Chapter 19 Miko
MIKO
Anika cringes from me with such blatant fear, it stops me in my tracks.
Her eyes pinch closed as she turns her face, bringing her shoulder up as if to brace for a slap.
It’s clear from her response that this isn’t about being scared of me. This is an instinctual reaction that can only be developed through experience.
Just like that, everything I thought I knew about my new wife shatters.
My initial assessment of what Anika must have been through fell far short of her reality.
And in the moment when time stands still, the truth comes crashing through me like a freight train.
Then, in a flash, she’s sprinting toward the bedroom door.
Damn, and I thought she was fast before.
She’s almost too fast now that she’s barefoot, and the realization that she might actually get away floods me with anxiety.
I tear after her, worried about where she might run if I don’t stop her.
Now that she’s mine, she has no reason to fear my men—which is why it was safe to give her freedom to move about the property.
But we have plenty of enemies outside those borders who would go after her to hurt me.
“Anika!” I call, sprinting down the hall as she slingshots herself around the corner of the stairs.
I can hear her feet slapping against the hard floor, a few calls of surprise from the staff who pause to watch her, but no one tries to hinder her escape.
I could almost respect them for their loyalty—if it weren’t putting Anika directly in danger.
“Anika, stop!” I command, barreling down the steps after her.
She throws a terrified glance behind her—and slams headlong into one of the pedestals showcasing an elaborate vase near the front door.
It topples with an ear-splitting crash, shattering into a thousand little pieces and covering the sound of her cry.
But even that doesn’t slow her down.
Within seconds, she’s at the front door, throwing all her weight into it as she yanks it open before vanishing into the night.
“Merda!” I snarl, leaping over the broken shards to follow her.
She’s astonishingly far ahead by the time I spot her fleeing figure, and my heart skips a beat as I race after her without hesitation. Her arms pump, her feet flashing across the ground.
But it doesn’t matter how quick she might be.
My legs are longer. And I have a lot of practice in running men down. Usually, they’re bulkier, slower.
But my fear for Anika’s safety is an impressive driving force.
So, even when my lungs start to burn with the effort of overtaking her, I keep going.
Relief surges through me when I finally snake my arm around her waist, lifting her off her feet as I bring her escape to an abrupt halt.
“No, nooo!” she screams, squirming with a newfound ferocity that shocks me.
This is unlike anything she’s tried before. Anika seems half crazed as she bites and kicks, lashing out at me like a wild animal. She’s fighting me like she’s got nothing left to lose.
And when a stray elbow finds my throat, I momentarily loosen my grip on her.
That’s all she needs to slip free, and she collapses to the ground with a cry before taking off again.
“Damn it, Anika!” This time when I catch her, I spin her around, trapping her arms across her chest before crushing her body to mine so she can’t incapacitate me.
“Please, please,” she sobs, tears streaming openly down her face as she goes limp against me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Please don’t hurt me.”
It feels as though someone has reached inside my chest and ripped my heart out.
The oxygen vanishes from my lungs, any ounce of frustration vanishing along with it as I stare helplessly down at the broken woman in my arms. But that is truly what she is.
I knew Pyotr wasn’t a pleasant man, violent even. But I never dreamed he would turn that cruelty on his own wife.
I had no idea how beaten down Anika is.
She’s put up an impressive front. I thought her distrust was because of what I did—what she watched me do to her husband.
But clearly, that bastard was hurting her if Anika’s had this kind of fear instilled in her.
“Shh, topolina, shh. I’m not going to hurt you,” I promise, trying to soothe her.
She trembles violently against me, her tears coming hard and fast as sobs rack her slight body.
Despite her apparent fear, Anika curls against me, pressing her forehead to my chest and rounding her shoulders to better protect herself.
Aching sadness tightens like a vise around my chest, and I hold her closer, tucking her head beneath my chin as I try to keep her in one piece.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” I reassure her softly, willing her to believe me this time.
And when she nods against me, a dizzying relief infuses my blood.
“Can I take you back inside?” I suggest. No more commands. Now that I understand what’s going on, I’m going to have to be much more careful about the way I handle her.
Again, Anika nods, her sobs easing into harsh sniffles as she tries to rein her tears back in.
