Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
ANYA
I wake slowly, with Roman’s arm wrapped around my waist, his chest warm and solid against my back, his breath slow and even at the nape of my neck.
The curtains are half-drawn, soft light filtering into the room in pale gold streaks that cut across the sheets.
For a moment, I don’t move. I just lie there and let myself feel it.
Last night was not delicate or cautious or quiet.
It was heat and hands and mouths and relief, fury transformed into something that didn’t consume me.
It was him pressing me into the mattress like he was anchoring me to something solid and real, and then holding me afterward as if he understood exactly how close I had been to unraveling and had no intention of letting that happen.
We made love like we were trying to rewrite the night.
Hard and urgent when I needed to feel alive.
Slow and sweet when I needed to feel safe.
He gave without hesitation. He took only what I offered.
Every touch asked without words. Every kiss answered something I hadn’t been able to say.
He gave me everything I needed. I shift slightly, and his arm tightens instinctively, even in sleep.
A faint ache lingers in my hips, in my thighs, in places that remind me of the way he held me, the way he whispered my name against my skin like it meant something sacred.
I close my eyes briefly, remembering the way his forehead rested against mine when the urgency burned out of us, the way his thumb traced slow patterns over my shoulder as if memorizing me.
Carefully, I turn in his arms so I can see him.
He’s on his back now, one arm still curved around me, dark hair mussed, jaw shadowed with stubble that scratches pleasantly against my cheek when I lean closer.
He looks younger when he sleeps. Less guarded.
Less lethal. I study his face for a moment, the strong line of his nose, the faint crease between his brows that never fully disappears, even at rest. He gave up control last night in ways that matter.
Not dominance. Not strength. Vulnerability.
He let me see the man beneath the armor.
His eyes open slowly, adjusting to the light. For a second, there’s confusion. Then recognition and something softer. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
I prop myself up slightly on his chest. “Morning.”
His hand slides along my back lazily, fingertips warm against bare skin beneath the sheet. Not possessive. Just there. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
The question isn’t about last night. It’s about everything.
I consider it honestly. “Yes,” I say and mean it.
His gaze searches my face like he’s verifying that, the same way he did across the ballroom. I brush my fingers lightly along his collarbone, grounding both of us in something simple and human.
“We’re not done with him,” I say softly.
“No,” he agrees.
But his hand remains steady on my back. I stay there for a long moment after we wake, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, feeling the warmth of him against my skin.
But reality does not wait long. The day presses at the edges of the room, heavy and inevitable. “We should get up,” I murmur.
Roman exhales slowly, like he would rather keep the world outside the door a few more minutes. “Yeah.”
We don’t rush. We slide out of bed together, the sheets falling away, the air cool against skin that still remembers last night. In the bathroom, the marble floors are cold beneath my feet, the mirror reflecting two people who look less armored than they did twelve hours ago.
The shower fills with steam quickly. He steps in behind me, hands sliding to my hips, not urgent this time.
Just steady. We wash each other in silence at first, the intimacy softer now, fingers tracing water down skin, lips brushing shoulders without hunger.
It isn’t about escape anymore. It’s about grounding.
He presses a kiss to the back of my neck as the water runs over us. “You good?” he asks again.
“Yes,” I answer, turning slightly to look at him through the steam. “I’m good.”
His hand slides along my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Good.”
We dry off, and get dressed. I dress in jeans and a long sleeve blouse. Roman pulls on his pants and shirt from last night.
When we step out into the sitting room of the suite, the atmosphere shifts immediately.
Papa is seated at the table with coffee in front of him, posture straight, gaze already assessing. Dmitri stands near the window, phone in hand. Mikhail leans back in his chair, mug resting loosely in his grip, expression unreadable.
All three look up and take in everything. The fact that Roman is standing close to me and I’m not unraveling. No one comments on where we slept.
Papa gestures toward the coffee pot. “Sit.”
We do. Roman pulls out a chair for me then takes the one beside mine. His presence is steady, not intrusive.
Dmitri is the first to speak. “He left early.”
“I expected that,” I reply.
“He said if the alliance wasn’t forged, there would be consequences.” My voice is steady. I make sure of it. “He said he would kill you.”
