Chapter 8
Anya
Three seconds. That's how long the kiss had lasted before Ivan pulled away like I'd pressed a blade to his throat instead of my mouth to his.
I hadn't moved since I'd collapsed here six hours ago. Hadn't slept. Hadn't even closed my eyes for more than a blink. Just sat curled in the cognac leather, replaying those three seconds on infinite loop while my mind dissected every possible interpretation of his rejection.
Wait. We should wait. Make sure this is real.
The words circled my brain like sharks. Each repetition took another bite out of whatever courage I'd gathered to kiss him in the first place. To choose something. To want something. To believe, for three impossible seconds, that I was allowed to have desires that weren't survival strategies.
My eyes burned from staying open too long. My neck ached from the angle I'd held it, watching the city but really watching my reflection in the dark glass—this ghost of a woman who'd forgotten she wasn't allowed to want things.
Every time I shifted position, the leather creaked, and the sound made me think of his hands on my shoulders. Gentle but firm. Creating distance. I need to know you actually want this.
I'd told him I did. Had kissed him to prove it. Had admitted attraction despite twenty-six years of training that said never show want, never reveal need, never give anyone ammunition. And he'd treated me like a child who couldn't be trusted with her own feelings.
Footsteps in the hallway. My spine straightened automatically—defensive posture I couldn't suppress even though I knew it was just Ivan emerging from his bedroom.
The door opened with its familiar whisper, and then he was there in the living space, filling it with his presence the way he always did.
Gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips.
Black t-shirt that shouldn't look as good as it did, clinging to his chest in ways that made my traitor body respond despite everything.
His dark hair was messy from sleep—actual sleep, unlike me—sticking up at angles that made him look younger.
More human. Less like the Ice King who'd pushed me away.
He froze when he saw me. Those gray eyes—alert despite the early hour—tracked over my curled form, the destroyed collar of his t-shirt between my teeth, my swollen eyes that announced I'd been crying even if I hadn't let myself actually cry.
"Anya."
My name in his mouth sounded like an apology.
He crossed the space with deliberate steps, not rushing but not hesitating either.
Then he did something that surprised me—he sat on the coffee table directly in front of the chair.
Close enough that his knees almost touched mine.
Close enough that I could smell him—soap and something uniquely Ivan that made my chest tight.
"I'm sorry about last night."
The words were quiet. Careful. His hands rested on his thighs, and I could see him actively keeping them still when they wanted to move. To reach for me, maybe. Or to create more distance. Hard to tell which.
"I know it must have hurt when I pulled away."
Hurt. Such a small word for what it had done.
Like calling the Grand Canyon a ditch. Like calling drowning getting a little wet.
I wanted to deny it, to arrange my face into that perfect mask of indifference I'd perfected.
But my eyes were already burning, and my throat was closing, and twenty-six years of suppressed emotion chose this exact moment to crack the dam.
"You rejected me."
The words came out as barely a whisper, scraped raw from a night of silent screaming. My fingernails found my palms—four crescents of grounding pain.
"I finally—" My voice broke. I swallowed. Tried again. "I chose something. For myself. For once in my life, I chose, and you—"
I couldn't finish. The words lodged in my throat like glass shards.
"I didn't reject you." His voice was gentle but firm, and something in his expression shifted. Intensified. "I'm trying to protect you from making a choice you might regret. From confusing gratitude with attraction. From—"
"I know what I feel."
The words erupted with more force than I'd intended. Anger—clean and sharp—cut through the hurt like a scalpel. My hands clenched into fists.
"I'm not stupid, Ivan. I'm not confused.
I'm not some traumatized child who can't differentiate between safety and desire.
" Each word gained strength, volume, conviction.
"I have two PhDs. I speak seven languages.
I've been analyzing human behavior since I was old enough to realize my survival depended on it. I know exactly what I feel."
He didn't flinch at my anger. Didn't pull back or shut down. Just held my gaze with those storm-gray eyes that saw too much.
