Chapter 6
SIX
RIOT
The house goes quiet after the shower shuts off, and I stand at the sink with a dish towel in my hand, dragging it over mugs that have already air-dried.
I keep wiping anyway because it gives me something to do while I listen.
The pipes tick behind the walls. The bathroom door closes down the hall.
The silence settles in a way that feels deliberate.
My mother’s words earlier were calm and polished, but I saw the way Anastasiya’s expression shifted while she listened. She did not argue. She absorbed.
I move through the house on habit, checking the back door, glancing at the camera feeds, confirming the gate is locked.
Men like Viktor Dragunov do not rush into unfamiliar ground without looking first. They observe.
They wait. They decide. By the time I circle back to the kitchen, Anastasiya steps into the hallway in clean clothes, her blonde hair still damp and loose around her shoulders.
She is not wearing makeup. The bruises along her skin are lighter now. They are fading.
She pauses when she sees me, and there is something measured in the way she holds herself, as if she has been turning the same thought over and over.
“Are you all right?” I ask, keeping my tone steady.
“Yes,” she says, and her voice does not shake, but it carries more weight than the word should.
“You have about an hour before his plane lands,” I tell her.
She studies my face. “You confirmed it?”
“I confirmed it,” I reply. “I do not rely on assumptions.”
She nods once, taking that in without spiraling.
I let a second pass before I say, “Are you going to leave with him?”
Her green eyes meet mine and hold. “I do not know.”
“Yesterday you would have answered that without hesitation,” I say quietly.
“Yesterday I was not thinking about what it would mean,” she answers.
“You do not owe me anything,” I tell her, stepping closer but leaving space between us. “If you want to go with him, you go. I will not stand in your way.”
“And if I decide not to go?” she asks, her jaw tightening slightly.
“If you decide not to go, then we have a different conversation,” I answer.
She tilts her head. “About what, exactly?”
“About what staying here actually means,” I say. “It would not be simple. Your father would not see it as simple.”
“You think he would disown me?” she asks.
“I think it is possible,” I reply. “I am not going to lie to you about that.”
She nods slowly. “I have considered that.”
“You do not have to decide this second,” I offer.
“Yes, I do,” she says sighing, and there is something firm in her voice that was not there before. “If I wait until he is standing in front of me, I will fall back into what I have always done.”
“And what is that?” I ask.
“I will do what is expected of me,” she answers. “I will not ask myself what I want.”
I gesture toward the patio. “Come outside with me. I would rather not have this conversation in a hallway.”
She hesitates briefly, then follows me out into the morning air.
The sun is climbing into the blue sky. The world feels ordinary in a way that almost seems inappropriate for the situation.
I take a seat in one of the patio chairs on the back porch and she takes a seat in the seat across from mine.
“If you go with him,” I finally say, facing her, “You go with him because you want to, not because he expects you to. There’s nothing wrong with wanting the life you have always known.
I’m sure it’s a good life. But, and really listen to me Anya, if that isn’t what you want anymore, you can make a different choice. ”
Her eyes flash then she looks to the side biting her lip in thought. “And what if I do not know what I want?” she asks.
“Then at least you’re being honest,” I answer.
“And what if what I want costs me my father?” she presses.
“You cannot live two separate lives forever,” I say. “At some point you have to choose the one you can live with.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and before she can respond, I see the sedan slow at the gate on the monitor inside.
“That is him, isn’t it?” I ask as we step back in.
“Yes,” she says without hesitation.
I press the intercom. “State your business.”
The driver lowers the window halfway. “Viktor Dragunov.”
I glance at Anastasiya and she stands straight, pale but steady.
I press the button and the gate slides open and the sedan rolls forward and stops in front of the house.
I step outside before the engine cuts. The driver exits first. Then the rear door opens and Viktor Dragunov steps out.
He is older than me, silver threading through dark hair, posture straight, coat tailored.
He takes in the property with a single measured look.
Then his eyes settle on me. “Riot,” he says.
“That is correct,” I reply.
“You told me that if I came as a father, your door would be open,” he says.
“It is open,” I answer.
“And if I had not come as a father?”
“You would not have made it through the gate,” I tell him evenly.
The driver shifts slightly, but Viktor remains still. “She told me you saved her,” he says.
“I pulled her out of that warehouse,” I reply. “She kept herself alive.”
He nods once and then looks past me as Anastasiya steps forward. “Papa,” she says.
He moves to her immediately, cupping her face in both hands and studying her as if confirming she is truly standing in front of him. His gaze moves over the fading bruises. He turns her wrist gently. “Who did this?” he asks in Russian.
“Volkov,” she answers.
His eyes close briefly before he pulls her into a firm embrace. He holds her tightly but not gently. When he releases her, he turns back to me. “She is leaving with me,” he says.
I look at Anastasiya before I respond. “I am not stopping her if she chooses to go.”
He repeats the word slowly. “Chooses.”
“Yes,” I say. “She decides.”
He turns to her. “Anastasiya. We are going home.”
She straightens. “I cannot.”
His gaze sharpens. “Explain what you mean.”
“I cannot go back right now,” she says.
“You were taken from our city,” he replies, his tone controlled. “You were chained in a warehouse in another country. You were hurt. You do not remain here. You need to come home and heal.”
“I am not staying there,” she answers. “I am staying here.”
“You have responsibilities,” he reminds her. “Your absence has already created complications.”
“I know that,” she says, strain creeping into her voice. “But I cannot walk back into that life as if nothing changed. As if I have not changed.”
“You were kidnapped,” he says, control thinning. “That is what changed.”
“Yes, and I survived it,” she says. “I survived because I did not break. And because he found me.”
His gaze cuts to me. “This is not about him.”
