shadows of this place would have stretched for miles. Spacious as the room was, that fire could not light every corner. With the moon blanketed in rolling clouds and not a car or neighbor for leagues and leagues, there was only an intense silence and stillness from all around. The room in which Ruby sat may as well have been solitary, without home or foundation, in the middle of an empty black desert or an enclosed steel room or a distant black hole. The doors in the room—south entrance, west balcony exit, and north restroom—were indeed all locked. No access. No life.

But two stories above, the property owner was stirring. He had known the moment his guest had begun to move about her quarters. Her racing heartbeat fluttered like the most distant twitch in his ears, and he pressed a scarred palm over his heart with a sigh. It was as though Ruby sat and fretted on his very person, and he was keenly aware of her movements and of her fear. How riveting.

And as though the terrible muteness of this place was not unsettling enough, a single click shattered that permeating silence. It might have seemed incredibly loud, for a noise otherwise so minute. It was the south door of the long room. It unlocked as casually as though someone stood behind it and flicked the little lever with their finger. Beyond the door? Why, a cart topped with polished platters of covered food, situated in the middle of a long, black hallway. The only light on the cart would shine from the fireplace within the bedroom. It was mealtime, after all. ..But what was this place!?

Whatever it was, the door was now open…



The steps that approached the room in which Larisa had been deposited did not come from the roof. No, no. This place was so many stories and the ceilings were so high. The feet that stirred her fears came from the hall that opened from the right-most stairwell. No light came from within, so the source of the footfalls cast no shadow down the hall or upon the turning staircase. This was why, when Viktor filled the wide doorway at the top of the stairs, nothing would signal his appearance. Small eyes swept over the dark interior, coasting over the light of the fireplace and dragging up Larisa’s tightly pressed legs. He noted the hands folded in her lap, wrung white with chill and misery. Her face? No less despondent.

For the beast in him, it was thrilling. Her sadness and the cold in her bones made her prime prey, after all. Sluggish and quick to panic, no doubt. Ah, but for the man in him, it was disheartening. For a moment, he was reminded that he had just done something quite awful to this woman. And not a moment later, his sympathy dissipated. He was Viktor Demidov: Russian powerhouse. There were no limits to his resources; even living ones. Dark fingers closed over the top of ornate wooden railing, flexing fiercely for just a moment. The squeeze coaxed a warped, weakening pop from the wood. Not breaking, but shuddering under the force.

“Larisa Aparina.”

Baritone. It rumbled through the open space, too deep and too rich; as though it came from everywhere. Another reason it may have been difficult to pinpoint him at the top of the stairs, for how dark it was. Ah, but he was there. Ominous and omnipotent, like the worst of devils.

“Do not be afraid. …I am giving you great opportunity. You come to mother Russia for to help your father. Is something I can be giving you.”



(waiting for Jez to post before I type her a response.)

Jaeda had been patient, thinking of so many things. Personally of her family at the moment. Playing back listening to her mother sob about how she had never known that anyone could impress her so. Jaeda laughed, rolling her eyes at the thoughts of her somewhat comical mother who had been placed back into the hospital as of late.

But soon, Jaeda caught a glimpse of Katja again.
"Alright, thank you." Jaeda said. As she left, her brow furrowed in confusion. Why could a man not leave his home? Would he be handicapped?

Jaeda sighed, slinking back in her seat more, staring down at her skirt. As her fingers fumbled with it's gentle grey hem, her hair fell in smooth brown locks down beside her face, creating a drape around her head.

Then she was startled- as a gravely voice disturbed the silence. Immediately, Jaeda let go of her hem, put back over her full bronzen lips a beautiful smile, and stared upwards, brushing her hair behind her ears.

But something was off. Jaeda's eyes began to search the dim section of the upper stairs as that was where the voice came from. She could see something- her hazel toned eyes dancing desperately over the darkness in a moment, before settling as she closed them.

No no, my mind is playing tricks on me.

