Chapter 8 - Viktor
Carrying Anka home felt like holding a piece of his past, like the universe had decided to fuck with him by making her fit perfectly against his chest exactly the way she used to.
Her head was tucked into the curve of his shoulder, her soft breath warming his neck through the rain-soaked fabric of his shirt, and for those twenty minutes in the car, he could almost pretend they were different people living a different life.
Almost.
But reality came crashing back the moment they stepped through the front door of the mansion.
Elena appeared immediately with towels and concerned clucking, and he carried Anka up to her room despite her protests that she could walk.
Her ankle was already swelling, purple and angry-looking, and the way she winced every time she tried to put weight on it told him she was in more pain than she was letting on.
“I’ll send for the doctor,” he said, settling her on the edge of her bed.
“It’s just a sprain.” She pulled the towel tighter around her shoulders, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“You need someone to look at that ankle—”
“I need you to get out of my room.”
The ice in her voice hit him like a slap. After everything that had just happened, after he’d just killed three men to protect her, she was throwing up walls again. Classic Anka, hiding behind anger when she was scared or vulnerable.
“Excuse me?”
She lifted her chin, and there was the fire he remembered, the defiant spirit that had first drawn him to her four years ago. “You heard me. I want you out.”
“That’s gratitude for you,” he said, his own temper starting to rise. “Next time someone tries to kidnap you, maybe I’ll just let them.”
“Maybe you should have!” She stood up too quickly, putting weight on her injured ankle, and immediately crumpled back onto the bed with a sharp cry of pain.
He was beside her in an instant, his hands gentle despite his anger as he helped her lie back against the pillows. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re hurt.”
“I’m hurt because of you!” The words exploded out of her like she’d been holding them back by sheer force of will. “This whole thing is your fault!”
“My fault?” He stared at her in disbelief. “How the hell is it my fault that some freelance kidnappers decided to target you?”
“Because you made me paranoid! Because your stupid fake kidnapping last week made me think every threat was just another one of your games!” Her eyes were blazing now, fear and fury mixing together in a combination that was both beautiful and terrifying.
“When those men cornered me, I thought they were your men. I thought it was just Viktor playing another twisted prank on his wife.”
The words struck him hard. She’d known. She’d known about the fake kidnapping all along, which meant she’d known he was capable of that level of cruelty and manipulation.
“How did you—”
“I overheard you talking to Marcus about it.” She wiped angrily at her eyes, and he realized she was crying. “I heard you congratulating him on a job well done, heard you planning my psychological torture like it was just another business meeting.”
Fuck. The guilt that had been eating at him since he’d watched her shopping alone came roaring back with interest. She’d known, and she’d still gone out shopping, still used his credit card, still played her games.
But now he understood why. She hadn’t been testing him or trying to manipulate him. She’d been getting revenge.
“Anka—”
“So when those men showed up today, I thought it was just round two. I thought you’d decided to escalate things, make it more realistic this time. I walked right into danger because I assumed it was another one of your sick jokes.”
The self-recrimination in her voice was devastating. She was blaming herself for what had happened, for trusting that the threat wasn’t real because he’d taught her not to trust her own instincts.
“That’s not...” He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to find the right words. “You couldn’t have known it was real.”
“Couldn’t I? Maybe if my husband wasn’t actively trying to terrorize me, I would have been more careful. Maybe if I hadn’t been so focused on your stupid games, I would have noticed them following me sooner.”
She had a point, and they both knew it. His fake kidnapping had made her complacent, had blurred the lines between real danger and manufactured threat. If she’d been hurt today, if he’d been even five minutes later getting to her, it would have been partly his fault.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words scraping his throat raw. “I’m sorry about the fake kidnapping. I’m sorry I made you doubt your instincts. I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner today.”
She stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What?”
“You heard me. I fucked up. The whole thing was cruel and stupid, and I’m sorry.”
For a moment, her anger seemed to deflate, replaced by something that looked almost like surprise. Then she looked away, her hands twisting in the towel around her shoulders.
“It doesn’t matter now,” she said quietly. “What’s done is done.”
But he could see the tremor in her hands, could hear the way her breath was still coming too fast. She was scared, more scared than she was letting on, and all that anger was just a shield to keep him from seeing how badly today had affected her.
“Anka,” he said gently. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Bullshit. You’re shaking, and not from the cold.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jar her injured ankle. “Something about today triggered something else. Something deeper.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. I’ve seen you scared before, but this is different. This is... older.”
She was quiet for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then, so softly he almost missed it, she said, “It wasn’t me.”
He frowned. “I know.” His chest tightened. “It was Raya.”
Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide, as if she hadn’t expected him to say it out loud. “You know?”
“I was there, Anka,” he said quietly. The memory still clawed at him—the endless hours, the hunt, the desperation to get her sister back before it was too late. “I helped bring her home.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed, voice breaking. “We were at that charity gala. Raya was nineteen, barely more than a girl, and she was so happy to be part of a grown-up event with us. She disappeared on my watch, Viktor. I let her walk away to the bathroom, and then she was just... gone.”
Her hands twisted the towel until her knuckles turned white.
“I searched everywhere, asked everyone, but it was like she’d been swallowed whole.
For eighteen hours, I thought my baby sister was dead.
Every second felt like a lifetime. I didn’t know if she was being hurt, if she was crying for me, if she was even still breathing. ”
He remembered too well—the ransom call, the tension in the room, the way Anka had been shaking but still trying to stay strong.
