Chapter 7 #2
“Then why are you leaving his house with me?”
Because I needed to prove to myself that I could walk away without being dragged. Because staying felt too close to choosing something permanent. Because safety is overwhelming when you’ve never been allowed to define it yourself. “Because you came,” I say instead.
His eyes narrow slightly. “You stayed when I arrived. You told me no.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Yes.”
“And now you are coming.”
“Yes.”
He watches me carefully. Not angrily. Not yet. Just assessing. “Explain.”
I glance at the window, at the blur of trees and streetlights.
I open my bag a fraction, just enough to let my fingers brush the edge of the burner phone.
The single contact saved inside and the envelope full of money.
The door Roman handed me without asking for anything in return. I close the bag again.
“I’m coming with you because I’m not ready to make a permanent decision while my body is still remembering chains.
” His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his stillness deepens.
“If I stayed,” I continue, forcing the words out evenly, “I would stay because he feels safe. That is not a reason to change my life.”
“And your father feels unsafe?” he asks.
“No.” The answer comes too quickly. “You don’t feel unsafe. You feel… loud.”
His brows lift slightly. “Loud.”
I almost take it back. I don’t.
“My whole life has been arranged for me,” I say carefully.
“Meetings. Plans. Guards. Expectations. People who look at me and see our name before they see me.” He listens without interrupting.
“With him,” I say softer now, “it’s quiet.
It’s a house. Coffee in the morning. A mother who complains about pantry shelves. It felt… normal.”
“Normal is an illusion,” he replies.
“I know.” I swallow. “But I wanted to feel it anyway.”
Silence presses in around us.
“You are not a child,” he says after a moment.
“I know.”
“He is not your savior.”
“I know,” I say, my throat tightening like I’m on the verge of hot tears spilling over my cheeks.
“Then tell me what he is.”
My pulse jumps at the question. I think of Roman standing in the hallway, holding out that phone like it was nothing.
No strings. No demand. I think of the way he looked at me like I was capable of choosing for myself.
I think of how my body responded to him without my permission. “He is a man who didn’t take,” I say.
My father’s gaze sharpens. “He didn’t take.”
“No.” My voice wavers despite my effort.
His jaw tightens. For a moment I expect him to snap the space between us in half. Instead, he looks forward again. “We will discuss this later.”
The car slows. “We are arriving,” the driver says quietly.
The hotel ahead is sleek and immaculate, glass and stone polished to reflect money back at itself.
The gate opens before we fully stop. This is my world.
This is the world I am supposed to return to without question.
As the car pulls under the covered entrance and the door opens, cool air brushes my face.
My father steps out, and men appear around him like shadows snapping into place.
They move with the same quiet precision I grew up with.
The same net I tried to shake for one night.
I clutch my bag tighter. I am walking back into the life I was born into.
But the phone and money inside my bag are a small, stubborn weight.
And it changes everything. I step out, clutching my bag, and the building’s front doors slide open before we reach them.
Inside, it’s marble and soft lighting and quiet music designed to make people feel calm. I feel nothing but caged.
My father walks beside me. His hand hovers near my back without touching, an almost-gesture of protection.
A woman in a tailored uniform greets us with a smile too polished to be real. She speaks in English, welcoming, respectful.
My father answers in English without effort. “We require a suite. Two rooms. Security accommodations. No interruptions.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “Of course, sir.”
Of course.
We move through hallways and elevators without waiting.
Doors open. People shift out of our path.
The world rearranges itself around his name without him even saying it loudly.
When we reach the suite, the doors open into a space that looks like an expensive magazine.
Neutral colors. Large windows. City view.
Furniture arranged for comfort that has never been real.
My father steps inside first, scans once, then nods to his men.
They move quietly, checking rooms, checking closets, checking the balcony, like danger could be hiding behind a decorative pillow.
I stand in the entry, fingers tight around my bag strap, and try not to shake.
My father turns back to me. “This is temporary.”
I nod.
“Food will be brought up,” he adds. “And a doctor will be coming.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I say, rolling my eyes.
His gaze sharpens. “You will be examined.”
My stomach turns. “I was examined at the hospital.”
“I want our doctor,” he says, calm as ice.
I close my eyes for half a second and remind myself I am not on the floor. I am not chained. I am not powerless. “I will allow your doctor to look at my wrists,” I say. “And the bruises that are visible. Nothing else.”
The room goes very quiet. One of the men near the door shifts, like he’s about to intervene. My father lifts one hand slightly, and the man stills immediately. My father stares at me. “Anastasiya.”
I lift my chin. “I am not refusing care.”
His eyes burn into mine, and for a moment I see the struggle. Not between control and kindness. Between what he believes is safety and what he’s starting to realize is suffocation. Finally, he says, “Fine.” He gestures toward a door down the hall. “That room is yours.”