"I wanted to kiss you," I continued, the admission scraping my throat raw. "Not because I had to. Not because the treaty demanded it. I wanted to."
My voice cracked on the last word, but I forced myself to continue.
"And you treated me like I couldn't be trusted to make that decision. Like my consent wasn't enough. Like I was too broken to know my own mind."
Silence stretched between us. One breath. Two. Three. Four—the rhythm he'd taught me, though neither of us was counting now.
"You're right," he said finally. No deflection. No justification. Just simple acknowledgment. "I'm sorry. I was so focused on not being another man who took advantage that I ended up taking away your agency instead. That wasn't fair."
The apology hit harder than rejection had. Because he meant it. Because he saw what he'd done and named it without excuse.
"I'm here, Anya." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "Whenever you're ready. However you need me. As your husband, your roommate, your friend, your—whatever you decide. But it has to be your decision. Not mine. Not the treaty's. Yours."
The words hung between us like a bridge I could choose to cross or not. No pressure. No expectation. Just possibility, offered with open hands.
The intercom's buzz shattered the moment, harsh and electronic against the morning quiet. We both froze—me still curled in the Eames chair with my knees touching his, him on the coffee table like a therapist who'd gotten too close to his patient.
Ivan stood, the movement controlled but reluctant, and crossed to the panel by the elevator. His finger hovered over the button for a heartbeat before pressing it.
"Yes?"
"It's Clara and Eva." Clara's voice crackled through the speaker, bright with intention. "We're here to see our new sister!"
His eyes found mine across the room, a question in those gray depths. Did I want this? Was I ready for his sisters-in-law when I was still raw from our conversation, from my sleepless night, from the weight of almost-understanding between us?
I nodded. Small movement, but he caught it.
"Come up," he said into the intercom, then pressed the button that would grant them elevator access.
We had maybe ninety seconds before they arrived. Ninety seconds where we stood on opposite sides of his living room, trying to figure out what we were to each other now. I'd asked to find out what I was ready for. He'd agreed. But neither of us knew what that meant in practical terms.
The elevator chimed, and then Clara and Eva spilled into the penthouse like sunshine cutting through fog.
Clara moved with her usual quiet confidence, designer jeans and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than most people's rent.
Eva was softer—leggings and an oversized Columbia University hoodie that might have been Dmitry's, her lavender hair pulled into a messy bun.
They both carried coffee cups from the expensive place three blocks over, and Clara pressed one into my hands before I could protest.
"Vanilla latte," she announced. "Extra shot. You look like you need it."
The warm cup felt like an anchor in my shaking hands. The coffee smelled safe, normal, like the world outside this penthouse where everything was complicated and charged.
"Girls' day," Clara continued, setting her own cup on the side table with decisive movement. "We're kidnapping you. Ivan, you're not invited."
"Where?" My voice came out smaller than intended. Cautious.
"Shopping," Eva said, but something flickered in her expression. A careful kind of anticipation that said shopping wasn't quite accurate. Maybe shopping was code. Maybe this was another test, another transaction, another—
"Trust us?" Clara's voice gentled, and she extended her hand toward me. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just offering.
I looked at Ivan, needing something I couldn't name. Permission? Reassurance? A reason to say no?
"They won't hurt you," he said quietly. "Promise."
But there was something else in his expression. Knowledge, maybe. Like he knew exactly where they were taking me and had opinions about it but wouldn't voice them. His jaw worked slightly—that tell I'd started recognizing meant he was holding words back.
"Okay," I heard myself say.
Forty minutes later, after a car ride filled with Clara's chatter about everything except where we were going, we stood on Court Street in Brooklyn.
The neighborhood was different from Tribeca's glass and steel—older buildings, tree-lined streets, the kind of shops that had been here since before Brooklyn became trendy.
Clara led us past a vintage clothing store, a used bookshop that made my fingers itch to explore, a café with mismatched chairs visible through foggy windows. Then she stopped in front of a storefront painted soft lavender, with "Little Haven" scripted in gold letters across the awning.
My breath caught.