Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Anissa
I have a sister.
A sister.
The revelation circles my head like a vulture waiting to swoop. Another secret. Another twist.
This is the strangest turn of events I could have imagined. Just when I think I have control of the situation, even the tiniest little modicum of control, he throws me another curveball.
And now his family. His parents are assholes. I’ve seen his mother’s type, the kind of shallow, brittle woman who goes to charity galas for the accolades but hides her venom behind the glitter.
Yet another thing we have in common.
Great. We could start a club. Children of monsters.
I have a mother too? And I'm going to meet the man whose life I apparently destroyed in a matter of hours. I didn’t think I could ever get back to a place where I was insecure or afraid.
I run head-on toward fear, toward discomfort, because I’ve found that’s what makes me stronger.
But now, my mind is spinning with the most mundane question: What am I going to wear?
And why is he not really afraid of me running anymore?
I also heard him loud and clear when he told his mother—that catty excuse for a mother anyway—that I would be the mother of his children. Dear god. Children.
Ha. I’ll have the last word on that one.
“Hmm. With no real time to go shopping," I say, working my lip. "I can't exactly go to the shop wearing the elephant-sized T-shirt."
I don't normally mind standing out, but this is different.
He nods, scowling, thinking.
"I'll call Rodion."
I know that Rodion is his cousin—Rafail's younger brother. Maybe they're close.
"Rodion's going to have women's clothes?"
"No, but his wife probably will."
His wife.
Maybe choosing ignorance over the Kopolov Bratva wasn’t my smartest strategy.
I nod, thinking.
"That's probably the best option. I don't even think the clothes I brought will be ready in time."
I look down at my nails—short, chipped, clean because of the shower, but barely presentable.
I washed my hair, but it dried into a frizzy mess. I have no makeup, no jewelry. I don’t even have a razor.
What am I thinking? Since when have I cared about this bullshit?
Since now.
Since I’m back in Russia with women who dress well and take pride in their appearance, that’s when.
I get up to use the bathroom. “Where’s your bathroom?”
“There are four. Closest is here, off the kitchen.”
This is a nice home. The Bratva do take care of their own.
I walk to the bathroom and splash water on my face. It’s a start. My reflection stares back at me—bare-faced, no makeup, no jewelry.
No armor.
For the first time in years, I’m just Anissa.
And I hate it. I hate it so much.
Matvei’s voice echoes behind me. I hear him talking to Rodion, filling him in, asking him for a solid.
There’s that little pang again—the one I pretend not to feel. The reminder that I never bothered to wonder what kind of man Matvei is when he’s not hunting me. Turns out, he’s the kind who has family dinners and inside jokes.
And yet, he’s barely afraid of me running anymore.
That’s what keeps twisting the knife. What’s given him so much confidence?
I’m losing my edge—or worse, he’s getting inside my head, rearranging my instincts until the sharp edges dull and the exits blur.
I feel Matvei behind me before I even see him. “Any luck with Rodion?”
He shakes his head. “They're out of town. I forgot.”
“Well, I can’t exactly meet them in this.”
Matvei’s gaze drags down my body, slow and heated. Not even trying to hide it.
“We’ll figure it out.”
That’s the difference between us. I survive by planning ten steps ahead. He survives by deciding no plan is necessary—because he is the fucking plan.
I grip the counter, forcing myself to breathe. My reflection stares back at me, daring me to break first.
“You’re still in trouble,” he says.
“Mm. So you say.” I manage to keep my voice coy even as my pulse thunders.
I can’t decide if I want him to punish me—or if I want to make him bleed first.
Maybe both.
Hmmm.
I stand in front of the mirror and pull my shoulders back. I guess a little bit of makeup or something couldn't hurt. "So do you always let your parents talk to you that way? You didn't seem the type."
"What's the type?" he asks.
“The type to let your parents control you. And you didn't answer my question."
"My parents are ruthless, mean. But they're the reason why I'm here, so…yeah.”
I catch his eyes in the mirror and narrow my gaze at him. That is not the answer, and we both know it, but I'm not going to pry. Eventually, I'll understand the truth about him.
And eventually, he'll know the truth about me too.
Because at this point, I know for a fact that what he said about chasing me is true. And even if I could erase my existence—disappear off the face of the earth, never to be found—I know that’s not what’s tethering me to him right now either.
Deep down, I’m intrigued. Curious. No one has ever made me feel as alive as he does, even when that feeling is laced with danger.
And I can’t help but wonder—have I finally met my match?