That helped her bring her smile, and contain it, as she looked back up, trying to play it off as her imagination- since it was too dark to truly clarify.
Her fingers were still showing off the nervousness of her assumptions, as they again fumbled over her lean mocha coloured legs, dancing over the hem of her skirt.

He seemed to walk fine. But slowly. What if he wasn't handicapped? Maybe he really does look like... something else... Maybe he stays home because he is hideous?

Jaeda bit her lip. That had to be a horrible thought- and she was brought up on the saying 'Don't judge a book by it's cover'. But this didn't really feel the same. Something about this man instantly had her a bit fearful, a little ready to fight back. Jaeda could easily see now that she regretted the somewhat revealing, though nice and dressy, clothes she had chosen.
She kindly folded her hands over her knees, and stared up into the darkness- past it more-so, to keep her focus polite and gentle, carrying her proper and beautiful femininity.

"Hello, I'm Jaeda Smith, it's nice to meet you too."

If it wasn't for the dark scene Larisa found herself in wasn't enough to frighten her, the cracking that sounded from somewhere close by followed by the deep, almost ground shuddering voice that sounded through the room did.
She jumped at the sound, looking around for the source of the sound. Her face turned a paler white than before as the voice explained her reason for coming to Russia, and she almost stopped breathing as it told her about something it could give her.
"L-like what?" She asked, a quaver arousing in her voice as she did.
She squinted around the room, finding that her eyes couldn't adjust to fire-lit room could help.

A deep breath gave Lara enough courage to stand, her eyes jumping back and forth across the dim room.
"Anyway, who are you? And what do you want with me?" The instant she said this, her thoughts ventured to her father, barely strong enough to walk let alone care for himself.
You should be there with him. Mother won't be able to do everything.
Maybe if you put through with what this person wants, Lara, you might be able to go back. A soft voice told her. This calmed Larisa down to a steady breath, her eyes stayed focused only on the fire ahead instead of bouncing around. She became the calm, steady person Lara always knew herself to be.

She folded her hands across each other and remained silent. Calmly walking back and forth as she waited for a response, while her eyes wandered around for the man. It had to be a man, she never knew a woman's voice sounding so deep. her mind slowly put together bits and pieces together of the events surrounding her on this... strange?... unusual?... there were no words to describe Larisa's experience.

It had been a great effort to drag himself down that first step, and then the next. From the top of the stairs he had been free to watch the young star; free to smell her and taste her on his every breath. Up there, he was free to watch her fingers splay and press over the hem of her skirt. He could watch her hair tumble, so dark and so thick, in front of her brow and cheek and chin. He could let his eyes follow the shape of her: the slope of her back when she leaned forward, the line of her long neck, and the angle of her knees. Unfortunately, his vision was not so commendable and the poor lighting of this room was of little assistance. In part, he had started down the stairs because he needed to be closer—craved to take her in more fully.

And then she saw him. Her large, beautiful fake smile. Her searching eyes. The timid, uncertain placement of her hands. He had barely so much as come into the room and hardly spoken a thing, and she was terrified of him already. Ah, but it couldn’t be helped. He simply exuded a sort of unnatural, dangerous presence. It was the very tension and darkness that made rabbits and birds flee the forest when fire approached. It was the same awful feeling that woke babies to tears in the night. Wrong. Just wrong. Of course, what little of him was visible certainly didn’t help ease these feelings.

“Ms. Smith.”

The hulking figure paused there at the foot of the stairs. Dark toes curled over the edge of the second to last step, milking a faintly warped groan from the wood beneath the carpet. He kept those monstrous fingers around the railing—wood which pooled and swirled decoratively at the end of the rail. His smooth, round head rolled back slowly with a flexure of his neck against the broad rise of the back of his shoulders. His breath drew slow and patient. Savoring. It released through his next words; words which, when formed, altered the movement of his jaw in the strangest way. For the dim light of this place, it was impossible to tell just what was so odd about the movement of his mouth during his speech.

