Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Anya
I trudged up to the house, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eyes. I didn’t want anyone to see me cry. Crying was a sign of weakness. My mother was at work—she had just opened the bakery—and my father… I hoped he wasn’t home.
The sun filtered through the trees, half blinding me because, at twelve years old, I was still too short to see much of anything. I just needed to get home, find a bandage, and I’d be fine.
Voices came from the back of the house, and I immediately recognized them.
Shit. It was too late to turn around—they’d already seen me.
Semyon and Eli. I turned and made my way toward the front door, but they were scrambling with something, hiding it under a pile of books.
I didn’t care what it was—a cigarette, a dirty magazine, could’ve been anything.
All that mattered was that they didn’t see me.
“Anya?” My brother’s voice traveled the short distance. I didn’t reply and kept walking. I heard Semyon say something to Eli in a low voice, and Eli gathered a bunch of things and ran to the back of the house. It was Semyon who came for me.
“Anya, what did you—” He froze when he saw me—my knees bloody, abrasions on my arms, tears welling up in my eyes. I looked away.
And then he ran. He ran to me. No one had ever run to me before.
“Who did this to you?” I knew by then he was part of the Bratva, so of course Semyon thought somebody had hurt me.
I shook my head. “No one did this to me.”
I told him the truth, but I could tell he didn’t believe me by the way his eyes darkened with doubt. His body language spoke louder than words.
I swallowed hard, caught in the intensity of his gaze, in the storm behind those glacial blue eyes. It seemed in those few seconds that passed between us he was weighing his options. I stared, half-frozen in place.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He bent, coming nearer to me than he ever had before, and scooped me into his arms effortlessly.
I opened my mouth to protest but was so taken off guard nothing came out. This was Semyon. So near. So strong and unyielding. Protective.
His grip was steady and firm but surprisingly gentle as he carried me like a baby, his chest firm and warm beneath my cheek. When had he grown into this? Semyon wasn’t the scrawny boy who trailed after his older brother, shadowed by grief and duty.
He was a man now. A real man, older than me, bound to duty and family… and now holding me like I mattered.
“Semyon—” I began, but the words died on my lips. His face was closer than it had ever been, and the intimacy of the moment completely rattled me.
“What happened, Anya?” he asked in a dangerous whisper.
“I fell,” I said, not meeting his eyes.
“Off what?” His voice was a low growl. He sounded angry. Why was Semyon angry? I was hurt, I was crying, I was bleeding, and I thought my leg might be broken—and he was mad?
“Off my bike,” I told him honestly. “I just went for a ride down by the train tracks, and I was going fast, and my bike hit a rock. I don’t really know what happened, but it went out from under me, and I just…” I sniffed, turning my head away. He shook his head gently.
“It’s all right now.” He looked at me awkwardly, like he didn’t know what to do with me, as he brought me into the apartment. With a gentleman-like determination in his eyes, he sat me down at the kitchen table and propped my leg up, lifting my ankle tenderly in his large hands.
“Not broken,” he said quietly. “Sprained, probably. You’ll need to wrap this.”
“Where did Eli go?” I didn’t want my brother here. I didn’t want him to intrude on us. This moment felt private, special. Sacred.
“He had to run an errand,” Semyon said cryptically. Now I was the one narrowing my eyes.
“My mother asked that you not involve him, Semyon.”
Semyon’s eyes flashed to mine before he schooled his features. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about!”
He shook his head. “I had nothing to do with this, Anya. If you only knew—”
“Knew that you’re Bratva? Do you think I’m so dumb that I don’t know?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “No, of course you know that. I mean, if only you knew how hard I was trying to get your brother out of trouble—” He stopped, his mouth snapping shut like he had said too much. What?
“Now, back to your injuries. I’m only going to ask one more time.” His blue eyes held mine captive, and my heart ached under the intensity. “Are you telling me the truth?”
I swallowed, and for one crazy, wild moment, I imagined telling him that somebody had hurt me. That I was bullied. No one had ever looked at me like this before, and it satisfied a strange desire in me that I didn’t understand.
I wanted to see how he’d respond.
“I’m telling you the truth. I fell.”
“If you’re lying to me, Anya—” My heart thumped madly. But he didn’t finish the sentence.
“I’m not,” I said quietly.
