Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Artyom
She doesn’t move. Just stands there, eyes wide, trying to make sense of what I said.
I’ve seen people freeze in shock like that before, but this feels different.
The way her chest rises and falls, the way her lips part like she’s about to speak but can’t quite find the words—it gets under my skin in a way it shouldn’t.
Her skin’s flushed, her hair a mess, eyes glassy from fear or disbelief. She looks like someone who should be nowhere near my world, yet somehow, she fits in the quiet after a threat.
She exhales, shaky and slow. The sound hits me low, somewhere I don’t want to admit exists. She doesn’t even realize she’s trembling. I should look away, but I don’t.
“I’ll have someone contact you tomorrow,” I say, voice even. “We’ll start preparing.”
She blinks, like the words don’t land. I can tell she doesn’t understand what “preparing” means. She thinks this is over, that I’ll disappear into the night and give her time to make sense of it. She’s wrong.
I take a slow step toward her. “You’ll need clothes, documents, jewelry. The things a fiancée would have.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts again. “You’re not serious.”
I tilt my head slightly. “You think I came here for fun?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t even—I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Obedience,” I say. “For now, that’s enough.”
She swallows hard, and I can almost hear the words she doesn’t say—because she did agree, and she knows it. That’s what loyalty does to people like her. It makes them weak in the wrong ways.
I turn my back to her for the first time and start walking toward the tiny hallway that leads to her bedroom. Her voice follows, sharp and panicked. “Where are you going?”
“Checking something.”
“Don’t step inside my room!”
I ignore her and open the door. The light from the hallway spills over a cramped space, full of cheap furniture, worn sheets, and a stack of medical books on the nightstand.
The whole place smells faintly of antiseptic and something floral.
It’s clean, too clean for someone who works double shifts like her. Orderly.
Behind me she’s hovering by the door, still holding that damn blanket, eyes wide. “You can’t just—”
“I can.” I pull open the closet. The doors creak like they haven’t been oiled since the building went up. Inside: a row of scrubs, two pairs of jeans, a few shirts, one black dress that looks like it’s been worn twice, maybe for a funeral.
She makes a strangled sound. “Stop that!”
I pull a hanger free and look at it. The fabric’s thin, cheap cotton. I hold it up between two fingers. “You wear this to work?”
She glares at me. “You breaking into my closet now? Wasn’t my house enough?”
“You’re supposed to represent me.” I push aside another set of clothes, half expecting to find drugs, weapons, anything that could tell me more about her brother. Nothing. Just a folded blanket, a pair of old sneakers, and a shoebox full of what looks like photographs.
I reach for it, and she lunges forward. “Don’t touch that!”
Her voice cracks, and for the first time it isn’t fear but something closer to instinct, raw and protective. I look down at her hand on my wrist, small and shaking yet steady enough to hold on. Most people wouldn’t have dared.
“Careful,” I say quietly.
She pulls back like I burned her. “Those are mine.”
“I figured.” I set the box back and close the door. “Relax, I’m not interested in your childhood memories.”
She’s breathing hard, trying to keep up with me but not understanding why I’m still here.
I should leave, but curiosity is an old habit I can’t kill.
I crouch and pull open the drawer beneath the closet.
Socks. Underwear. A few cheap lace pieces mixed with plain cotton.
My hand moves automatically, sorting, checking for anything she could wear.
Her breath catches when I lift one of the lacy pairs and raise an eyebrow.
She rushes forward and slams the drawer shut, face red. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Just checking,” I say, straightening.
“My underwear?”
“I need to know what I’m dealing with.”
Her jaw tightens. “You’re disgusting.”
“Probably,” I say, and I mean it.
The silence stretches between us, and she’s trembling, though it isn’t just fear anymore. Anger starts to move through her, gathering the way a storm does over open water, slow and tense and almost beautiful if you know what you’re looking at.
“This isn’t funny,” she says finally. “You think you can just walk into someone’s life and—”
“I’m not thinking,” I interrupt. “I’m deciding. There’s a difference.”
I walk to her dresser next. A few folded shirts, one pair of jeans that looks newer, a cheap bottle of perfume half-empty. I uncap it and take a brief sniff and the scent that hits me is sweet and innocent. Completely wrong for her now.
I put it back. “We’ll fix all this tomorrow.”
Her confusion turns to disbelief. “Fix what?”
“The clothes, the attitude, the everything.” I glance at her. “If you’re going to stand next to me, you’ll look the part.”
She stares at me, crossing her arms. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“They’re… too simple.” I lean against the wall, pretending to think.
Her brows shoot up. “Too simple? I’m a nurse, not a runway model.”
“You’re my fiancée now,” I say, straightening a little. “Different job description.”
She lets out a dry laugh and gestures toward herself. “Right. The fake fiancée.”
“Still counts,” I say, meeting her eyes.