“Am hoping your cooperation with me will open my eyes. My company will grow with all that I will learn.”

His accent inundated every word, and stabbed at his grammar most viciously. It was a visible effort for him and a blatantly audible one as well.

“Everything that you stand for, I crave. Your voice-.. you-.. it brings me from sleep.”

He lifted a dark palm and opened it against his chest to signify himself, stumbling only a moment on his English word choice and settling with one that likely made less sense than it was meant to. You awaken me, Jaeda.

“I ask that you stay, here, with me. Let me to know you. Share with me those ‘tings that inspire. In dis place, am apart from emotion, companionship, and also humanity. You remind me of these.”

There was too much urgency and too much heart in his words. It meant too much too him, and he was far too eager to keep her near. Oh how unsettling. But perhaps those strange concepts could be blamed on their language barrier. Perhaps in his Mother Tongue, he was quite charming and understandable.

But Jaeda had been swept from her county and into the awful place. She had been given limited information and left at the hands of this awkward man. A man who either wanted her help, or simply wanted her.



Oh, Ruby… Possible freedom glared at her from the cold clutches of that unimaginably deep hallway, and she hadn’t the nerve to run toward it. She hadn’t the nerve to test her boundaries, or to learn the true ugliness of her circumstances. Instead, she was gifted with this fine dining cart, the contents of which were as of yet unchecked. Regardless, within doming and glossy metal trays rest neatly arrayed collections of rich foods: sliced meats, hot porridge, broiled potatoes, cheese, cream, tea, brandy, water, bread, jellies, and fruit. In a place so cold and so distant, caloric intake was key. The body needed the proper fuel to provide the proper heat. This food was expensive, if nothing else.

But these morsels lingered, dormant, beneath their lids. The fire burned steadily with logs stacked, used, beneath the newer pair. Who supplied the new logs? Who removed the old ash and cinders? Who kept this place so clean? Who on earth had placed her here?!

With so many questions and so few answers, surely this room threatened to become claustrophobic. With a door in each of four walls, there was a staggering selection of knobs for a simple bedroom. She had only just closed the one to the south, opening to the hallway. Now that it had closed, however, it had also locked quite firmly. Three others remained. The one beside the window was across from the bed and all its fine bedding. The window promised that this door opened to the balcony. A balcony, of course, would reside out of doors. Freedom. A source for location. Likely, that door would be the captive’s best bet. Ah, but it had previously been locked, and it was so cold, and that food was so warm, and it would certainly prep the body for such a risky leap into exploration—should she choose to go the route.

…And should she…

The door leading to the balcony creaked weakly when it jarred in its hinges, but beyond the doorway it was stagnant and dim. There was no whipping winter wind or bitterly flaking snow. There was no moon, and the space was long and narrow. A paneled wooden floor and paneled wooden walls led in a straight hallway from the “balcony” door to a door at the far end. Here, the wooden ceiling was quite low; low enough, in fact, that a single lit bulb dangled from a cord at the hall’s center. The bulb was old and solitary, and so only lit a rapidly fading circle around the spot where it hung, leaving the door at the end primarily in shadow.

But wasn’t this door embedded in the very wall that the window shared? Was this not the side of the building in which she was being kept? Had she not seen—from the bench seat beneath the arching window—the rail of the balcony creeping from around the corner?

The bulb in the inexplicable hallway ticked softly, as though its cord had been freshly tugged for the first time in too long.



Lara spoke, and Mr. Demidov all but quivered for the shake in her voice. In the dark, his head rocked down and his chin brushed the slope of his chest. Complacent. His breaths drew deep and flavorful, while Larisa tested her courage again and again: first, in questioning him; then, in standing; and finally, in daring to demand information. Her trembling voice and the panicky flit of her eyes betrayed her every fear, no matter how hard she tried to keep herself composed. He absolutely loved it.

