Unveiled (Bratva Kings #3)

Chapter 12

ANYA

The dim room reeked of cigarette smoke and alcohol, with a faint tinge of body odor, the low hum of voices punctuated by the clink of coins and glasses. I hated this place. I hated this place and the people who frequented it even more, but most of all, I hated that my brother was sitting at the center of it, a grin on his face as he threw down another handful of cash he didn’t have and had probably stolen.

I stayed near the doorway, my chest tight with dread. When I followed him here I had no idea this was where I’d end up. I just wanted to talk some sense into him.

But now, staring at the scene in front of me, I felt frozen in place. The place reeked of danger. And Eli wasn’t going to listen to me. He was too far gone, drunk on adrenaline and whatever delusion of invincibility he was chasing.

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor made me jump. My breath caught when I saw him. Semyon. He moved like a shadow, noticeable even from a distance since he was the only one wearing glasses.

He looked out of place, wearing an impeccable, pressed shirt and suit among the other sweat-stained shirts and leather jackets. He looked sharp and untouchable among a roomful of older men who nursed potbellies, heavy jowls, and receding hairlines.

Semyon was a king among men. I glanced away for a moment, not trusting my heartbeat.

I’d had a little crush on him for as long as I could remember. It didn’t help that the usual hum of conversation faltered as men noticed his presence. The way they deferred to him and spoke with respect and more than a little fear. He was just that powerful.

Others might say it was because he was Bratva that the palpable fear followed him like his shadow. But I knew better. I knew Semyon had a way of commanding the attention of everyone in the room.

Part of it was his Bratva-meets-Superman aura. But it wasn’t just the way he looked—it was the way he carried himself, that air of not giving a fuck that could make a woman weep. Because who wouldn’t want a man like that in her corner? Someone who would stop at nothing to protect her?

Even at twenty-one years old, he carried himself with a chilling authority that belied his age. I watched as he walked straight to my brother’s table, his blue eyes narrowing.

“Eli,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Come here. ”

I practically ran to him myself; the need to obey his command felt primal. Otherworldly.

Eli glanced up, lazy, smirking. “Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence. You here to join the fun?”

“I said get the fuck over here,” Semyon growled. “Now.”

My brother had the audacity to chuckle, leaning back in his chair. “Relax. It’s just a friendly game. What the fuck is your problem?”

Semyon didn’t flinch. The only sign my brother’s words hit him was the faintest twitch of his fingers. He was stronger than Eli. More powerful. “That’s not your money you’re gambling with. And you know it.”

The other men at the table began to shift uncomfortably, glancing between Semyon and Eli. One by one, I watched as they mumbled excuses and disappeared into the smoky corners of the room, unwilling to be caught in the fallout of the Kopolov Bratva.

Of Semyon.

Semyon leaned on his forearms, menacing. I watched him, unable to breathe. “You’re going to take your money, and you’re going to fucking leave. Or you’ll deal with me. Not Rafail. Me.”

I couldn’t help it—I hitched a breath. I had never heard him sound like that before—so cold, so detached. Semyon was a man of his word, and I would hate to see what it meant to “deal with him.”

“You think I’m scared of you?” my brother spat .

Semyon tilted his head slightly, his icy gaze unwavering. “You should be.”

I gasped. My breathing grew faster, my hands clammy. I watched as the two men stood face-to-face, the air between them charged. Then, without a word, my brother grabbed his coat and stormed past Semyon. Semyon didn’t watch him go. Instead, he turned his head slightly, his eyes sweeping the room until they landed on me.

I was frozen in place.

My heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think.

I didn’t want him to see me here. I didn’t need to be told he wouldn’t approve of me here. But the weight of his gaze pinned me in place, and for a moment, I thought something flickered in his expression—recognition?

Was that… fear?

Then unmistakable anger.

I turned and ran.

“Anya!” His voice rang out sharply behind me.

I ran harder.

The first thing I notice when I open my eyes is the faint morning light streaming through the curtains. I leap up in bed. I never sleep this late—not so late that the sun is actually up in the sky.

Stefan.

