Chapter 3
Lev
She didn’t cry.
Not last night, not when I left her standing bare in front of the mirror. I watched the footage again this morning. I had it pulled before Dmitri saw it. He wouldn’t have said anything, but he would have looked at me and the last I need is my right-hand’s righteous judgment.
Anya stood still for twenty-seven seconds after the door closed. Then she picked the slip up from the floor and pulled it back on with slow, deliberate hands. She didn’t look away from her reflection once. There was no panic or shame.
I’ve seen men shatter under less.
I can’t help this.
The intrigue growing in me is like none I’ve ever felt before. I find myself wanting to uncover the deepest parts of this woman. I know I ought to be more patient, to let what I’ve planted take root, yet the urge to see her again gnaws at me.
She hasn’t eaten much today. The log shows that her breakfast was left untouched, and she declined her lunch.
But she’s been walking. She’s been around most of the building.
I watched her cross the hall three times in the last hour.
She paused outside my study this afternoon.
She didn’t knock, but she didn’t walk away quickly either.
I’m beyond impressed.
How can I not be?
When I see her return to her room to rest, I write a note, and slide it under her door myself.
Library. Ten. Come alone.
At exactly ten, I hear her steps before I see her. She pushes the door open and steps in without hesitation. Her robe is tied, her feet are bare and her hair, damp. She didn’t dress for me but she came anyway.
“Close the door,” I speak slowly.
When she does, I gesture to the velvet chair by the fire. She sits down slowly, like she isn’t sure if this is a meeting or a game. She studies the room—the shelves, the fire, the shadows between us. Yet, not once does she look at the exit.
Good.
I pick up the book from the side table.
“Do you read poetry?” I ask.
“No.”
“It’s Anna Akhmatova. She is a Russian poet. So don’t expect it to be gentle.”
I open to the first poem and begin.
”A single glance: a sudden dart of pain
stitching her eyes before she made a sound…
Her body flaked into transparent salt,
and her swift legs rooted to the ground.”
The words are old and harsh but I chose them just for that. They don’t romance, they strike instead. I read three stanzas before glancing up.
She’s not blinking much, but she’s listening. Her hand rests on her knee, her fingers still.
I keep reading.
When I reach the second poem, her posture shifts slightly. I see her lips part. She hasn’t asked for anything, but she’s absorbing everything.
I close the book and stare at her. But she still doesn’t move.
“Why these?” she speaks at last. “They’re brutal.”
“So are we.”
“That’s truly what you think I am?”
“No. I think you’re something else entirely, actually. But you’re in my world now, and you’re a part of me. You should know the language.”
She leans back slightly, rolling her thumb across her index. “You could’ve said that without all this.”
“You prefer longer talks over efficient ones?”
She shrugs. “I just want to know why you’re here. What is this.”
“If I read it to you in bed,” I say, “you’d assume it was seduction.”
“It’s not?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“Proof I can speak without taking.”
She goes quiet again. Her robe shifts slightly at her knee. I see her eyes flicker to it, but she doesn’t fix it, instead she stares at me as she slowly, then ever so steadily pulls it up a bit more.
“Is that so?”
I don’t move. My cock flexes at her forwardness and those soft, greenish-gray eyes teasing me. But I don’t let her see it, allowing the book to shield me.
Never did I expect I’d be on the other end of my games. The thought makes me want to laugh.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” she says, softer now. “But I keep showing up.”
“I noticed.”
“Is that enough?”
I give her a smile. “For tonight.”