And all at once, she found herself. She used her pacing as a source of focus and a release for her anxiety. He watched her eyes fly to the fire and find solace in its consistency. Instantly, he was enraged. Illogical though it was, he was furious that she could find an ounce of inner strength despite the hell in which he had placed her. Fear and power were all that this mogul had on his side, and she was rapidly disproving one of his greatest assets. While he should have been eager to earn her acceptance, he was only frustrated that she managed to avoid gawking at him like a child.

It was a great pooling of self control that kept from venturing no more than two steps further upon that staircase, and kept him from taking her few comforts from her in but instant. Those two steps, however, let the firelight cast a few golden highlights upon his dark and leathery flesh. It caught the dome of his skull and the cut of his wide jaw, while casting blind shadow in the folds of his cascading robe.

“My name is Viktor. You want for your father to be of good health, da?”

The mild slip of comfortable conversation at the tail end of his sentence made him a touch more human, if for only a moment. It raised the tone of his voice to mark the minute question, and also bared his intentions to raise conditions for negotiation—conditions that would likely lead to unfair results.

“These resources you are needing, they are mine. I have everything. Every ruble, every asset, every ounce of influence. But down below, the people… The people, they are not part of me. I need life. I need to speak and to feel. I need you, Larisa Aparina.”

Her eyes closed as he came closer, helping her relax. If Jaeda could but push away the image of this brute man, she could listen.
But even down to his voice and footsteps- it was all inhumanly powerful. And Jaeda knew there was no escape, though she wanted to run from this new found fear. But again- she did not. A curiosity sparked deep in her soul. One she would not speak of, though she would work for.

A spark of curiosity to know about the man whose name by now meant nothing. For it was too human for such a creature.

Jaeda's mind spun long thick webs of ideas and possibilities, reasons and consequences. And with this web of thoughts-
She opened her eyes.

Beautiful chocolaty-hazel eyes that were rich whilst watching him. Doubling two emotions- fear, and curiosity. Her fingers tapped restlessly, until she moved her body. Bringing the elegant and perfect figure to a beautiful stand. How her curves added such grace to her height. How her hair tumbled in smooth waves over her shoulders to add a soft balance to her skin's mocha colour.

"Excuse me sir, but can you tell me for how long I'm to stay here?" She asked, keeping a beautiful tone in a smooth lingering voice that completely masked her fear. It only showed some long stretch of pride and balance. Balance to her mind- balance that kept her from sprinting to the door and into the cold of Russia to escape...

Immediately, Larisa stopped at the foot of the chair she awoke in.
"Of course." She answered to the darkness. Her hands rested over the smooth, pale fabric of her skirt. She focused her gaze on her hands. Her father's.
A tear formed in her eyes. She had to get back, get back to her parents. It appeared obvious that she wasn't doing so soon. Whatever this Viktor wanted, he didn't sound like the kind that would put for 'No' as an answer.
"Alright. Then what do you want me to do?" She asked in a theatrical calm, well practiced out from experience through hard times. She turned her gaze into the darker area of the enormous room, where she guessed the voice came from.
This feels a lot like a horror, with the darkened scene. Larisa shuddered.

For what seemed like hours, Larisa stood there, unsure of whether she should sit, or continue her circling patterns around the area. The indecision led to an unease, and the unease led to the creation of a knot in her stomach.
Larisa finally lowered to her knees.
"But why?" She finally asked weakly, both pointed to Viktor and whomever cast this fate upon her. "Why have to force this all on me?" She broke down in tears.
She was strong. She knew this was proof that even the strong could be broken. That was all she needed to stop her tears, but not enough to stop her from crying dry sobs.
If even the strong can be broken down, then maybe Viktor, who obviously is of a strong manner, can be as well. i just have to figure out how. Larisa told herself.
"I guess I could try, but first may I ask. Why all this secrecy? What do you have to hide?" The question startled her, as if someone else spoke for her. She rose slowly from the floor, trying hard to sustain more tears. This was the most Larisa had ever cried.