Chapter 6
SEMYON
“She won’t wear the dress, Semyon.”
I stand in front of the mirror and straighten my tie. My sister Yana stands in the doorway behind me, her slender frame pushed against one side, her arms crossed. “I tried.” Her tone is sharp, clipped. Not her usual.
I turn to face her. “What the hell is she wearing?”
“A dress,” Yana says coldly, her lips pursed. “Simple. Plain.”
I blow out a breath, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt. “As if I care.” I know my words are dismissive, and I want them to be. What difference does it make what she wears? What matters is the agreement—the structure it cements.
But Yana doesn’t move, doesn’t respond at all. Her silence feels charged and pointed. I catalog her reaction like I do everything and turn to face her.
Why do I care about Anya’s dress ?
The only thing she’ll be wearing tonight is my ring.
I look away from Yana when unfamiliar discomfort presses against my chest. Anya—beautiful, headstrong Anya—is going to be my wife and all that entails. She won’t be able to run from me anymore.
“Is there a problem?” I ask, fully facing her. I keep my tone calm, but it’s direct and calculated. If there’s an issue, I’ll address it, fix it, and move on. Like I always do.
Yana’s eyes narrow, and her arms tighten as she lights into me. “My problem , dumbass, is that you’re treating her like she’s one of your stupid fucking chess pieces you can push around your damn chessboard.”
I blink, taken aback. “That’s because she is. Have you been reading those romance books Zoya’s always talking about? Have you forgotten who I am? This marriage is a strategic move, and honestly, I think you, of all people, would understand that. If anything, I’m being kind to her.”
Her jaw tightens. “Do you even hear yourself? She’s not just a move on a board. She’s a human being , Semyon.”
My mind races to dissect her reaction, but the pieces don’t align. Yana doesn’t usually act this way. “I’m ensuring her family’s survival. It isn’t personal.”
“Exactly my point ,” Yana says, making a noise of disgust. “Marriage! Not personal? Have you ever considered the fact that maybe it should be?”
What the fuck does she want from me?
I shake my head. “What would you have me do, then?”
Yana stares at me. “You’re serious right now. ”
“Deadly.”
“Try to understand her. Try to bring a thread of compassion to the table. Maybe, just maybe, you’re more than Rafail’s cold shadow.” Her voice lowers and softens, along with the gaze she levels at me. “ I know you are. You were the first person I told when I knew the truth about myself. You were the one who listened when I was confused and scared. You were the one who helped me bridge the gap with Rafail. I know deep down inside you aren’t as cold as everyone says you are.” She shakes her head. “I know there’s more to you than what everyone thinks. But does she?”
More than… everyone thinks?
I care?
Rafail comes to me next. “What was all that about?”
I make a sound of disgust. “A fun wedding day lecture on compassion and humanity. I told her she was reading too many romance books, and that didn’t go over so well.”
Rafail snorts and gestures. “She’s here. I heard the details about what happened last night. Do you have a plan?”
“For what?”
He reaches out and adjusts my tie, which is strange, considering he never does shit like that, and I wouldn’t have left the room if it wasn’t already perfect.
“For what you’re going to do with her after you marry her.”
I frown at him. “Consummate the marriage, obviously.”
Eventually. I have no interest in an angry fuck.
Or several .
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Do you always have to be so literal?”
I blink at him and shrug. “Yes.”
“Case in point.” We walk down the stairs toward the small gathering of our family dressed in formal attire, ready for the wedding, but Yana’s words ring in my mind… Rafail’s cold shadow.
Doesn’t she know I’m marrying Anya because I’m as committed to our family’s stability as he is?
Rafail continues. “I mean… have you given any thought to after the wedding?”
“Yes. I’ll move her into my house. Establish her hours at the bakery with an armed guard with her at all times. Look over her family’s finances and see where the fuck they went wrong and fix that shit. Make it well known she’s mine now.”
Rafail nods. “Interesting.”
I blow out a breath. If people would only state what they actually think, it would be easier. “Why?”
“Because based on what the men said she was like last night, it seems you might have your work cut out for you.”
“How so?”
“She’s defiant as fuck.”
I nod and stifle a grunt. I don’t have time for this shit. “Right. Teaching her her place is a given. Would be boring if she didn’t push back.”