I throw the covers off and run to the door. I remember he locked it last night, but now, when I turn the handle, it opens.

Did I imagine that he locked it?

My pulse races as I look around the room. I glance down at myself and realize I’m wearing nothing. I need to get dressed. I swallow hard, scanning the space, remembering the massive, ridiculously large closet. I look until I find a soft pink robe hanging from a corner near the bathroom. I’ll probably have to thank one of his sisters for that later.

I wrap it around me, cinch it at the waist, and quickly run out to check on Stefan. I feel like I’ve abandoned my baby brother to the wolves. My stomach twists. Where is he? What has Semyon done? What would he do?

He brought me here last night to keep Stefan safe. He wouldn’t hurt him… would he? But Semyon has implacable rules, and Stefan is a wild, reckless little boy.

I sprint down the hall, my bare feet hitting the hardwood as I fling open Stefan’s door. The bed is unmade, the sheets rumpled and tossed aside as if he left in a hurry. His clothes from last night lay in a pile on the floor, haphazard and careless, just like he always leaves them. He’s just a little boy.

What have I gotten my brother into?

My chest tightens when I hear voices downstairs. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I have to stay calm. Why am I panicking?

Maybe because my entire life was put at risk? I was forced to marry a man I hate, and now my little brother is caught in the mix. Yeah, no big deal.

I roll my eyes heavenward. I wish Ophelia were here.

I walk downstairs. From here, I can see the huge expanse of his house—sleek, modern, and impossibly large, like something out of a magazine. But the sight that greets me freezes me in place.

Stefan sits on the other side of the open doorway, swinging his legs at the table, sipping something from a cup. Semyon sits across from him.

My heart aches because Stefan looks… happy. Safe.

My god . I didn’t know how badly I’d been clinging to some kind of hope, and here it is. At great personal expense, but here it is, nonetheless.

They both look up as I approach, Stefan waving at me with one hand while holding his tea with the other. And Semyon—my cold, terrifying husband.

Except… he doesn’t look so terrifying now.

Instead of his perfect suit, he wears a plain white T-shirt and gray pajama pants. Stubble shadows his jaw. His dark hair is ever so slightly mussed, and his glasses perch on the edge of his nose, giving him an almost softer edge.

Superman at rest .

No. No way. He can’t do this. He can’t sit here, playing checkers with Stefan, eating breakfast like he’s some kind of domesticated man who actually cares. Who actually has a heart.

“Good morning,” I say, but my voice is sharper and colder than I intended.

Semyon’s piercing blue eyes lock onto mine. For one moment, the intensity in that gaze robs me of my breath, and I remember last night’s details—every single one of them. His hands. His voice. His promise that we would consummate our marriage. The pain and heat he painted across my ass.

No , it’s wrong to think about this with my brother sitting right there . God.

Now here he is, looking like an entirely different man, as if I somehow imagined the coldhearted monster in my dreams.

Is he gaslighting me?

“It’s late,” I tell him. “I’m supposed to be at the bakery.”

With a nod, he explains, his voice firm. “I made a decision. A lot has happened in a very short time. The bakery is closed for the day and will stay closed for the weekend while we figure out what we’re doing next with it.”

I open my mouth to protest. We don’t close the bakery.

But he continues. “I have reasons for that, Anya. Don’t question them,” he says quietly, his tone a calm command.

I hesitate, wanting to hear everything before I respond. “And Stefan has to get to school?— ”

“Stefan will stay home from school today. On Monday, it’ll be business as usual. We have a lot to go over.”

“What?” I ask, my confusion spilling over. “No school? But he?—”

“You heard what I said,” he snaps, turning back to the checkerboard.

Stefan smirks at me. “If he says I’m staying home from school, I’m staying home from school,” he says, his tone full of mischief. “Maybe I’ll stay home every Friday, and you can’t make me go.”

Before I can respond, Semyon’s voice cracks like a whip. ” Stefan.”

My brother freezes, his smirk vanishing as he looks at Semyon with wide eyes.

“That’s your sister,” Semyon says, his tone low and dangerous. “And my wife. You don’t speak to her like that again. Am I clear?”

