Bound by His Name (Dark Short Reads #4)

Prologue

Anya

The fucking dress they picked for me to be traded in smells like plastic wrap and perfume someone tried to drown it in.

It hangs off a silver hook above the radiator—white, heavy, sleeveless. The kind of white that’s supposed to mean something. It looks expensive, but not new. I wonder how many other captive wives have stepped into it.

I sit on the edge of the chaise, one slipper on, one off, and press my thumb into my palm hard enough to leave a mark. It stings, and I’m grateful for the pain.

A knock distracts me, sharp and short. My father doesn’t wait for me to answer. He pushes the door open and steps in, coat still on, snow melting on his boots and leaving a trail across the marble.

“Put the dress on.”

I stay seated.

His brow lifts, and that’s all. He doesn’t sigh, nor give a threat this time. I’m met with the dull, tired stare of someone too far gone to pretend anymore.

“This is a joke,” I say. “You’re not serious.”

“I don’t have time for one.” He steps closer, dragging the trail with him. “He’s on his way.”

“Then let him come,” I snap. “I’m not a gift box. I’m not putting that thing on.”

He stops in front of me and his shoulders slope as if gravity’s gotten worse for him alone. “You think I wanted this?”’

“Yes.”

“I didn’t,” he says flatly. “But this—” he points to the dress without even looking at it “—this is how you stay breathing.”

“You’re selling me.”

“I’m keeping us alive.”

“No. You’re keeping yourself alive.”

There’s not a wince or ounce of regret on his face—just calculation. “He could’ve asked for your life. He asked for your hand. I took the deal.”

A car pulls up outside and I hear the muffled slam of a door.

I stand so fast the slipper flies off. “You’re disgusting.”

“I am your father.” He adjusts his cuffs. “And I’m simply practical.”

He leaves before I can reply.

I let out a sigh and allow them to remove me from my room.

The tailor waits for me in the dressing room off the back hall. She’s a short woman in all black, her expression so neutral it might as well be painted on. She doesn’t greet me, only holds the dress out like I’m already late.

I step behind the screen, refusing help. The zipper scratches as I pull it up. It’s snug through the ribs, stiff at the shoulders.

When I step out, she gives me a once-over and nods. “Good enough,” she mutters.

There’s no veil or flowers. Just this one dress, and two men in dark coats waiting at the foot of the stairs when I return.

They don’t introduce themselves. They nod once, sharply, and hold the front door open like they’ve done this before.

I’m not told where we’re going. But I already know. I turn my head to the side, but before the door slams, I feel someone settle in next to me.

Sasha, my best and only friend, slips into the car before it pulls off. She wasn’t invited. Her coat’s too big for her, sleeves swallowed past her hands. She looks like she dressed in a panic.

One couldn’t blame her. We aren’t going to see each other for a while after all.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I tell her.

She grabs my hand anyway. “I’m not letting you walk into this alone.”

I press my lips together and stare out the window. The snow outside is endless—layered like old skin, gray and hard.

We don’t speak until the gate appears. It’s made of metal, thick and topped with barbed wire. Two men with rifles wave us through without checking IDs.

“Jesus,” Sasha whispers.

The estate behind it is brutal stone. It is all corners with no warmth. There are lights in a few high windows, like eyes that never close.

The car stops and I feel Sasha lean in, her breath quick. “Anya, listen to me. Lev Antonov doesn’t take wives.”

I turn toward her slowly, watching the worry grow on her face. “He takes possessions.”

I step out of the car without a word because there’s no point in pretending I have a choice.

The air bites, dry and sharp and snow crunches under my heels. Two men flank me, neither saying a word as they guide me up the stone steps and through double doors that creak open as if the house itself disapproves of my arrival.

The inside is worse.

The floors are marble with walls like grave slabs. A chandelier overhead ticks as it settles—old wiring, maybe. Everything is clean, but not lived in. Nothing feels warm or like a home. It’s a tomb with good lighting.

A third man gestures down a hallway. “This way.”

We stop at a massive room at the end, and the door opens. There’s no one inside except a priest in full vestments, a few suited men standing like statues at the back, and him .

Lev Antonov doesn’t move when I enter.

He stands in front of the windows, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly like he’s more curious than affected.

He’s tall and sharply built, dressed in black with not a wrinkle in sight.

Not a strand of hair out of place on his face that looks as though it could be sculpted—if the sculptor hated sentiment.

I expect him to make a move and say something. But he just stays there, like this whole thing is beneath language.

“Miss Mikhailova,” the priest says. “We may begin.”

My feet stay glued. I look at Lev again to find he still hasn’t turned.

The priest clears his throat. “Miss Mikhailova—”

“I heard you.”

My voice is thin, but it doesn’t shake.

Sasha isn’t here, nor is my father. I’m left with just the man who bought me, and the men who make sure I don’t leave.

Lev finally turns, slowly.

His eyes land on mine, and I feel something shift inside my chest. His face is handsome enough to almost distract me from how he studies me like I’m not a person, just a piece he’s added to his collection, a pawn or a negotiation closed.

But then, his eyes drop and travel over me once. When they come back up, something flickers for a moment.

It’s not hunger or approval.

It’s recognition, as though he’s already imagined this exact moment. And now that it’s here, it isn’t surprising. It’s confirmed.