She looks away, pacing a little, jaw tight, the fight in her fading as fast as it started. For a second I think she’ll start again, but she just sighs and presses her palm against her face. The silence stretches between us.
I watch her, the defiance in her shoulders softening until it’s almost gone, and for the first time tonight, she looks less furious and more lost.
I move past her into the living room again, scanning the space out of habit.
Small couch, tiny kitchen, one picture on the wall, all telltale signs of a life built out of routine and survival.
No room for mistakes, no luxury, no protection.
She’s the kind of person who lives clean because she has no one to clean up after her.
It makes her different from the women I usually deal with.
When I turn back, she’s still in the doorway, barefoot, the blouse slipping off one shoulder like she forgot to fix it.
Her hair falls into her face as her eyes find mine, steady and too open for what she’s just agreed to.
There’s a kind of quiet innocence in them that doesn’t fit this room, and it does something to me I don’t care to name.
“You’ll get used to it,” I say.
“Used to what?”
“Me.”
Her face hardens. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I huff out a laugh, barely a sound. “Flattery’s not my thing. I’m just telling you how it is.”
She takes a step back, eyes sharp. “You really think you can just decide what I do?”
“I already have.”
I let the words hang there. She folds her arms, shifting her weight like she means to block my way.
The blouse slips lower on one side, smooth skin catching the light, and for a second, I see her the way she looked earlier, half dressed and defiant.
She notices my eyes on her and pulls the fabric up, closing it over her shoulder.
“You done inspecting my life?” she says sharply.
“For now.” I pull out my phone, type a quick message to Lev with her address, name and a note about keeping an eye on her place. She’s too busy glaring to ask.
When I slip the phone back in my pocket, I look at her one last time. “You’ll stay here tonight. Don’t leave, don’t call anyone, don’t try to run.”
Her mouth twitches. “As if I have anywhere to go.”
I study her for a second. “Good.”
She looks away, drawing the words out. “You really think I’m stupid enough to run when my brother’s the one who’ll pay for it?”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” I say.
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t argue. The fight’s gone, replaced by something like acceptance, maybe.
I move toward her again, giving her more than enough time to step back if she really wanted to.
She doesn’t. She just stands there, breathing shallow, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her blouse.
The air shifts, thickening with the sound of her heartbeat and mine, something tense and unspoken pressing between us.
I keep going until there’s almost no space left, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin through the thin layer of cloth, close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo, soft and clean against the edge of everything that isn’t.
I hold her there with my eyes until the air between us thins. “We leave soon. Be ready.”
She starts to answer, then stops—an exhale instead of argument. Her hands ball at her sides. “I’m not—”
“Don’t make this harder.” I keep my voice low, practical. “You said yes.”
Her face shifts—anger trying to flare, but smaller things win because she swallows once and nods. She’s already decided even if she hasn’t said the words.
I step back, letting her have the space to do what she must. “Pack light.”
She meets my eyes for one quick second, not defiant anymore, only steady. “I will.”
I walk to the door and pull it open. The hallway outside is dim and still, filled with the low hum of old pipes and the faint sound of a television somewhere down the hall.
I glance back once more. She’s standing exactly where I left her, barefoot on the worn floor, watching me with wide eyes that look too soft for everything I’ve just dragged her into.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I say.
Her eyes flash. “Define stupid.”
“Anything that ends with me cleaning up after you.”
“Go to hell.”
I almost smile. “Already been.”
Then I close the door behind me.
The air outside feels colder, sharper. I walk down the hall, each step measured, hands in my pockets. Lev will have men on this building by dawn. I don’t trust her not to panic, but she won’t get far if she tries.
When I reach the street, I stop for a moment and glance up at the window I know is hers. The light’s still on. Her shadow moves once, then disappears.
I should let this be what it is—a simple transaction. But there’s something about her that doesn’t sit right in my head. Something I can’t name. Maybe it’s the way she looked at me when she realized I wasn’t bluffing, like she wanted to hate me but couldn’t find enough strength left to do it.
I push the thought away and instead let the quiet fill the street, the city humming around me while something else settles in my chest, the practical part of my brain filing details the way I always do. I followed Lucas with Lev and two men because Lucas sells product that is not his to sell.
When I watched him with her it was like a door I hadn't planned to step through had opened.
She stood there in his life like a light left burning in a bad room, doing the work, holding things together, and it makes me think for a second that she deserves better than whatever scrap heap of life Lucas offers.
Then I remember the men who would cut that life into pieces for a joke and the fathers who trade daughters like currency, and the thought of pity dies quick because pity does not keep anyone alive.
I am lucky, in a way that does not feel clean, because she is useful and soft enough to unbalance a room and because that unbalancing is the lever I need to move a larger weight.
By morning, she’ll understand what I meant when I said she’s mine.