Chapter 1
ONE
ANASTASIYA “ANYA” DRAGUNOV
I hear the gunshots before the door explodes open.
Sharp cracks that echo through the building, followed by shouting and the heavy thud of bodies hitting concrete.
Men yelling in voices I recognize and voices I do not.
Fighting. Screaming. The sounds crash over me in waves, and I curl in on myself as much as the chains allow, heart slamming so hard it hurts.
Then the door splinters. Wood bursts inward and heavy boots pound across the floor. My body locks up on instinct, fear crawling up my spine and settling in my throat. I force my eyes up, expecting another monster sent to drag me back into the nightmare.
Instead I see him. He fills the doorway, dressed in all black, a solid wall of muscle and shadow.
Tall. Broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt.
He looks strong in a way that feels unreal to me, like a man built to survive violence.
The sounds of fighting still echo behind him, but he stands steady, controlled in the middle of the chaos.
His hair is dark brown, shaved on the sides with the length on top pulled back into a tight knot.
It keeps his face clear, showing a strong jaw and a neatly trimmed beard.
His brown eyes find mine instantly. They are sharp and focused, sweeping the room before locking on me.
I brace for cruelty. For hunger. For that familiar look that always comes before the pain.
It never comes. He stands there for a second, perfectly still, and something in his expression shifts. His shoulders stay tense, ready, but his gaze softens in a way I do not understand. He looks at me like I am a person. Not a thing. Not a body.
My breath stutters in my chest. I do not trust it. I do not trust him. Men have walked through doors like this before, and every time it ended the same way. My wrists burn against the restraints as I shrink back as far as I can go, waiting for the inevitable.
But he does not rush me. He does not smile. He just watches me with those steady brown eyes while the last echoes of gunfire fade, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, the fear inside me hesitates, confused by the absence of what should come next.
Back to the present
The room smells like antiseptic and clean sheets. It has for days now. I have learned the rhythm of this place. The quiet hum of machines. The distant voices in the hall. The way the light shifts across the floor as the hours pass.
Riot sits in the chair beside my bed like he always does, his big body folded into a space too small for him.
When he is not watching me, he has a computer open on his lap, fingers moving over the keys with quiet focus.
He is always working. Even here. Even with one eye on me.
I have woken in the middle of the night to the soft glow of the screen lighting his face while he types.
And sometimes I catch him sleeping.
The computer slips to the side, balanced against his thigh.
His head tips back against the wall, eyes closed, his features softened in a way I never see when he is awake.
The hard lines of his face ease. His mouth relaxes.
He looks younger like that. Peaceful. My chest tightens every time I see it.
He is so handsome when he sleeps it almost hurts to look at him, like I am seeing a version of him the rest of the world does not get.
He has been there every time I wake up. Every time the nightmares drag me under and spit me back out shaking. He is always there.
A soft knock sounds at the door before it opens.
Elena steps inside, her smile warm and familiar.
She has been with me since the first night.
There is something about her that reminds me of Mama.
The way she tucks the blanket around my legs.
The gentle touch of her hands. In my head I call her Mama, the Russian word a quiet comfort I keep to myself.
“Good morning, sweet girl,” she says softly.
I manage a small smile. My body still feels weak, but it is better than it was. Less hollow. Less like I might disappear if I close my eyes too long.
She checks my chart, then looks at me with a brightness that makes my stomach tighten. “You’re being discharged today.”
The words land heavy in my chest. Discharged.
Leaving. The safety of this room suddenly feels fragile.
I glance at her, then at Riot. Elena follows my gaze and her eyes settle on him.
There is a brief pause. A quiet assessment.
I see the way her expression softens, how she inclines her head just slightly.
She respects him. Trusts him in a way that eases something tight inside me.
She turns back to me. “Do you have somewhere to go, sweet girl?”
The question hangs in the air. My mind scrambles. The hospital has become a small island where nothing can reach me. Outside is a world I do not understand anymore. A world that hurt me.
Before I can answer, Riot speaks.
“She’s coming with me.”
His voice is calm and certain. No hesitation.
He says it like it is already decided, like there is no other option.
I know he mentioned a safe house before.
A place his club uses. The memory sends a cold ripple through me.
Another strange building. More unfamiliar faces.
The thought of walking into another unknown space makes my chest tighten.
I do not want to go there.
My fingers curl in the thin hospital blanket. I stare at my hands, at the faint tremor that still lives in them. Elena looks between us, reading something in my silence. Her hand comes to rest lightly on my arm.
“You’ll be safe with him,” she says gently, her eyes warm and certain.
Safe. The word echoes. Riot’s presence fills the room, steady and solid. I know he means to protect me. I feel it every time his gaze meets mine. But the idea of leaving this place, of stepping back into the world, presses against my ribs until it is hard to breathe.
I lift my eyes to his. He is already watching me. Waiting. Not pushing. Just there. And the truth rises quiet and stubborn inside me.
I want to go with him.
Just not to a place that feels like another cage.
