Chapter 4
SEMYON
“You’re not bothered by this at all?” Rafail sits next to me and pours me another shot of vodka.
I frown. When people expect an emotional response from me, I try to understand why.
“Bothered? By what?”
“What she said to you.”
I scoff and polish off the shot Rafail poured me. “No. It only helps me to understand her better.”
“I didn’t know you two had so much history, Semyon.”
Of course he doesn’t. It’s not something I’d share with anyone. But hell, I didn’t know she hated me as much as she did.
“Growing up, I spent years at her home,” I say with a shrug. “I was best friends with her brother. I didn’t know she even remembered me.”
It’s just as well. I’m not someone cut out for love, and her hatred will make our arrangement much easier… though it’ll probably take some time to teach her to behave.
Still, her words battered the air around me. I cataloged every movement and fluctuation of her voice. The way her hands trembled and her chin tilted in defiance. The sharp intake of breath before her accusations. I slot every detail into the mental framework I use to understand the world, yet somehow… her raw emotions were unexpected.
Anya. Standing in the doorway, fire in her eyes, defiance etched in the straight line of her spine. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, but my body reacts instantly.
The freckles. The stubborn little chin. The mouth I’ve dreamt about but sworn I’d never touch.
My fingers flex against the rough wooden edge of the table, grounding myself in the sensation of lacquered wood. Familiar. Solid.
Why are humans so unpredictable?
I need patterns, logic, reason, and control.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and go over the details again.
The way her voice cracked when she talked about her mother—a data point. I lock it away in my mental catalog.
The tremor in her tone left an unfamiliar, uncomfortable warmth in my chest .
When she jabbed her finger at me, the physical contact was jarring. I felt the press of her fingertip and can still feel the exact spot where her touch lingered. I normally hate uninvited intrusion, yet I allowed it from Anya.
Why?
Her words should’ve made me angry or defensive, I guess.
Coward, monster. Hate.
They repeat in my head, reverberating, not because I believe either of those to be true, but because she does.
Another note.
Interesting.
Did she say those things out of fear and desperation, or does she truly believe them to be true?
Does it matter?
What I know is that her family has a debt to pay, and I aim to collect.
“She can think what she wants, Rafail. You know it’s in our family’s best interest for me to marry her, and after that little outburst—I’m more invested in this than I was before.”
He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “She’s wrong about you being a coward. You’re the bravest person I know. But monster?” He shrugs and winks at me. “Jury’s still out on that one.”
I shrug and register that too. He might be joking. He might not be. Neither impacts the truth: Monstrous behavior is relative, and how one defines a monster is highly influenced by emotion .
Emotions aren’t functional. They cloud judgment, slow decision-making, and weaken people. My memory holds onto details with ease.
I remember the bold little girl who never backed down, even when the odds were stacked against her. She would stand her ground, whether it was against Eli’s teasing or an adult’s dismissive tone.
I remember the way her hair glowed in the sunlight when she skipped rocks by the creek. I remember the way her tongue stuck out as she practiced until the sun set, and her mother scolded her because she wouldn’t give up until she succeeded.
What I don’t like is the unpredictability of her emotions and the chaos they bring. My world is ordered and predictable, and I won’t let even the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met change that.
I replay the way she looked standing before me—her auburn hair in a messy bun, her hazel eyes flashing at me. She’s so much smaller than I remembered, but I guess I’m bigger now. Still, her presence filled the room like a tempest.
My tempest.
I remember the way heat rose in my chest and my hands acted of their own accord. She has the ability to make me behave in a way no one else ever has.
I call my sister Yana. She answers on the first ring. “We have a wedding to plan. Nothing fancy, Yana. I want it brief and businesslike, only our family and associates.”
“So I heard. Are you sure?” she asks, her voice, as usual, dripping with sarcasm. “Because I was just about to book the Kremlin and order matching tiaras for everyone. You’re killing my vision here, Semyon.”
“Yana.”
“Alright. I’m on it.”
I’d planned my encounter with Anya with surgical precision, and her storming in here tonight wrecked those plans. Yet something about her passion and fury… I’m fighting the urge to… feel.
And that’s what scares me most of all.