“It is not,” she insists. “It is about me.”
“You are not thinking clearly,” he says. “Trauma affects judgment.”
“Maybe it does,” she replies, lifting her chin. “Or maybe I am finally thinking clearly.”
“And what are you thinking?” he asks, clearly getting frustrated by this new outspoken version of his daughter. One who appears to be pushing back for the first time in her life.
She draws in a slow breath. “I am thinking that I have never once chosen my own life. If I get on that plane today, I go back to something that was arranged for me before I understood it. If I stay, I risk losing you. If I do not try to choose for myself even once, I lose something else entirely.”
“You would choose uncertainty over your family?” he asks quietly.
“I am not choosing against you,” she says, eyes bright but steady. “I am asking you to let me choose at all.”
He studies her for a long time. “You believe this is freedom?” he asks.
“I do not know what it is yet,” she answers. “I just know I need time.”
The silence stretches and I stay where I am.
Finally, he nods once. “Very well. We will not leave tonight. We will stay nearby and you will think carefully. Remember daughter, time does not remove responsibility.”
“I understand that,” she says.
“You are my daughter,” he continues more softly. “That will not ever change.”
“I know,” she replies.
He brushes a strand of hair back from her face. “Come, I will arrange accommodations for us.”
She looks at me, like she wants to know what I think. “That is your decision,” I tell her.
He meets my gaze, then steps aside to speak quietly with his driver.
His voice drops low, controlled, the way it always does when he’s making decisions that affect everyone in the room.
While he talks, Anastasiya’s shoulders ease.
Not relaxed exactly. Just… steadier. As if something inside her finally clicks into place.
“I will go with you,” she says suddenly.
He exhales, dips his head, and gives her a small smile. Relief softens his features. “We will discuss everything properly.”
She turns to me. “I am going with him.”
“I heard.” My voice comes out even. I tilt my chin toward the house. “Come on. You should grab your things.”
She follows me upstairs. She goes to the room she was staying in while I pause outside my office for a second, step inside to grab something from my desk, then head down the hall to her room.
She’s standing in the middle of it, looking at the bed, the dresser, the window.
Like she’s trying to memorize the space.
Or figure out where she belongs in it. “None of this is actually mine,” she says softly.
“I should leave it here.” She swallows then looks at me.
“You should have dropped me off at the hospital and left. But you didn’t. You stayed because I begged you to.”
“You’re wrong, moya ptichka. I stayed because I couldn’t walk away from you.
” Her eyes widen. She opens her mouth, but I don’t give her time to spiral through that.
I pull the phone from my pocket and press it into her hand.
“Take it. My number’s already in there.” I close her fingers around it.
“I need to know you can leave if you want to. If you need anything. Even if it’s just to talk. I’m here.”
She stares down at the phone for a long moment, thumb brushing the screen like it might disappear.
Then she slides it into her bag. When she looks back up at me, there’s something torn in her expression.
Suspicion tangled with something softer.
“You are the first man who has never wanted something from me,” she says. “Why?”
I hold her gaze. “I do want something from you.”
Her spine stiffens like I hit her. I step forward and adjust her sweater so she isn’t cold.
“I want you safe,” I say. “I want you to choose what happens next in your life. Not be traded or forced into something you don’t really want.
” My jaw tightens. “If you ever give me anything, I want it to be because you decided to, not because you had no other option.” I reach into my back pocket and pull out the envelope I tucked there before coming into her room.
It’s thick and plain, and hold it out to her.
She looks at it like she already knows what it is.
Slowly, she takes it from me and lifts the flap.
When she sees the stack of cash inside, her entire body freezes and she starts shaking her head before looking up.
“No. Absolutely not.” She tries to hand it back to me but I close her fingers around it and push it gently toward her chest. “Take it.”
Her eyes flash. “I am no one’s charity case, Roman,” She snaps.
I cross my arms over my chest and stare her down.“I didn’t say you were.”
She’s furious, eyes filled with anger. “Then what is this?” She asks holding up the envelope in my face. “You know I don’t need this. I have everything I could ever need or want.” Her voice isn’t loud, but it’s tight.
“No. Your father has given you all of those things. You have nothing that’s yours,” I say evenly. “Take the damn money, Anya, so you’re not relying on him. Or me. Or anyone. If you walk out that door and decide to turn left instead of right, you should be able to without asking permission.”
She looks down at the envelope again, breathing shallow. “It’s the same thing. You’re giving me money, I do not want to owe you next.”
“You don’t.” My jaw tightens. “You don’t owe me a damn thing.
If you never call me again, fine. If you use it to buy a plane ticket somewhere I can’t follow, fine.
” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “I just need to know that whatever choice you make next is yours. Not forced because you have nothing of your own.”
Her fingers tremble against the envelope. For a second, I think she’s going to throw it back at me. Instead, she presses her lips together and clutches it tighter and looks up at me. “I will pay you back,” she says.
I shrug, putting my hands into my pockets. “If you want to.”
She slides the envelope into her bag like it might explode, then looks up at me again.
There’s something wounded in her expression.
“You are making this very difficult,” she mutters as she studies me.
“I do not understand men like you,” she whispers, then shocks the hell out of me by wrapping her arms around my waist and pressing her face against my chest. “Thank you for everything,” she says quietly. “For saving me, and not leaving me.”
The moment I saw her I knew I’d never be able to leave her side.
She’s the first woman who has ever made me feel something real.
We walk back outside together. Viktor waits by the car.
Before she gets in, she turns to look at me, but she doesn’t say anything, and neither do I.
Then she slides into the back seat beside her father.
The door closes. The sedan pulls away down the drive.
I stand there until it disappears from view.
If that phone lights up, I will answer it.