When Elena leaves, the room falls quiet again. The door clicks shut and for a second it is just the two of us. Riot watches it close, then moves. He shuts his laptop and slides it into a worn black backpack at his feet, every motion efficient and practiced.
Then he reaches down and pulls up a small bag I did not notice before.
“I got the girls to get you some clothes and other shit you need,” he says gently, nodding toward the bathroom. “I’m going to put this in there and you can change. Then we’ll go, okay?”
He looks at me when he says it. Really looks. His eyes search mine like he is checking for cracks I cannot see. For fear. For doubt.
I nod.
He steps closer and offers his hand. I take it after a second, my fingers small in his. He helps me stand, his grip steady at my elbow when my legs wobble. The floor feels strange under my bare feet. Too solid. Too real. He walks me slowly to the bathroom door like I am something fragile.
I give him a small smile. It feels rusty on my face, like a muscle I have not used in a long time. He returns it with a slight tilt of his head, then steps back so I can close the door.
The bathroom is bright and clean. There is a small shower in the corner.
I turn the water on and step under it before I can think too much.
The heat sinks into my skin, loosening knots I did not know I was carrying.
I use the thin hospital soap and shampoo, scrubbing until my skin tingles. Until I feel almost new.
When I finish, I dry off and open the bag. Soft clothes spill into my hands. A shirt. Sweatpants. Underwear. Socks. Simple things that make my throat tighten. The clothes are a little big, but they fit well enough to wear. They smell faintly like laundry soap and something floral I cannot name.
I pull the shirt over my head and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look smaller somehow. Washed out. A stranger wearing borrowed clothes. My mind circles the words he said. The girls. I picture faces I do not know. A house full of strangers. My stomach knots.
Am I going to be jumping from one hell to another?
Riot has been kind. Patient. He sits beside my bed and watches over me like a guard dog. But I have learned the hard way that kindness can be a mask. That monsters can smile. What if this is an act? What if I walk out that door and disappear into another cage with softer walls?
My chest tightens. I press my hands against the sink and try to breathe through the storm in my head. I want to trust him. Every instinct I have left pulls me toward him, toward the steady warmth of his presence.
But fear sits heavy in my stomach, whispering that I have been wrong before.
I finish dressing with trembling hands and stare at myself one last time, torn between hope and terror. Then I reach for the door.
Riot waits just outside. His gaze lifts the second I step out, sweeping over me like he is checking that I am still in one piece. I clutch the small bag to my chest. He takes it gently from my hands.
“I’m going to grab my truck,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
I nod. The idea of him leaving, even for a few minutes, sends a flicker of panic through me, but I swallow it down. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and gives me one last look before slipping out the door.
The room feels too big without him.
A few minutes later, Elena returns with a folder tucked against her chest. She smiles when she sees me dressed.
“There you are,” she says softly. “All ready to go.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands twisted together in my lap. She moves around the room with easy familiarity, checking a few things before coming to stand in front of me. Up close, her eyes are warm and kind.
“Are you okay, sweet girl?” she asks gently.
The question breaks something open inside me. The words rise before I can stop them.
“I’m scared,” I whisper. “What if… what if he’s also a bad man?”
The confession hangs between us. Shame burns in my chest, but I force myself to keep going. I need to say it out loud. I need someone to hear it.
Elena steps closer and brushes my hair back from my face with a tenderness that makes my throat ache.
“You remind me so much of my daughter,” she says quietly. “She’s tiny like you.”
Her thumb smooths over my temple. Her voice is steady and certain when she continues.
“I’ll tell you this as if you were my baby. The Iron Reapers men are good. They are good men, and they have strong wives who would tear the world apart to protect someone like you. I wouldn’t let you go with Riot if I didn’t know he would protect you and take care of you.”
Something inside me loosens. Not completely. The fear is still there, curled tight in my stomach, but her words soften its edges.
She picks up my discharge papers and pauses, then writes quickly across the top sheet. When she hands them to me, I see her name and phone number in neat ink.
“I’m not supposed to give out my information,” she says quietly. “But if you ever need to talk, please call me.”
My fingers close around the papers. Emotion rises hot and sudden in my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper.
She cups my cheek for a brief second, her smile soft and proud. For the first time since she told me I was leaving, walking out that door does not feel quite so terrifying.
The door opens and Riot steps back into the room, filling it with his presence like he never left. His gaze finds me instantly, checking me to make sure I’m okay. “Good to go?” he asks.
I nod, and beside me, Elena nods too. He shifts his attention to her. For a moment they simply look at each other. Something quiet passes between them. Elena straightens and fixes him with a firm look. “You take care of her, you hear me?” Her tone is gentle but unyielding.
Riot gives a single, solid nod. “I will. You have my word.”
Elena studies his face, then points a finger at him. “I’m going to hold you to it.”
“You should,” he replies quietly.
Her eyes soften when they return to me. She squeezes my hand once, a silent reassurance. I cling to that touch for a second longer than I mean to, then let go.
Riot steps close to my side, warm and steady. He waits for me to move first. When I do, he falls into step beside me.