Stefan swallows hard and nods. “Yes, sir.”

Yes, sir? What? What has happened to my brother, and who is in his place?

I blink, stunned into silence. I’ve never seen anyone check Stefan’s attitude—not even me. And the fact that it comes from Semyon makes it feel even more surreal.

But Semyon isn’t finished. “Apologize.”

Stefan swallows hard. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I nod as my eyes drift to the checkerboard. Stefan’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he stares at the pieces, seemingly forgetting what just happened. Semyon sits back, almost relaxed, though his focus is razor-sharp.

It’s all… bizarre.

That’s the man who locked me in my room last night. The man who spanked me and threatened me. The man I’ve argued with at every turn because I fucking hate him.

Now he’s sitting here, teaching my brother checkers, and acting like he actually cares?

Did I wake up in an alternate reality, or what?

I don’t trust it. I don’t trust him. But my stomach growls, and I’m in desperate need of a good cup of coffee, so I push through and decide I’m going to take things as they come.

I have to walk closer to Semyon to get to the coffee. I square my shoulders and try not to think about the fact that I’m naked under this robe.

As I draw closer to him, I remember the way he touched me. His low, masculine hum of need. The way it felt having him close and knowing, deep down in my bones, how badly he wanted me.

My body heats. I glance at him, hoping he’ll stay focused on the game, but no such luck. His eyes are raking over me in my bathrobe as if mentally undressing me.

Heat skates across my skin.

When I was younger, I’d have given anything in the world for him to look at me like this. But now?

Now, I don’t know how I feel about it .

I stand at the kitchen counter and look at the coffee machine in front of me. I've never seen anything like it. It looks like some kind of spaceship—one pull of the bells and whistles, and I might launch myself straight into the atmosphere.

I turn to see Semyon watching me.

“You drink coffee?” he asks.

“Yes, I love coffee.”

“But you don’t know how to use that.”

I blow out a breath. “I’m kind of old-fashioned. I use, like, a French press. That’s my favorite way.”

Of course, it makes sense that he would have this type of contraption—immaculate, precise, and unnecessarily excellent.

“I’ll be right back,” he says to Stefan. “You stay right there. This game isn’t over.” There’s a small, playful edge to his voice, but it’s still laced with command.

Stefan sits still, taking a huge bite of his pastry. Crumbs spray onto the table and he gives me a grin around a mouthful.

I don’t remember the last time my brother grinned.

I face the coffee machine, telling myself I can do hard things. I can figure this out.

Before I get the chance, Semyon reaches over. “You use these pods here,” he says.

He’s standing behind me. I can feel the heat of his chest pressed up against my back, and god, he smells so good . I close my eyes as heat floods my chest. We’re so close. Just the feel of his warmth next to me and his scent is driving me mad…

“See?” he says, his voice low and almost seductive. Or am I imagining that? “The brown ones are espresso, and the black are coffee. You put them in here and press this button.”

“Do I have to, like, tell it what size cup I want or…?”

“No. Each one is calibrated for the exact amount with the right pressure. Espresso shots will be smaller, coffee larger. How do you take your coffee?”

“Cream, milk, whatever.”

“Not ‘whatever,’” he says, reaching for a crystal-clear mug and sliding it under the coffee machine. “I asked you what you like, not what you’ll tolerate.”

My heart thumps.

“Cream. I like cream and three sugars. How do you like yours?” I ask because it feels like the polite thing to do.

His lips almost twitch. Almost. “Cream, three sugars.”

Is he mocking me? I narrow my eyes at him, but he only shrugs.

“I don’t lie, Anya.”

I don’t think he could if he tried.

I watch as the machine bubbles and clanks, the fragrant smell of coffee filling the air. He takes the finished cup, pours in cream and three sugars, gives it a stir, and holds it between his hands, staring into it before handing it to me .

“Thank you,” I whisper, half wondering if I’m thanking him only for the coffee.

With a nod, he makes another cup for himself, and Stefan asks for tea. He likes to pretend he’s grown-up, but he’s not quite ready for coffee yet.

“Of course. I’ll be right there.”