Heart hammering an irregular beat against my ribs, I slowly relax my grip on her, careful to see if she’ll make another break for it the moment I let her go.
Thankfully, she doesn’t, and I wrap one arm around her, taking her hand so I can guide her back toward the house.
I would rather just pick her up, but I don’t want to do anything that would feel like I’m forcing her.
Not when she feels like she’s hovering on the brink of fight or flight.
Anika takes several hobbling steps, seeming to register the abuse of her feet for the first time now that she’s not running on pure adrenaline, and my chest squeezes. I slow down, then stop abruptly when I spot the bloody footprints.
“You’re bleeding,” I state, my stomach knotting. I’ve seen plenty of blood in my life—much of which I spilled myself. But seeing Anika injured releases a fierce protective instinct inside me. “Let me carry you,” I insist, then tack on a “please” so it won’t sound too commanding.
Anika levels me with a small, watery smile. “Thanks,” she breathes.
Dipping low, I scoop her into my arms and carry her back inside the house. Several sets of eyes watch us as we enter, concern written across the faces of the household staff.
To their credit, they seem ready to step in if Anika asks for help.
“Please have some dinner brought up to our room.” I direct my request to Alfonzo, the butler that followed me and my brothers from the ruins of our family home.
“Of course,” he says with a nod, turning to head toward the kitchen as I carry Anika to the stairs.
Several servants already kneel around the broken vase, sweeping up the sharp shards. That must be what Anika cut her feet on. I don’t think she even tried to avoid the mess.
Silence stretches between us as we reach the second floor, broken only by her sniffles that slowly soften as she calms down.
But my heart is still thundering in my chest, my adrenaline like fire in my veins as I try to wrap my mind around what just happened.
I’m dying to ask her, but the last thing I want to do is trigger another unexpected response. So I need to take my time. Show her that she can trust me.
Without setting her down, I twist the handle to our bedroom door and step inside, kicking it closed behind me.
I take her straight to the bathroom counter, which practically glistens it’s so clean. I can smell the bleach in the air, and I’m grateful I’ll have a sanitary space to work in.
Lowering her gently onto the countertop, I set her feet into the sink basin, then grab the vanity bench to sit on so I can assess the bottom of her feet.
Air hisses sharply through my teeth when I find several sizeable shards buried in her skin.
“I’ll need to take out the broken pieces before I clean you up,” I warn, knowing it’s not going to be a pleasant process.
“Okay,” Anika says, her soft voice oddly calm.
Digging through the drawers for the first aid kit and a set of tweezers, I collect my necessary tools, then settle back on the bench and collect her left foot.
“Ready?” I ask, hovering the tweezers over the first shard as I glance up to meet her eyes.
Anika nods, her cheeks flushing delicately as she leans back to brace against the counter with her palms.
Doing my best to be gentle about it, I capture a corner of the broken vase and carefully extract it.
Anika’s breath catches, her foot twitching slightly in my grasp, but she doesn’t pull away, and when I drop the first piece onto the counter beside her, she seems to relax slightly.
A soft knock interrupts us as I finish on her first foot and turn my attention to the second.
“Come in,” I call without breaking concentration.
“Some soup for the missus,” Chastity says, setting a bowl down on the counter next to Anika with a soft clink.
“Thank you, Chastity,” Anika murmurs, and the maid leaves without another word.
“Eat,” I command, cringing internally when she flinches but immediately picks up the bowl.
Taking a deep breath, I release it slowly as I return to plucking out the bloody shards and plinking them onto the counter beside her. It’s not until the spoon is scraping the bottom of her bowl that I’m satisfied I’ve removed all the slivers.
“Alright. That part is done,” I say, keeping my voice low and even.
Rising from my seat, I turn on the tap water, keeping it cool but comfortable.
“This might sting a little,” I warn before guiding her foot beneath the running water to wash away the gravel and dirt.
Then I squirt soap onto a clean washcloth to wipe the skin clean around her cuts.
Anika sets the bowl aside to watch me work, and I can feel her eyes on my as I bow my head to focus on my task.
“So, you want to tell me what happened?” I ask, casting her a quick sidelong glance.