It was then that I noticed how his jaw had firmed and how the stubble on his chin had grown darker. Up close, I could see the shift in the color of his eyes—brilliant at times, lighter at others, framed in dark, thick lashes that would’ve been almost feminine on any other man.
I had never noticed any of those things before.
I did now.
“I’m not lying,” I whispered vehemently. “Are you?”
“I’m not hungry.” I pick at a slice of plain bread, my appetite gone. I haven’t eaten and need to, but the reality of my situation and the pang of loss hits my belly.
It’s exhausting keeping up with my anger toward him. I’m not an angry person. I rarely lose my temper. My mother used to say I had the longest fuse of anyone she’d ever met, but when someone finally got to the end of it, watch out.
Maybe she was right. I don’t want to think of my mother now because the most painful memories I have of her involve the man—or monster—sitting right across the table from me.
Semyon prides himself on telling the truth, no matter how brutal, but he lied to me outside his home before we came inside. He said he hadn’t changed. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
Because I remember.
I remember lying by the creek, side by side, when we were kids.
It was the only time I ever saw him relax, surrounded by the hush of wind in the trees above us, my brother lazily casting his fishing line time and again and never catching a bite.
I can still hear the sound of the water trickling and birds singing and fluttering past us.
He says he hasn’t changed, but I know the truth: Semyon was a boy I trusted and grew into a man I hated.
“Eat,” he says, pushing a platter of food toward me. Unsurprisingly, everything in his home is sharp lines and muted tones—steel, glass, and dark, varnished wood. Everything is cold and precise. Immaculate. There isn’t a shred of warmth or personal touch to be seen.
Semyon frowns, considering me. Likely trying to decide whether or not this is a hill to die on. Finally, he shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
He might see this as a silent rebellion against his wealth and control, but I’m tired, and it’s late.
Stefan would have come home from school.
He meets me at the bakery and tells me about his day, swinging his legs while sitting on the counter, messily eating whatever treat I let him pick from the day’s seconds.
He loves to look over the trays of baked goods and find the ones with imperfections before he stuffs them in his mouth.
I feel a little guilty looking at the lavish display in front of us. The spread is a feast of Russian tradition—bowls of borscht, their rich, ruby tops crested with sour cream, golden pirozhki stuffed with savory fillings, and plates of blini filled with smoked salmon and caviar.
Stefan would whoop with delight at this and eat until he couldn’t stuff another bite in his mouth.
My heart aches.
I look down at my plate, the little appetite I had gone.
Ophelia looked after Stefan today and checked in on the bakery. Galina, our only employee and my mother’s best friend, sells our wares with gusto but doesn’t know how to bake the way I do. She can hold down the business for a day, but I’ll have to come up with a plan to get back.
“I need to work,” I say. “I can’t just sit around looking pretty.”
Semyon shrugs. “You can sit around looking petulant. It’s worked for you so far.”
“Oh fuck off,” I snap before I can stop myself. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Someone on his staff behind us gasps, and the cold flicker in his eyes tells me I’ve crossed a line.
“Excuse me?”
I open my mouth to respond but don’t know what to say. “I-I didn’t mean that.”
“Did you already forget our conversation outside?”
My cheeks color, and I look away.
“Look at me.”
My eyes fly to his, cold and merciless behind his glasses. I stifle the need to squirm under the heat of his glare.
“I told you if you behaved like a child, I would treat you like one. How might you punish a child who was disrespectful?” He leans forward before taking a sip from his drink. “I’ll tell you what Rafail would’ve done. What he did do. You know all about Rafail becoming guardian to us, don’t you?”
I nod uncomfortably. “Yes.”
“And do you know how he would’ve responded if any of us disobeyed or disrespected him?”
I swallow hard and shake my head. “No,” I say, shifting in my seat. There’s a prickling awareness in the room now, an invisible weight pressing down as Semyon watches me with his ice-cold eyes.
He leans back in his chair, yet every movement seems calculated.
It feels strange looking at him now, like visiting a ghost that’s come to haunt you because I still see him, still hear him, still imagine the boy who was strong and powerful, the one who feared nothing.
And in front of me now is a monster. A stranger.
“Rafail believed in swift, memorable lessons. Humiliation. He never yelled. Never raised his voice.”
“Sounds lovely,” I mutter.
“Sounds effective,” he counters.
I look away. “So that’s what you have planned for me? If I don’t behave, you’ll have ‘swift, memorable’ lessons?”