Chapter 2
Anya
A chill runs down my spine from the eerie stillness as the gates open.
The car that delivered me to this place—my father’s last attempt at survival—doesn’t wait. It disappears down the long gravel drive, leaving only two armed men to escort me up the steps of Lev Antonov’s estate.
No one speaks or offers a hand. I’m not a guest, or truly even a wife.
I’m collateral.
Inside, everything is cold and curated. The walls are stone, the floors gleam, and the windows are too tall to let in anything warm. A third man leads me through a wide hall until we reach a door I don’t open. He does it for me, then gestures for me to enter. I step inside.
The bridal suite is exquisite. It’s also lifeless.
Someone has arranged it to look expensive, not comfortable.
White orchids sit on a marble table, and a velvet chair faces the fireplace, where a low flame casts a mild glow.
The bed is large, covered in pressed linen and a fur throw folded at the end like a luxury catalog display.
There is nothing personal or human about it.
A maid appears within minutes, dressed in a pale gray, starched uniform. She doesn’t introduce herself but walks straight to the bathroom and turns on the taps. When she returns, she gestures for me to follow. I obey because there’s nothing else to do.
She helps me undress without saying a word. Her hands are practiced and efficient. She doesn't avoid my eyes, but she doesn’t meet them either. When I step into the hot water, she begins to scrub my skin with a soft cloth, careful not to linger.
When she dries me off, she unfolds a pale, ivory silk slip I’ve never seen before. It looks overly delicate with thin straps. She lifts it and waits.
“Did he choose this?” I ask.
She gives no answer.
Of course he did.
I slip it on and she leaves without another gesture or word.
Time moves strangely after that. Hours pass, or maybe only one.
I sit on the edge of the bed. Then I stand, I walk to the mirror and back again.
I touch the cold silver hairbrush on the dresser.
I stare at the orchids. I try not to listen for footsteps, but every creak of the floor or distant murmur beyond the walls makes my heart trip.
Eventually, the door opens.
Lev Antonov steps inside.
He doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t speak or come near me. He closes the door behind him with quiet precision and stands still, just inside the room.
His eyes move over me, but not like I expect.
There’s nothing lewd in the way he looks at me. It’s more clinical, as though he’s taking inventory; assessing not just my body, but how I stand and breathe. Perhaps what I show and what I hide as well.
He takes two steps forward, then stops.
“May I touch you?” he asks suddenly.
His voice is low and calm. It’s not gentle but matter-of-fact, as though this is not seduction or ritual but negotiation.
I scoff slightly as I respond, hating him with my gaze, “Of course, sir.”
He doesn’t move.
“That sounded like a pained surrender,” he speaks slowly. “Not consent. I’ll walk away if that’s all it is.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out right away. He turns his body to the door, shifting only his head to wait for a response.
I’m taken aback. I watch his expression, unable to understand the meaning behind that gaze.
What is happening? My body tingles as he stares at me, never breaking eye contact.
“…Yes,” I find myself saying, softer this time.
It will happen eventually, won’t it? It is not as though I’m not prepared. I’d rather have it now anyway, while he seems calm. He takes a step closer, and I don’t step back.
Lev's fingers graze the bare skin at my throat. I stand perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. He lifts a hand, slowly, and brushes the strap of the silk slip off my shoulder. The fabric slides down an inch, revealing the line of my collarbone. He doesn’t speak right away.
He simply watches the slip shift downward.
“Your shoulders,” he says quietly. “Unmarked. I’ll start here.”
The room is warm, heated by the roaring fire nearby, yet goosebumps prickle along my flesh at his touch. He can tear off my clothes with ease, his strength is evident even through his tailored suit. Yet, he seems to want to take his time.
His fingertips trail down my arm, leaving a trail of heat that seems to linger long after his touch.
He brushes against the curve of my breast, just barely skimming it before moving on. I shiver at the near contact.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Such soft skin."
I look into his pale blue eyes, trying to gauge his thoughts, but they are inscrutable.
He traces the other strap, pushing it down as well until both thin strips of fabric hang at my elbows, holding up my dress but doing little else.
With one little flick, the silk falls off me and soundlessly to the floor at last.
I don’t cover myself.
"The things I would like to do to you..." his bass fills the room, dangerous. He steps closer, crowding me against the wall, his large frame dwarfing mine.
"Then do them," I challenge without thinking, feeling a tremble take over me.
A slow smile spreads across his face, one that seems to promise sin and pleasure, but he says nothing crude. He doesn’t reach for my breast or between my legs. His hands are firm and precise. They pass over the back of my neck, down my spine, stopping at the small of my back.
Every motion is deliberate. Measured. He places his hand on the side of my hip, the way one might rest a hand on the railing of a balcony—secure, but never gripping.
He speaks again, voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re not afraid of me. Not really. You’re afraid of what I’ll prove true.”
I inhale, and this time I don’t hide the way it catches.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
He steps to the side and lifts my chin gently with two fingers, then guides me to the full-length mirror positioned near the fireplace.
“To see what’s already mine,” he says. “Not to take it. Not tonight.”
He doesn’t position me or instruct. He simply stands behind me, one hand resting lightly at my lower back. I meet my own reflection. My skin is flushed, my breath shallow, but I’m not trembling.
He leans close to my ear—not touching, just near enough for the warmth of his breath to reach my cheek.
“This,” he murmurs, “is where it begins.”
With that, he walks away and the door closes behind him.
I am left frozen and naked in front of the mirror.