I flick the button on the electric kettle and watch as Semyon cleans everything with precision. The pods go into a labeled recycling bucket. He takes a cloth from the sink, wipes a few droplets of coffee off the counter, folds the cloth neatly, and puts it back. He returns the cream to the fridge—immaculate, perfectly arranged, of course—and slides the sugar container back into its exact spot next to the milk.

I watch, half mesmerized, trying not to think about what has to happen between us.

How could someone so beautiful be so cold?

Will it be like having sex with one of those vampires?

Oh my god . Sex. I can’t think of that. I need to talk to Ophelia.

Now.

I swallow hard as the kettle bubbles and steam hisses behind me. It’s ready. “Here, let me have your cup.”

I place a teabag in Stefan’s mug and pour the steaming water. But I’m not focused, and the mug slips, the boiling water splashing over my hand.

“Shit!” I yelp, jerking back and cradling my hand. I run to the sink, turning on the cold water, hissing as the burn stings. Before I can grab a towel or think straight, Semyon is there, right in my space.

“Let me see,” he says briskly, his voice low.

“It’s fine.” I clutch my wrist tighter.

“Anya.” His voice has that edge again—quiet, unrelenting. Not a question but a command.

I hold out my hand, trembling. I don’t want him to touch me again, but I can’t stop him. His large, calloused fingers take my wrist with surprising gentleness, turning it over to inspect the red, angry skin.

“You shouldn’t be so careless,” he scolds, his eyes focused on the burn as he guides my hand under the cold water.

“Thanks for the advice,” I snap, sarcasm lacing my shaky voice because it fucking hurts. But it comes out weaker than I intended.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he grabs a clean dishcloth, wets it under cold water, and presses it against my wrist. I hiss at the contact, but his grip doesn’t waver.

“You’ll blister if you don’t cool it down quickly,” he says, his voice rougher now.

I glance at him, caught off guard by the tight line of his jaw and the way his brows draw together. He avoids my gaze, focusing entirely on my injury, but the tension in his shoulders betrays something else.

Semyon isn’t cold right now. He’s not happy but not furious. He isn’t detached either. He’s just… there. Solid. Present .

Something inside me breaks then. It’s been so damn long since I’ve had another adult I could lean on other than Ophelia.

My breath hitches as his thumb brushes against the inside of my wrist—a faint touch, but it sends heat racing up my arm that has nothing to do with the burn. I hate myself for melting under his gentleness.

“There’s a first aid kit in the pantry,” he says, breaking the moment as he turns away. “I’ll get it. Keep that cloth against your skin.”

When he returns, he unfolds a perfectly organized kit, takes out a small packet of burn relief cream, and murmurs, “Let me see.”

He stands in front of me, masculine, strong, so in charge.

I show him my wrist and flinch when he smears cream on it before he takes out gauze and carefully wraps it.

“Leave it like this until I tell you to take it off.”

For a moment, I just nod. I don’t want to argue with him.

“Anya? Are you okay?” Stefan asks from across the room.

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “You need to be careful with hot things.”

Semyon grumbles under his breath but goes back to the table. I watch him and wish I could bring him back.

Stefan moves a checker piece and hops over one of Semyon’s. “I’m gonna beat you,” he says with a grin.

Semyon rolls his eyes. “I’d like to see you try.” On the next move, he jumps four of Stefan’s pieces and collects them in his hand.

Stefan’s face falls.

I take my coffee and a plate of pastries and walk over to them, rolling my eyes. “Oh yes, Semyon Kopolov, the ultimate checkers tyrant. Crushing the dreams of children one king at a time.”

The remark slips out before I can stop myself, but to my shock, Semyon laughs.

It’s soft, barely audible, but it’s there—a quiet chuckle that rumbles from his chest. His lips curve into a genuine smile.

I freeze, my cup halfway to my lips.

I thought he’d forgotten how to laugh. He looks… different. The sharp lines of his face soften, the cold mask momentarily slipping aside.

For one moment, I see the boy I grew up with. The boy I loved. The boy who broke my heart.

And for a reason I can’t explain, I want to see it again.