Rafail doesn’t respond at first but finally nods. “Of course you’d say that.”
I told my sisters to keep it simple, and they listened. The living room in The Cottage, the large, sprawling family home we inherited after my parents’ death, looks untouched. It looks like our home, not a venue.
The wedding party is stripped down to essentials: an officiant who stands by the window, the armed guards stationed outside, visible through the wide plate glass. Rodion’s wife, Ember, holds her camera and gives me a reserved wave when I enter. The family photographer, she has an eye for detail. I crook a finger at her.
“Yes?” she says in a low voice when she reaches me, trying to keep our conversation private. A hard task in a large, nosy family like ours. She tucks a stray strand of bright-red hair behind her ear and blinks up at me, obviously scared. “What?”
“None of these pictures get leaked until I look at them first. Take many. Show no one.”
Her jaw tightens, and her lips press tight. I catalog that too. The girls aren’t happy with me today.
Maybe they’ll be fucking happy with the stability of our family and the credit limits on their fucking credit cards.
Rafail stands stoic and proud beside his wife, Polina, the Romanova family princess. Her long blonde hair spills down her back, and her light-blue eyes meet mine with cold detachment. When I look back, she averts her gaze.
I see Anya standing in front of me and come to a standstill. She came to me, wrapped in an old coat, her hair in a sloppy bun. She wore no makeup, but her fury made her cheeks blush pink and fire spark in her eyes .
Yana told the truth. Anya wears a simple dress, probably borrowed or handed down, its modest lines doing nothing to hide the soft curves beneath. My gaze drags over her, noting the way her neckline exposes the delicate line of her collarbone. Her hair’s loosely tied back, no makeup or jewelry. I note every detail—the way she lifts her chin in defiance as if expecting a reaction to the way she’s arrived.
Sorry to disappoint you, Anya. I don’t care.
The way she looks over her shoulder at the guards by the doorway. The way she meets my baby sister Zoya’s eyes as if reaching for reassurance.
The way she doesn’t meet mine.
The ceremony is short and sterile. Vows. She finally glares at me, and her tone is venomous, but I ignore her the way I’d ignore a toddler having a tantrum. She can fall to the floor and pound her little fists for all I care.
But the truth is… she’s beautiful when she’s furious and completely unaware of the power she holds in that moment. I clench my jaw, barely suppressing the urge to grab her and show her exactly what it means to defy me.
I slide the ring onto her finger, my thumb brushing over her soft skin. She shivers, and I tell myself it’s because she’s cold, that it has nothing to do with me. Maybe she feels this, too.
Her breath hitches before she can stop herself, a sound so soft I might have imagined it, but for the way her cheeks flush. For a fleeting second, our gazes lock, and the room and its hollow applause fade.
Then she wrenches her hand back .
My heart beats against my ribcage like a warning.
Anya’s my wife.
She’s mine.
Standing before me in a dress.
And she fucking hates me.
Good. She should. If she knew how much I really wanted her, she’d run.
“Congratulations,” she says through gritted teeth as we turn to face the camera, as stiff beside each other as cardboard cutouts.
“For what?”
“For winning the game,” she whispers.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I whisper back. “That’s cute you think the game is over. It’s only just started.”
Her sharp intake of breath tells me I rattled her, but she masks it quickly. She can’t hide the flush that creeps up her neck though.
My gaze sweeps the room for an exit. I said no reception for the two of us. They can party all night long for all I care.
“This way.” I take her hand roughly in mine and tug her along so she trots to keep up with me.
“Where are we going?”
Ember takes pictures, and Rodion watches, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Home, Anya. ”
I tug her into the foyer and march with purpose toward the door. Our men open the double doors for us and stand aside amidst formal wishes of congratulations. I nod, barely acknowledging them.
“You don’t have a driver?” she asks when I lead her to the car parked and waiting by the curb. “I thought you’d practically have hired people to wipe your ass.”
I don’t bother to reply and only click the key fob to unlock the door when Rafail calls from behind me.
“Semyon.”
I turn around to face him. He nods at me, his hands tucked into his pockets. “You sure you don’t want to stay and at least have a drink?”
Why would I do that? I have my favorites at my own house.