I walk to it without rushing. The room is too perfect. Bed made tight. Lamps placed symmetrically. Curtains that block the world. I set my bag on the bed and turn back.
My father stands in the doorway, watching me like he’s making sure I don’t evaporate. “You will rest,” he says.
“I will try.”
He hesitates, then steps into the room. His presence fills it instantly. He doesn’t sit. He stands near the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back. “I did not sleep,” he says quietly.
My throat tightens. “I’m sorry.”
His gaze hardens. “Do not apologize for what was done to you.”
I swallow. “I apologize for being…” I struggle for the word in English. “Stupid.”
His expression flickers, a brief shadow of something like pain. “You were not stupid,” he says, and the fact that he doesn’t call me foolish or reckless is its own mercy. “You were young and you wanted freedom. That is not stupidity. That is danger.”
I press my lips together. I can’t argue with that.
He steps closer, slow, and reaches out. His hand stops short of my face, hovering like he’s unsure if he’s allowed. Then he cups my cheek. It’s warm. It’s familiar. It’s the first touch from him that isn’t instruction. “My devochka,” he murmurs. “You scared me.”
My eyes burn. I blink hard but refuse to cry. I refuse to give Volkov that victory inside my father’s suite. “I’m here,” I whisper.
His thumb brushes lightly under my eye, catching the wetness anyway. His jaw tightens. “You will not do this again.”
The old me would say, Of course, Papa. Never. Instead, I say softly, “I won’t dismiss my security again.” It’s a compromise. It’s a promise I can keep without erasing myself.
He studies me. He understands exactly what I did. He doesn’t like it. He lets his hand fall. “Your brothers are on their way.”
My stomach drops. “Both of them?”
“Yes.”
Dmitri will burn this whole country down if he thinks someone touched me. Mikhail will smile while he calculates how to make it profitable.
I whisper, “They shouldn’t come.”
My father’s eyes narrow. “They are already coming.”
I press my fingers to my temple. “Papa, please.”
His gaze holds mine. “They are your family.”
“I know,” I say, and my voice shakes. “That’s why I’m asking.”
Then my father says, “I told them you are safe and alive, and that Volkov is dead.”
“That won’t stop Dmitri.”
A corner of my father’s mouth twitches, humorless. “No.”
I swallow hard. “Did you tell them what happened?”
His eyes shift slightly. “I told them enough.” He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “Rest,” he says again. “We will speak later.” Then he turns and leaves my room, closing the door behind him.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the closed door like it’s a wall that just grew.
Then I move fast, before I can talk myself out of it.
I open my bag. My fingers find the burner phone.
It’s small, black, plain. No luxury. No polish.
It feels like a different universe. I turn it on.
The screen lights up, and my heart jumps at the simplicity of it.
One contact. Riot. I stare at it until my vision blurs, then I swipe my thumb across the screen and open the messages. My hands shake as I type.
Anya: I’m with my father in a suite at one of the hotels in the city.
I stare at the message for a second, then add more because that feels too cold, too formal, too much like the way I’ve lived.
Anya: Thank you for the phone. And for… everything.
The message whooshes away, tiny and irreversible. I exhale shakily and set the phone on the bed beside me like it might burn through the sheets. A few seconds pass. Then it buzzes. My heart slams hard in my chest as I grab it.
Riot: Good.
Just one word. It shouldn’t make my chest ache, but it does. It’s him. It’s the same calm certainty he carries like a weapon. It’s not a speech. It’s not a plea. It’s not pressure. Then it buzzes again.
Riot: Call if you need me.
My throat tightens. My eyes burn again. I press my knuckles to my mouth to keep the sound inside. I don’t call. Not now. I can’t. There are too many ears in this suite. Too many men outside the door. Too many expectations stacked like furniture around me. But I type anyway.
Anya: Okay.
I stare at the screen. Okay is pathetic but it’s all I can manage. I turn the phone off and tuck it under my pillow like I’m hiding contraband. Then I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the perfect hotel carpet and try to convince my body that I’m not back in a room that isn’t mine.
A knock comes at the door, soft and controlled but I flinch anyway.
A woman’s voice follows in English. “Miss Dragunov? Room service.” I stand slowly, spine straight, and walk to the door.
I open it a crack. A cart sits outside with covered dishes.
The woman smiles politely, eyes darting over my face and away again like she’s trained not to stare.
Behind her, one of my father’s men stands in the hallway, watching. I nod once and take the tray.
“Thank you,” I say, my English steady. When I close the door, my hands tremble as I set the tray on the table.
I remove the lids. The smell hits me immediately.
Warm soup with crusty warm bread. My stomach clenches with the sudden realization that I haven’t eaten a meal without fear for three weeks.
I sit down at the table and lift the spoon.
My hand shakes. I force myself to take a bite anyway.
The taste is real. Salty. Comforting. My eyes sting.
I swallow and keep going, because feeding myself feels like an act of defiance now.
Like proof that I am still here, still mine.