The thought hits me like a punch to the stomach. What is wrong with me?

I bury my face in the coffee, trying to get a grip on myself. I still have such vivid memories. I wonder if he does too.

“You should always make sure you watch your opponent,” Semyon says to Stefan. I've almost forgotten that he's the second eldest in his family, with two younger sisters now. He takes to this role kind of naturally, and I love that. But I can't forget who he is or what he wants. Right now, my brother is safe, and I made the decision I had to, to keep my family together. I suppose… so did he.

I take a bite of pastry and drink the coffee. "My god, this coffee is delicious.”

“It’s a high-quality brew. Ethiopian beans.”

“Well, I'll have to introduce you to the French press," I tell him. "You know our most popular recipes at the bakery are always the simplest."

Why am I telling him this? Like he cares?

"I know. We have a spreadsheet we’ll go over later when we discuss it with your new business manager.”

I blink at him in surprise.

"What do you mean?”

“I want to build a detailed catalog,” Semyon says, his voice steady but focused. “Inventory, profit margins, the items that generate the most revenue.”

I blink, momentarily caught off guard. He’s actually talking about the bakery’s operations? I thought he only cared about the location, just another strategic asset to him. But he’s talking about profit margins like he’s genuinely… invested.

His gaze shifts to the coffee in his hand. “If you know which item drives the most profit, you can optimize production and reduce waste. The right adjustments could increase revenue by at least thirty percent.”

I lean forward slightly, reluctantly intrigued. “You’ve thought about this a lot. ”

“Of course,” he replies, his expression neutral. “It’s a business. Every detail matters.” He tilts his head. “What?" he asks when he catches me staring, and it's the first time he seems curious about what my thought process is.

I shake my head. "Nothing."

Thankfully, Stefan is oblivious to the tension between the two of us and eagerly makes his move on the board without batting an eyelash. Semyon shakes his head, lifts his checker, and easily jumps two of Stefan's checkers.

Stefan's face falls, and Semyon leans in. "No. This game is not over. And even if it were, you have to know that I'm not going to take it easy on you. Your sister can mock me all she wants, but I am never going to let you win a game. When you win, you will know that you've won fair and square."

For some reason, it feels like he's talking to me.

They continue to play as my younger brother’s tongue pokes out of his mouth in concentration.

"Are you upset that I was poking around in your finances?” Semyon asks with genuine curiosity.

Stefan looks at him and then to me before he focuses back on the board.

"I guess I didn't consider the fact that you'd actually care about the bakery. I just thought you wanted the location."

"Yes, I'm interested in the location, but running a business that's thriving versus one that is barely scraping by is definitely going to be in both of our best interests. My cousin Matvei will help since this is his wheelhouse.”

I frown. I don’t know Matvei .

I purse my lips and glare at him because how dare he insult me like that?

"You look upset.” His brow furrows. "Are you upset? Why?"

He's as methodical with his human interactions as he is with his coffee making.

Jesus . Of course, I've known this about him forever.

"That's my business. My mother began that. And you're insulting me."

"What did I say that's insulting?" he asks, completely oblivious.

"You're mocking how the business is failing."

"I'm mocking nothing. I stated a fact, Anya. Save your pity party for when it actually matters. Right now, I'm going to come in and save your family's bakery. Do you want that or not?"

No, I don't fucking want it, not if it means that I'm beholden to him, but I don't say that.

"It's still my bakery."

Stefan glares at Semyon. "It’s still our bakery,” he echoes.

Uh-oh. My heart thumps.

Semyon turns his cold gaze to my brother, who doesn’t flinch but squirms a bit.

"Excellent.” He leans back in his chair, his cold blue eyes sharp. “Then why don’t you tell me which item at the bakery is most profitable? What’s the return on investment on your basic line of products? The estimated overhead costs—labor, ingredients? Are you profitable or running at a deficit? Have you seen linear growth?”

Stefan freezes, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. He looks as if Semyon is speaking a foreign language because, of course, he is.