“Matvei and the boys got to her before the kidnappers could do anything permanent,” she went on, her laugh sharp and broken. “Physically, she was fine. But mentally… months of nightmares, panic attacks, not being able to step outside without trembling. That’s what they left us with.”
She looked at him then, eyes shining with raw pain. “And me? I never forgave myself. I was supposed to protect her. And I couldn’t.”
She looked at him then, and the pain in her eyes was so raw it nearly stopped his heart.
“I blamed myself. I was supposed to be watching out for her. I was the older sister, the one who was supposed to keep her safe, and I let her get taken right under my nose.” Her voice cracked.
“For eighteen hours, I thought I’d lost the most important person in my life because I wasn’t paying attention. ”
The rage that filled him was white-hot and consuming, a fury so pure it made his vision blur around the edges. Someone had terrorized a nineteen-year-old and put Anka through eighteen hours of hell—and he hadn’t needed to ask who. Danny.
He didn’t need to ask. He had been there when they stormed the place to get Raya back.
He had been there when the shooting started, when glass and gunfire turned the world into staccato light and pain.
He remembered the crack and the smell and the way Danny had looked at him—surprised, terrified, then gone.
He remembered kneeling over him, his hands shaking, the blood warm on his fingers.
They had dragged Raya out as the last of them fell.
“Viktor—”
She didn’t finish. He didn’t need her to.
She already knew. The memory didn’t bring relief.
If anything, it made the heat under his skin sharper.
Matvei and the others had done what had to be done, and he had done his part.
Still, part of him wanted more—to have watched Danny suffer for every second he stole—and another part wished he could unmake the whole night and save Raya without anyone dying at all.
The contradiction sat in his throat like a stone.
“Today,” she continued, her voice getting smaller, “when those men grabbed me, when they started dragging me toward that van... all I could think about was Raya. All I could see was my baby sister being pulled away from me, and I couldn’t... I couldn’t let that happen again.”
Now he understood the panic he’d seen in her eyes when he’d found her. It hadn’t just been fear for herself. It had been the terror of reliving the worst night of her life, of being helpless again while someone she loved was in danger.
Except this time, she’d been the one in danger.
“That’s why you fought so hard,” he said. “That’s why you managed to get away from three armed men.”
She nodded. “I couldn’t let them take me. I couldn’t put my family through that again, couldn’t make them watch me disappear the way I watched Raya disappear.”
The guilt was eating him alive. All this time, he’d been playing games with her, manufacturing fake threats and psychological torture, never knowing that he was poking at a wound that had never fully healed. He’d been so focused on his own pain that he’d ignored hers completely.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, meaning it more than he’d ever meant anything in his life. “I’m so fucking sorry, Anka. If I’d known—”
“You would have what? Been nicer to me? Treated me like a wife instead of an enemy?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You didn’t know because I didn’t tell you. Just like you didn’t tell me who you really were four years ago.”
They were both quiet for a moment, the weight of all their secrets and lies hanging heavy in the air between them.
“Viktor?” Her voice was so small and vulnerable that it made his chest ache.
“Yeah?”
“Would you... Could you stay with me tonight? Just until I fall asleep?” She looked away, embarrassed by the request. “I know you hate me, and I know this marriage is just business for you, but I don’t want to be alone right now.”
Hate her? Christ, if only it were that simple.
“I don’t hate you,” he said quietly.
“Yes, you do. And you have every right to. What I did to you four years ago—”
“We’ll talk about that later.” He stood up and moved toward the chair by her window. “Right now, you need to rest.”
“Viktor, you don’t have to sit in that uncomfortable chair all night. The bed is big enough for both of us, and I promise I won’t... I mean, I’m not expecting anything. I just don’t want to be alone.”
The idea of lying next to her, of being that close to her warm body and soft skin without being able to touch her the way he wanted to, was a special kind of torture. But the alternative was leaving her alone with her nightmares and her fears, and he couldn’t do that.
“Okay,” he said. “But I’m staying on top of the covers.”
She nodded, scooting over to make room for him. He kicked off his shoes and lay down beside her, careful to keep space between them, trying to ignore the way she smelled like rain and vanilla and something that was purely her.
“Thank you,” she whispered in the darkness.
“Go to sleep, Anka.”
He listened to her breathing gradually slow and deepen, felt the tension leave her body as exhaustion finally claimed her. When he was sure she was asleep, he carefully got up and moved to the chair, pulling out his phone to make some calls.
The kidnappers had been freelancers, but someone had hired them. Someone had put a price on his wife’s head, and that someone was going to pay for it in ways that would make Matvei’s revenge look merciful.
It took three phone calls to track down the source. A small-time rival family called the Bocharovs, probably trying to make a name for themselves by going after Volkov assets. They’d picked the wrong fucking target.
“I want them all dead by morning,” he told Marcus, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t wake Anka.
“Everyone who was involved, everyone who knew about it, everyone who so much as heard the plan discussed over drinks. Make it messy. Make it public. I want every other small-time crew in the city to know what happens when they target my wife.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
He hung up and looked over at Anka, curled up under the covers with her golden hair spread across the pillow. She looked peaceful in sleep, younger somehow, like the woman he’d fallen in love with instead of the one he’d married for revenge.
He should have left then, gone back to his own room and his own bed. Instead, he found himself lying back down beside her, drawn by the soft sound of her breathing and the way she unconsciously shifted closer to his warmth.
Just for a few minutes, he told himself. Just until he was sure she was deeply asleep and wouldn’t wake up from nightmares.
But when dawn light started filtering through the windows, he was still there, and Anka was curled against his side with her head on his chest and her arm thrown across his waist. For the first time in four years, he’d slept without having dreams of revenge.