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
“Congratulations,” he finally says. “We’ll be in touch.”
We will.
I’m surprised to hear the click of a car door being opened behind me. When I swivel to face her, Anya’s opening her own fucking door before sliding into the passenger seat with a scowl.
I let it go this time, but she has to know that won’t fly. I lean against the car door, taking up her space and caging her in.
“Don’t ever do that again, Anya,” I say, my voice soft but laced with steel. “Or we’ll have a problem.”
The air between us is charged, electric. For a second, it seems she’s confused when a look of genuine curiosity crosses her face. “Do what?”
She really doesn’t know?
“Open your own car door. That’s my job.” I lower my voice. “Do we have an understanding? If you do that again, you and I will need to have a talk.”
She blinks, disarmed. I wish I knew what I was doing that causes her to look at me like that. For one moment, she’s put her armor down.
I like that. I want to tell her to do it again, but I don’t know why she did it.
“Okay,” she finally whispers, swallowing hard. “Right.”
I nod. “Patience. Be patient if I’m occupied.” I wonder if she needs more explanation. “You’re mine now.”
Doesn’t she know the rules? The expectations? She can hate me, fight me, defy me all she wants—but she’ll never be unsafe. As mine, she will be protected in ways she doesn’t even realize. I’ll walk on the outside of the street. I’ll open her car door. When we’re in public, I’ll know every exit, every potential danger, I’ll note every man whose gaze lingers on her too long. She doesn’t have to like me, but she’ll be safe, whether she wants my protection or not.
I have to remind myself she didn’t grow up like I did. Her father’s an asshole drunk, and her brother’s a selfish prick. Now, anyway. He wasn’t always.
I remember watching her mother work her fingers to the bone to keep that bakery afloat while her husband pissed away their profits .
No. Anya doesn’t understand my expectations, but she will.
I close her car door and take the driver’s seat. We drive in silence for the first five minutes. I’m acutely aware of her beside me—the subtle rustle of her dress when she shifts, the faint scent of citrus and peonies and something distinctly her.
For the first time, I allow myself to fully own the fact that she’s my wife. It stirs something deep and primal in me. I grip the wheel to ground myself.
“Wait, so you don’t live at The Cottage anymore? I thought we’d live there.”
“No. I moved into a place of my own a few years ago, so I don’t live there anymore. I spend a lot of time there though. It’s still my family home.”
“Oh.”
She shivers in the passenger seat beside me, pulling her thin coat tighter. Without thinking, I reach for the temperature controls, adjusting the heat for her.
She notices. Her lips part slightly, as if she wants to say something, but she doesn’t.
A beat passes. She reaches to turn the car radio on, but I swat her hand away. “Leave it.”
“I like music.”
“Not while I’m driving.”
“ Not while I’m driving ,” she huffs out, mimicking me under her breath in a petty voice with a sour expression on her face. My hand shoots out and grabs her wrist. The sudden contact freezes her, her pulse fluttering under my fingers.
Is she scared? Did her father hurt her? I’ll murder him.
But I don’t let her go. “Do you enjoy testing me, Anya?” My one-hand grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Do you enjoy trying the limits of my patience, or is sarcasm just a talent of yours?”
She scoffs. “If sarcasm burned calories, I’d be skinny as a rail.”
“Thank fuck it doesn’t.”
She casts a sidelong glance at me as I take a left and head home. We’re not far.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I like my wife with curves.”
Anya makes a sound of disgust, crosses her arms, and sinks into her seat. “Do you even know how to lie?”
“I could learn anything if it was useful. Lying is a waste of time and energy.” She doesn’t respond as I park the car. “Welcome home.”
“This will never be my home, Semyon.”
I turn to face her. “Patience isn’t something I’ve cared to cultivate, Anya. But keep pushing, and you might see exactly how little I have left.”
Her breath stutters, her defiance flickering as she leans toward me before she catches herself and pulls away.
I’m not finished .
“I won’t demand much, but your respect is nonnegotiable.”
“Respect!” she fumes. “ Respect ? You don’t scare me, Semyon. And respect isn’t demanded but earned.”
“Cute thought. Also, inaccurate.”
I open my car door and pause, looking over to make sure she doesn’t disobey me and open her own damn door. I watch as her fingers grasp the handle, and she turns to look at me.