“Running a business isn’t about guesswork. It’s about control. Precision. Without that, you’re gambling with your livelihood.” I cross my arms on my chest as Semyon rises to his feet. He looks down at the board, lifts his checker, and, in one final move, sweeps the rest of Stefan's checkers into his palm.

"Next time, pay attention," he says as Stefan’s face falls. “Put the pieces away, please,” he says quietly. “After you take your dishes to the sink.”

I feel a slight rise in my eyebrows because I never make Stefan put dishes in the sink, clean up his toys, or do anything but his homework. I stare at Stefan.

Have I been babying my little brother?

Stefan stands, takes his plate over to the dishwasher, and half tosses his dish in.

Uh-oh.

I watch as Semyon folds his arms across his chest. A part of me wishes he would stay like this, half-human in his rumpled clothing, but I know as soon as he shaves and puts on his suit, he’ll be back to cold and calculating.

“Try that again,” he says in a low, stern voice. “Come here, I’ll show you how. ”

Stefan stares and looks at me. I shrug and gesture toward the dishwasher.

Stefan tries again, and Semyon deems it acceptable, but as my brother tries to leave, Semyon catches him. “Not yet. Didn’t I ask you to put that game away?”

I watch as Stefan gets that look in his eyes that I am all too familiar with.

Is he going to push back?

I watch as he tosses the checkers into the box. Semyon’s lips twitch. “You can do better than that, but I’ll let it go for now because you need to go to your room and do what I said.”

I bury my face in my cup of coffee.

And then it happens. Stefan snaps. He stares at Semyon with a frown that clouds his vision. “You’re not the boss of me,” he says, but he says it in a low voice, as if he wants to defy Semyon but isn’t quite sure how far to push.

Oh no.

I lower the coffee mug and take a step toward Stefan on instinct.

“You’re living in my house,” Semyon says matter-of-factly. “I’m married to your sister, and by Bratva law, that means I’m in charge.” He lowers his voice. “Understood?”

Stefan looks around and opens his mouth to protest. I stare in horror. No.

“You don’t have housekeepers? People who clean or something? ”

Semyon nods curtly. “I do. But children expect maids to clean up after them. Men take care of their belongings and home as a matter of habit. Do you want to be a man or a boy?”

I want to remind him he’s only eight years old, but I don’t intervene. Not yet.

Semyon continues. “I will be checking, and if you haven't made your bed and tidied up sufficiently, there will be consequences."

I stare at him, aghast. Is he threatening my brother?

“Go,” he says, pointing to the door. Stefan runs.

I stare at him, at a loss for words. There’s a glint of amusement in his piercing blue eyes as he steps closer to me. “He’ll be fine. Trust me, I would know.”

He was half-raised by his older brother, and I have a feeling disobedience and disrespect didn’t fly in that house either.

“I didn’t step in because I agreed with you this time,” I say with a warning frown. Semyon shrugs and steps close, taking my wrist in his hand, his touch surprisingly soft. His fingers trace up to my elbow, and goosebumps erupt over my arm as if waking from a long slumber. When he reaches my shoulder, he gives it a gentle squeeze. I shiver.

“Come with me,” he says, his voice low and velvety soft. There’s an urgency in his words, and I remember for the millionth time— this is Semyon.

The same boy I swooned over, the one who made me melt. The one I can’t trust .

I stare, unmoving. Before I can respond, he crooks a finger at me. "You. Upstairs."

Shocking that he wants to leave the breakfast dishes on the table, but it seems urgent.

My breath catches in my throat. Being alone with him is dangerous.

My heart thunders in my chest when he follows up behind me and half shoves me in before he slams and locks the door.

Oh my god.

I stare at him when he closes the space between us, grabs my chin, and tilts my face upward.

“You make me crazy, Anya,” he rasps, his eyes locked onto mine. I stare into his ice-blue depths as he leans on his forearm, caging me in.

My heart thumps madly in my chest.

It seems like he’s warring with himself. “I want you so fucking badly.” Cursing under his breath, he mutters in Russian.

I swallow hard. “You hate that you want me?”

His voice is a low growl filled with regret. “No. I hate that I’ll fucking ruin you.”