“I—panicked,” she finishes lamely, her cheeks turning a deep rose.
“I gathered,” I say, gently patting the one foot dry before cleaning the other. “But that wasn’t a normal reaction, Anika. Not unless you have a past you’re not telling me about.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, her muscles tensing as her pulse jumps in her throat.
Pausing my ablutions, I look up to meet her eye directly, but I keep a firm hold of her ankle so she can’t go anywhere. “Did Pyotr ever lay a hand on you?” I ask directly, the words tasting like acid on my tongue.
Anika’s look of shame tells me all I need to know.
But I want to hear her say it.
I want to know just how deep her wounds run.
Because if I don’t, I won’t know how to help her.
“It was my fault,” she says, the words coming straight out of the victim’s handbook. “It usually only happened when I provoked him.”
If I could fish the tiny pieces of Pyotr back out of Lake Michigan, I would put him back together and bring him to life just so I could kill him again.
And this time, I would take days to get the job done.
No death could be too horrific for that sick bastard.
But right now, despite the fury roiling inside me, threatening to explode, I know that it’s the last thing Anika needs.
So I take another deep, steadying breath and soften my hold on her ankle as I reach for the disinfectant and a cotton ball.
“I’m going to humor you for a moment and pretend that there is ever a good reason for a man to hurt a woman so I can ask this next question. What, pray tell, did you do to provoke him?”
Anika hisses, her foot jerking as the disinfectant hits her skin, and I clench my jaw, closing my eyes as her pain slicing through me like a knife.
“Sorry,” I grumble. “I should have warned you.”
“It’s fine,” she says, relaxing back into my hand as she gets back to my question. “Pyotr had a temper… and he liked to drink,” she admits reluctantly. “I knew better than to argue when he was in one of his moods, but sometimes, I just couldn’t help myself.”
Looking up at her over the dainty tips of her polished toes, I study Anika’s striking features—the faint yellow bruising along her cheekbone that’s nearly gone. “That bruise on your face, he did that?” I guess, several conflicting facts aligning properly for the first time.
Anika traps her lower lips between her teeth and gives a nervous nod.
Releasing a heavy breath through my nose, I shake my head and turn to grab a roll of gauze.
“It was that morning your family attacked,” she says, surprising me as she starts to open up without further prodding. “He was… hungover from celebrating…”
Anika’s words taper off, and I know without asking that she means he must have gotten drunk to celebrate murdering my adoptive father.
Keeping my eyes focused on my task, I try not to show the wave of hatred that ripples through me.
“I let the eggs get cold. And when he told me, I started to argue,” she explains, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Then she shrugs one slender shoulder, her vivid blue eyes dimming. That look of defeat guts me.
I want to tell her that it wasn’t her fault—that none of it was her doing.
But I can’t seem to breathe, let alone find the words to speak.
Horror grips me as I see for the first time just what kind of hell she was living in.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask, carefully tying the bandage on her second foot before I look up to meet her eyes.
“Since the beginning?” she suggests, the statement sounding more like a question. Then she shakes her head. “It all went downhill after the wedding.”
“Christ, Anika,” I growl, my fury building when I think about how long Pyotr was hurting her—she was suffering for a year, and I never knew.
If I had, I would have torn his house down to come for her.
I was tempted to the night she ran into me at the gala—and that was before I had a clue he was demented enough to hit her.
But I hadn’t liked the way he steered her from the convention center. I never should have let her leave with him that night.
“Did he hurt you often?” I swallow hard, bracing for the answer.
If he only hurt her one time, it would be one too many, but I dread hearing that Pyotr put his hands on her regularly.
It makes me wish I’d cut his fingers off and stuffed them down his throat.
Still, I know he must have.
That’s the only way her reaction tonight could be so ingrained.
Dropping her gaze, Anika picks at the hem of her dress. “I learned when to avoid him—and how to keep the peace well enough,” she hedges. “But the drinking always made it worse.”
Releasing Anika’s ankle, I straighten to my full height and gently catch her jaw in the palm of my hand.
Electric heat crackles up my arm from the point of contact, but for the first time, I ignore it as I peer deep into her eyes, willing her to understand. “He had no right.”