“Are you that immature and petty?” I shake my head but won’t warn her again. “If you behave like a child, I’ll treat you like one, Anya.”
Color floods her cheeks. She opens her mouth to protest, then slams it shut as if second-guessing her response. And when I exit the car, taking my time walking to her side, she sits obediently, waiting for me.
Good girl.
I open her door, watching the way her narrowed eyes are fixed on me. She doesn’t like submitting to me. Makes me fucking hard knowing that, knowing I’ll be forced to punish her.
Fire courses through my veins like molten lava. I’m not a man who could ever love, so a thought like that isn’t even on the table. It isn’t in my chemistry. I know that.
But lust? I’ve been lusting after Anya since before it was right, when we were still too young for anything even close to a relationship. I blinked one day, and my best friend’s baby sister wasn’t a child anymore but a woman with full, curvy hips, a soft belly, and tits that begged to be weighed in my palm, her nipples lonely for my mouth and teeth .
I watch her delicate hand grasp the outside of the door as she moves to exit the car, but I clear my throat with a tsk and sharp shake of my head. Her beautiful eyes are narrowed on me.
“I didn’t open my door,” she says in a tight voice as she ignores my warning and gets out of the car.
I close the small space between us. Her back hits the side of the car. In one swift move, I lace my fingers around the edge of her throat, my palm so much bigger than the slender column of her neck, engulfing her easily. I hold her there, braced against my palm, her back pressed against the door.
“We’ve only been married for a short time, Anya,” I whisper in her ear. “But we’ve known each other much longer, haven’t we?”
Her gaze sweeps over my hand, my arm, and up to my eyes. She’s doing her best to hold onto her anger, but she can’t hide the fear that flashes in her eyes.
“No,” she whispers. Her answer takes me by surprise.
No?
“I knew who I thought you were, Semyon. But the boy I knew is long gone. I don’t know you at all.”
Clever. She’s wrong though. Men like me don’t change.
I shake my head slowly. “The only thing that’s changed between us is how you see me. I’ve always been exactly who I am. The difference now is the balance of power between us.”
“Always the master manipulator of words, aren’t you?” she snaps, her tone cutting .
“Not at all. I don’t manipulate anything. There’s no need. I speak the truth and don’t bother to sugarcoat.” I lean in, my voice in her ear. “So listen well, little Anya.”
She shifts uncomfortably. Good. I want her uncomfortable. Questioning. Off-kilter.
I need control.
“You took your vows to me in the presence of my family to save yours. That took courage, but you didn’t have much of a choice. I’ve allowed you to push back. I haven’t punished your disrespect. Yet .”
Her pulse flutters beneath my hand, and my dick springs to life.
“But we’re at my home now. I have people who work for me. Staff. Men under my control who’ve sworn their lives to me. Here, little Anya, you do not disrespect me. I promise you, if you do, I will punish you. I know you haven’t been well-schooled in the expectations of my world, so consider this your first lesson.”
I flex my palm and lean on my forearm, caging her in as I hold her gaze.
Her fiery gaze locks onto mine, challenging me in a way no one has ever dared. She’s smaller, fragile, yet she stands as though she’s made of iron and steel. A goddamn queen in her own right.
“And what exactly does that mean, Semyon?” Her voice is low and cutting. “Punish me how? What else can you take from me?” She can’t hide the way her lower lip trembles .
I catalog every breath, every micromovement. I imagine her tied up in my bed, handcuffed and vulnerable. I imagine her kicking her legs over my lap while I teach her manners. I imagine her screaming my name and begging to come while I hold back pleasure and make her earn her climax.
I sigh and brush my finger along the curve of her lower lip. It’s dry, a little chapped. She’s worked long hours at the bakery and tabled her self-care.
Noted.
“You don’t seem to fear me, little Anya.”
Her voice is small but her stance immovable when she responds. “What is there to fear when you’ve already lost everything?”
Oh, she hasn’t lost everything.
“So dramatic. I thought better of you.” I take my hand from her neck and place it on the other side of her head so she’s caged beneath me. “But you forget something.”
She doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t respond. Only stares at me, trying desperately to hide her fear.
“I don’t play by the rules.”