I open my mouth to protest, even though I have no idea what I’ll say, when his mouth crashes on mine. It’s not gentle; it’s all-consuming as if he’s pouring every unspoken word and feeling into the kiss. His hands tangle in my hair. I stifle a moan at how good it feels when he pulls .

My hands find the broad expanse of his shoulders, his muscles tight and powerful. My arms loop around his neck. I pull him closer so there’s no distance between us.

The ground seems to shift under my feet. My silky bathrobe slips loose as his hands skim up my sides. I push against his chest, unable to stop him because I need to feel him. I need him to brand me, claim me, mark me with his touch so when I wake alone in bed and remember that Semyon Kopolov is my husband, I can convince myself this is real.

"I can't fight you anymore," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Maybe I don't want to."

It feels like I've stepped into the world of adulting, admitting that I want him. I want to feel his hot, branding touch all over my body. I want him to make me tremble beneath him. I want to feel him in me.

He groans as my lips graze his skin, and I reach for his waistband. His fingers tighten in my hair, a low curse slipping from his lips as he stares down at me.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "My entire world was ordered neat in a box, in a row. And then you came in and smashed it all to hell."

"How romantic."

He groans again, and it feels like victory. He brushes his mouth against mine. Tentatively, I reach for his glasses and gently push them up his face so I can stroke his cheek, unencumbered. I cup his jaw, loving the way his stubble pricks my palm.

He kisses me back .

"I need you," he whispers. "I have to have you, Anya. I'm afraid if I wait much longer, I won't be able to be as gentle with you as you need your first time."

My heart aches as a lump forms in my throat. He's showing a side of himself that might break through every fortress I've built.

"I need you too," I whisper back.

Then he's lifting me. My legs wrap around his torso, his thick length pressing up against my bare pussy. My silk robe does nothing to hide me from him. He's kissing me as if he needs me to breathe again, and I'm kissing him back.

Semyon wants me.

He wants me so badly. He lays me down, taking a moment to stare at me, and I can tell he likes what he sees.

Leaning on one elbow, he explores the length of my body with a touch that borders on worship, leaving goosebumps and heat in his wake—a contradiction that feels so damn right. Brushing his fingers through my hair, he gives it another tug, before he kisses my temple, kisses my lips. He inhales me as he works his way down my body until he reaches my breasts.

Everything in me rises to meet him—my hopes, my dreams, my body.

My breasts feel heavy and full, and heat pools between my legs as he laps at one hardened bud and flicks his thumb across the other.

"Do you like that?" he whispers, his brow creased with curiosity .

This is Semyon. Cataloging. Noting.

I can't make peace with the fact that this is the boy I loved—the one I thought I would hate forever. And now I'm surrendering to him. But that was then, and this is now.

"Yes, I like it.” I tug his hair. “Do it again."

His hand cracks across the fullness of my ass.

"Ask politely."

Oh god.

"Do it again, please. Please, Semyon."

"Better."

He trails the length of my body down between my legs. "Spread your legs."

I let my legs fall apart, giving him access to my slick heat. I moan when thick fingers find my folds, and he stifles a groan himself.

"Fucking gorgeous," he breathes out.

We're going to do this.

We have to.

I groan as his lips graze my skin. He's just about to kiss my belly when his phone buzzes on the nightstand—a sharp, jarring sound that shatters the moment.

Semyon's entire body grows rigid, his fingers flexing against my thigh as his gaze flicks to the phone.

"It’s Rafail."

"Ignore it," I plead, tugging at him again, but I already know he can’t. His expression darkens.

"I have to take it," he says to me. "It's law. Fuck ."

I clench my fists at the loss of him and turn away when he answers the phone, angry that my eyes blur with tears.

"Yes," he growls into the phone. The momentary calm shatters as Semyon curses, his eyes swinging back to mine. Whatever Rafail just told him impacts me too.

"What? When? Are you sure?"

I scramble to my feet, alarm prickling me. I’m already heading to the closet to get dressed. "What's wrong?" I ask, my voice shaky.

He turns to me, his face a mask of ice again.

“Eli’s leaving may be more complicated than it looks.”