I was interested in the Irish, only inasmuch as what they could offer me. But I didn't like any of them. They're too old-fashioned, too set in their ways.
And I thought I actually didn't have a romantic bone in my body.
Maybe I was wrong. Even now, when he tells me that he's going to punish me, excitement curls in my belly. Will he hurt me again? I want him to. It's strangely cathartic in a way I can't explain, and I’m not sure I would want to, even if I could.
"I'm going to get my clothes and wash them," I tell him softly, then mumble under my breath.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
“I just wish I had my… clothes and things.”
“Your disguises?” he asks, eyes cold.
“I like to dress up.” I shrug. “So maybe I like a little cosplay.”
When he crosses his arms on his chest, his eyes grow colder. “Maybe you like to hide.”
My heart thumps. I get the message loud and clear: There is no hiding here.
“It doesn’t matter what you wear, Anissa. You could walk around in a fucking sack for all I care, and it wouldn’t matter. My parents will still hate you because you’re mine. And Rafail won’t forgive you for what happened, but he’ll eventually forget.”
How does he see right through me? How do I see right through him?
I freeze as our eyes lock. This is fucked up and inevitable, and I don’t know how to handle it. This is some kind of freaky soulmate-level shit I’m unprepared for.
I shake my head, feeling uncomfortable.
We’re wasting time.
“Where’s your washer and dryer?”
"I might as well give you the tour."
“Yeah.”
He doesn't touch me but stands so close I can feel his heat licking up my spine. My hands are eager to touch him, to ground myself in the reality of Matvei, the man who… owns me.
I could lean into this.
My heart beats faster, and I hate myself for it. I've been dragged through hell by the men who thought they owned me. I've been beaten, abused. It forged me into who I am today.
I won’t think of that now.
I look away because I don't want him to somehow read my mind. I'm afraid that if he meets my eyes again, he'll see the replay of that night over and over and over again… just like I do when I close my eyes to sleep. When I run my hands over the scars on my belly.
I follow him as he points to the kitchen, the entryway that leads to the garage, a large sitting area, and a paved patio on the other side of glass doors, barely visible now that it’s dark out.
And as he gives me the tour, he looks over his shoulder at me from time to time.
It’s unsettling. No one’s ever looked at me like this—like I’m a challenge and a prize, an answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking. And I know then that if somehow I did manage to escape tomorrow, he would burn down the world to find me.
For better or for worse…
“Since you live here now—”
"I live here?" I interrupt. My voice is dry and mocking because if I don't make it a joke, the truth might slip out—and I can’t have that. "Bold of you to assume."
He doesn’t blink. "It’s a fact, and you know it, you little brat."
"You’re very bold, Mr. Cliché. She’s going to have my babies; she’s mine,” I mock. “Yeah, I got you ever since the time you wrote on my wall in that red." I tip my head to the side. "How did you get rid of it so fast anyway?"
He shrugs. “A magician never shows his hand."
I point my finger in the air with a dramatic flourish. "So you admit you did it.”
His eyes darken, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes. Any other motherfucker did that, I’d kill him."
I swallow. He’s telling the truth.
There’s no bravado, no need to raise his voice. His control is a blade pressed to my throat, and the worst part is… I crave pressing back. Feeling the metal scrape my skin.
I want to see if he’ll cut me. I want him to bleed for me too.
This is not how this is supposed to go.
"The tour," he rasps.
I nod, hyperaware of the fact that I’m naked under this ridiculous T-shirt and we’re somehow standing toe to toe. "The tour," I repeat.
I trail after him, cheeks flaming no matter how hard I try to control my reaction as he moves through the house, my bare feet silent on the gleaming hardwood floors.
The house is exactly what I’d expect from him—dark wood, expensive, brutally elegant.
Not a single soft edge anywhere. Maybe I’ll be the soft edge.
Once I get my hands on one of his credit cards, I’m getting some fucking pink in here.
Maybe even some witchy crystals—a little rose quartz to soften his edges and some obsidian to give me some goddamn protection.
He opens a door off the hall, revealing a laundry room—modern, spotless, efficient. Shelves are stacked with neatly folded clothes, softener and detergent lined up like soldiers. Even his damn laundry room looks like it’s ready for war.
“Housekeeper?"
I just want to fill the silence, but I also want to know who’s going to come in and see me half-naked because that’s definitely what’s going to happen. Some people drink to relieve stress. Others take drugs.
Maybe Matvei is a drug.