Chapter 9 #2
I blink, stunned by his words, my breath catching in my throat. "Wait—Stefan’s coming with us?" I ask aloud, unable to hide my shock.
Ophelia gasps. Semyon and I both look over at her. We forgot she was there.
Semyon’s ice-blue eyes meet mine, unwavering. "This wasn’t part of my plan either," he admits. "But it was an oversight. I should have done a background check. And don’t even ask me about your father." His lip curls in disdain. "That man can drown in his own piss for all I care."
"Me too," I murmur. For a brief moment, our eyes meet in unexpected solidarity—a fleeting connection that vanishes almost as quickly as it appears.
"Just so we’re clear… he can live with us?" I ask, disbelief thick in my voice.
Semyon’s gaze doesn’t falter. "Do you think I would leave him here with that deadbeat father of yours?" He shakes his head. "I thought your brother was in school. I didn’t know you’d been taking care of him all this time. I don’t tolerate weakness, Anya, but I’m not a monster."
Conflicting emotions churn within me: anger at his arrogance, confusion at this unexpected act of kindness, and an unsettling sense of gratitude. Is this truly kindness? Or is it just another calculated move, another piece on the chessboard that will eventually lead to my downfall?
No…
Semyon doesn’t love. He doesn’t choke on kindness. This is just another move to keep me occupied.
My brother, Stefan, in that cold mansion? Yes, I can make sure he’s well-fed, that his clothes aren’t threadbare, and his socks don’t have holes in them. We’ll have adequate light to do homework, and I won’t have to worry about the heat being shut off.
But Stefan is headstrong, and I fear what will happen to him under Semyon’s cold fury.
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. What am I supposed to say? “No, I don’t want my brother subjected to your severity—I’d rather he starve to death or wonder if our drunken father will backhand him?” Yeah, no.
Ophelia stares at Semyon, then at Stefan, and back to me. “I don’t know about you,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “but I think this might work out pretty well for both of you.”
“It definitely won’t,” Semyon says, his voice cold and precise.
Ophelia’s eyes widen. She looks at him, unable to hide her fear, then backtracks awkwardly. “Oh, I didn’t mean you two. I meant… them.” She gestures between Stefan and me. “Those two.”
Her voice falters, and she tilts her head to the side with a forced smile. “Semyon, have you tried these delicious baked goods?” she asks, gesturing wildly at the half-open pastry case.
I want to bury my head in my hands. Semyon’s eyes narrow into slits, and he actually lets out a low growl—a real growl, like an animal.
“You two,” he snaps, pointing at Stefan and me, “get in the fucking car outside.” Then he turns to Ophelia. “And you—go home. Do not contact my wife without my permission again.”
Ophelia’s face flushes with justified outrage, but I silently will her to stop provoking him before he snaps.
“Just do what he says for now, okay?” I mutter.
“Not for now,” Semyon cuts in, his voice sharp. “Do what I say. Period.”
I step closer to Ophelia and whisper, “I’ll call you later. Thank you.”
She hesitates but nods before retreating, muttering under her breath as she marches to the door.
“I’m not going with him,” Stefan says stubbornly, his small shoulders squaring as he glares up at Semyon. “Someone has to be home when… when Eli comes back.” He trails off, his voice faltering.
“Eli isn’t coming back,” Semyon says coldly. “And I’m out of patience. It’s the middle of the night, Stefan.” Semyon’s voice softens. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?”
Stefan flinches but says nothing.
“Your sister and I will set rules for your time in my house. We’ll discuss them after everyone’s had some sleep. For now, gather your belongings and go with Anya to the car.”
When neither of us moves, Semyon’s nostrils flare. His voice cracks like a whip. “Now.”
Then he turns back to Ophelia, his tone icy. “Leave. I don’t want to see you again.”
“For God’s sake!” I snap, unable to stop myself.
Semyon levels his gaze at me, his voice dropping dangerously. “If I were you, I’d be quiet right now. You’re in heaps of trouble. You left without my permission, snuck away, and got into a car with a reckless driver who could’ve killed you.”
I ignore Ophelia’s indignant huff as she slams the door behind her.
“You disobeyed me,” Semyon continues, his tone cutting, “and you’re already on thin ice.”
Semyon steps closer to me, dragging his fingers along my wrist. His thick thumb presses against my pulse, and his eyes glint coldly. “Just as I thought,” he murmurs, cataloging my every reaction with unnerving precision.
It’s hard to believe men like him exist. I’ve known men like my brother—selfish, reckless, charming as hell. And men like my father—selfish, addicted, too broken to take care of the people they should love.
But Semyon is different. Responsible. In charge. Yet as cold as an ice king. And he’s my husband.
I made a decision long ago that I would never fall in love. I’ve seen how it wrecks people—how it destroyed my mother. Women lose their self-respect in the futile hope of earning love in return. That will never be me.
Maybe, in a way, I’m almost thankful. Being married to an ice king makes it easier to keep that promise.
“You’re soaking wet,” Semyon says suddenly, shaking his head. “Were you so afraid for your brother’s safety that you had no regard for your own?”
I glance down, only now realizing I’m still wearing my old, faded dress, soaked through and clinging to me. The wet fabric reveals more than I’d like—the dusky outline of my nipples, the curve of my breasts.
Before I can move, Semyon shrugs off his coat and drapes it over my shoulders.
“Zip that up,” he orders curtly. “No one looks at you but me. No one, Anya.”
He jerks his head toward Stefan. “Have you eaten?”
“I had some cookies,” Stefan mumbles.
“Grab a paper bag and pack some things for breakfast,” Semyon says, his tone softening just slightly. “You’ll eat at home and in the morning before school.” He shakes his head.
Stefan hesitates at the pastry case, then asks nervously, “Do you… want anything?”
The surrealism of the moment nearly knocks me off balance—my little brother, my dangerous husband, and me standing together in this strange, fragile truce.
Semyon glances at the case, then points. “Two of those,” he says, pointing to a pair of pirozhki. It’s not indulgence he’s after, but practicality. A quick, filling meal, chosen with the same cold efficiency he applies to everything else.
It’s a small gesture, but it feels almost human.
“Lock the shop behind you,” Semyon says brusquely.
I hold up the bent key.
“Are you serious?” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “Forget it. We’ll handle this tomorrow. For now, everyone needs sleep.”
He leans down, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And you and I will discuss every detail of your disobedience… when we get home.”