Dmitri exhales sharply through his nose.
“And when I laughed,” I continue, because I did laugh, stupid and angry and reckless, “he told me he was able to get to me.”
Silence.
Mikhail sets his mug down with deliberate care. The porcelain clicks against the wood like a final move. “He is either reckless or desperate.”
“Both,” Dmitri says instantly. “Everything is shifting. He is losing influence. Losing territory. This marriage was leverage.”
Roman hasn’t looked away from Papa. His posture is loose but coiled, like a man waiting for permission.
Papa steeples his fingers beneath his chin. His gaze moves between us, assessing, calculating. Not panicked. Never panicked. “Desperate men make mistakes,” he says. His eyes land on me. “Reckless men die.”
The words settle over my skin like cold silk.
“I am going to speak with Orlovsky,” Papa continues, as if we are discussing trade routes instead of murder. “I will make it known the marriage is off. Publicly. Immediately. We do not need them as much as they need us.”
The finality in his voice is absolute.
Dmitri exhales slowly. “That will provoke him.”
“Yes,” Papa says.
Mikhail’s lips curve faintly. “And that is the point.”
Roman finally turns toward me fully, closing the small space between us without touching me. His presence is a wall. A shield. “He told you he could get to you,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
“And he is wrong.”
My breath catches. It is not bravado. It is a promise.
Papa watches the two of us for a long moment. I feel it. The weight of it. The awareness.
“If he believes he can reach my daughter,” Papa says calmly, “then we will show him precisely how mistaken he is.”
Dmitri stands. “I’ll double her security.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yes,” Roman says at the same time.
I turn to glare at him. “I am not a porcelain doll.”
His mouth tilts slightly. Not amused. Something else. Something possessive. “No,” he agrees. “You’re not.” His voice lowers, just enough that it feels like it belongs only to me. “But that does not mean I will let anyone touch what is ours.”Ours.
Papa rises slowly from his chair, the decision already sealed in his expression. When he stands, the room adjusts around him automatically.
“This ends now,” he says. “One way or another.”
Chairs scrape softly against the floor. Dmitri reaches for his phone. Mikhail is already thinking three steps ahead. Roman stays close enough that I can feel the heat of him without him touching me.
Then his fingers brush the inside of my wrist. Barely there.
A question. I look up at him. His eyes search mine, not for weakness, but to make sure I’m still okay.
“I’m fine,” I whisper. “I just want this to be over,” I add, my voice smaller than I intend.
“I want to forget it all happened and just breathe for a little while. I want to be normal.” The word feels childish the moment it leaves my mouth.
Papa stops. He turns back to me slowly, and for once there is no calculation in his face.
No strategy. Just something rawer. He steps toward me and cups my cheek in his palm.
His hand is warm. Steady. Familiar. “You will never be normal,” he says quietly.
“You are Anastasiya Dragunov. That will never change.”
My chest tightens.
“But what will change,” he continues, his thumb brushing just beneath my eye, “starting today, is your life.”
I shake my head faintly. “I don’t understand.”
His hand falls, but he doesn’t step away. “I was wrong,” he says. The words land harder than any threat Orlovsky made. The room stills. “I should never have promised you to someone without your consent. Your heart is not a contract. It is not leverage.”
My breath catches. “After your mother betrayed us, I became cold,” he says, voice low and controlled, though I can hear the strain beneath it. “Hard. I told myself it was necessary. That sentiment was weakness.”
His gaze shifts, not just to me, but to Mikhail.
To Dmitri. “I should have raised you differently. All of you.” Dmitri looks down.
Mikhail’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Papa looks back at me. “Anastasiya, you will have the world in whatever way you want it. Do you understand me? I do not expect obedience. I do not expect sacrifice. I expect nothing.” My throat burns. “I only want you to be happy.”
The words undo something inside me. For years I have carried expectation like armor.
Like inheritance. And now he is setting it down at my feet.
I don’t think. I just move. I stand and step into him, wrapping my arms around his waist, holding him tighter than I have since I was a child.
He hesitates for half a second. Then his arms close around me.
His chin rests briefly against the top of my head.