Chapter 18 Anika
ANIKA
Heart hammering against my ribs, I all but sprint back up to the master bedroom Miko and I now share.
The hot flush of my skin is a burning reminder of the complete lack of composure I demonstrated in Miko’s presence.
A combination of guilt and anxiety roils in my stomach.
As rude as my abrupt exit was, I couldn’t bring myself to stay.
Not just because of the clear offense he took at me suggesting he might hurt Svetlana—but because, apparently, I can’t trust myself around him.
From the second I spotted him in the garden, my pulse quickened, but not just from my initial fear about getting caught talking to Svetlana.
That anxiety was quickly overshadowed by the realization that my body is undeniably drawn to Miko after what happened last night. The very sight of him unleashes butterflies in my stomach.
I’ve never felt like such a schoolgirl—almost giddy in his presence.
For a moment there, I completely lost my train of thought.
But I know better than to trust that attraction.
It will fade once Miko starts to reveal his true colors. And this time, I won’t mistake the early signs.
Sucking in deep lungfuls of air, I pace inside the master suite, trying to calm myself.
I still don’t know what to make of his response: “I could have hurt you if I were that kind of man.” I’m not entirely confident that he wasn’t threatening me.
Perhaps his point was that he is the kind of man who’s capable of hurting me if I try to keep things from him like I did with Svetlana.
He didn’t exactly say he wasn’t that kind of man.
But his words suggested it. Didn’t they?
I know all about the subjunctive mood from years of rigorous grammatical tutoring in multiple different languages.
But that doesn’t mean Miko used it correctly.
And if he didn’t, then his statement most likely was a veiled threat, which means I just put Svetlana in far more danger than she was already in.
Because now he knows she’s important to me.
He could use her to hurt me.
A sob threatens to escape me, and I choke it down, tipping my head to look up at the ceiling as I try to hold back the tears. I don’t know what to do.
My life with Pyotr was hell on earth, but at least I knew how to minimize his aggression.
But this week of second-guessing my every move, agonizing over every what-if has been pure torture.
I don’t know Miko. I don’t know how he might react or what to expect next.
And that, more than anything, has my stomach in such knots, I doubt I’ll ever be able to unravel them.
As of now, I have the freedom to move about the house, but I’m terrified to go back out and risk running into him again.
Leaving him standing there in the garden was a terrible move. Now I’ll never know if I could have diffused the situation with the right words. Meanwhile, I could be allowing him to stew all day on what I said. What if he’s the kind of man who works himself up into a violent rage?
Pyotr was always quick to anger.
He never held back in the heat of the moment.
But he was also masterful at holding grudges when it suited him. Miko could be that kind of angry.
He might be building up a case against me, waiting for the right moment to unleash his wrath upon me.
A string of Russian expletives rush from me, and I storm into the bathroom, looking for something to clean.
I need to keep my hands—and hopefully my mind—busy. It’s an old reaction of mine, one I developed growing up.
My mother was an avid believer that idle hands were the devil’s plaything, so even though we had a full staff to maintain the house, if I wasn’t working on my studies, I was learning to cook and clean, darn and sew things.
But I don’t have any needles or yarn with me, and cleaning can be cathartic.
Some habits die hard, I suppose.
So I scrub and straighten, tidy and fold, trying to ease the ball of tension building in my stomach.
Chastity comes in around lunchtime to check on me.
She drops off a sandwich and reminds me that it’s her job to keep the apartment clean, but I assure her that this is what I need.
It helps me think.
She’s heard the spiel before, so she doesn’t argue.
Instead, she just shakes her head and leaves.
After she’s gone, I eye the sandwich—a crisp BLT on rye with fresh tomatoes from the garden.
On any other day, it would hit the spot perfectly.
But I’m so wound up, I’m not sure I’d be able to swallow past the iron fist around my throat.
And every time I pause my cleaning, the doubts come flooding back.
I shouldn’t have been so obvious about my connection with Svetlana. And I definitely shouldn’t have voiced my concern that Miko would hurt her.
His blue eyes flash in my mind’s eye, their icy coolness sending a shiver down my spine when I think about the displeasure I saw in them.
Or perhaps it’s the desire that lingered there—like he wanted to punish me for speaking out of turn.
Something about Michelangelo Chiaroscuro throws me off balance. It has from the moment I met him.
My attraction to him is a weakness—more than that, it’s a liability.
Because it makes me respond unexpectedly and without thinking.
That hinders all the carefully honed instincts about self-preservation that I’ve developed over the past year.
And for the first time, I find myself missing Pyotr.
Because as cruel as he could be, as much as I hated him, at least I could predict him—as well as my own reactions to his brutal kind of discipline. “Better to face the devil you know…” I breathe, recalling the saying once more.
When it comes to Miko, I can’t even make sense of myself, let alone him.
Chastity returns several hours later, when the sky is inky black outside and I’ve turned on all the lights to continue my deep cleaning.
As she announces that dinner is ready, she spots the uneaten sandwich on the dresser and collects it without a word.
Then she opens the door again, casting a last troubled glance in my direction before she leaves me in peace.
I know it would put her mind at ease to go down and eat something. But Miko will no doubt be there with his brothers, and the thought of facing him still turns my stomach.
All I can think about is when the other shoe will drop. I can feel it coming.
A storm is brewing in the air, an electric current of anticipation warning me that I’m not going to like it when his patience comes to an end.
Maybe I should make a break for it while his guard is down.
But then, it hasn’t even been a full day since he gave me free movement around the house.
He might just be testing me to see if I’ll take advantage of an open door.
If I’m being logical about it, he likely has someone keeping an eye on me from a distance.
Ready to tighten the leash at the first sign that I intend to run.
No, now is not the time to do something rash.
Tossing my dirty rag into the laundry hamper with a huff, I slump into the reading chair tucked into the corner of the room by the window.
I’m driving myself crazy overthinking what happened, and I know it. But I’m too much of a coward to go out and face Miko.
I’m not ready.
Tilting my head back to rest it against the overstuffed chair, I close my eyes and will myself to calm down. But that’s easier said than done.
And when the bedroom doors fly open a moment later, I nearly levitate off my perch.
If I had any doubts about whether I left Miko to stew too long, they vanish as soon as I lay eyes on him.
The thunderous scowl that buckles his defined brow says it all.
He closes the doors behind him with a little too much force, and they rattle in the frame as the room fills with deafening silence.
“Why didn’t you come down for dinner? Chastity said you didn’t have lunch either. Have you eaten anything today?” he demands, his voice accusatory as he stalks toward me like a predator on the prowl.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle at the anger in his voice. It triggers that icy adrenaline that used to flood my veins when Pyotr went on a rampage, and my muscles lock in place as I freeze like a deer in the headlights.
“What do you care if I’ve decided to starve myself?” I counter, my chin tipping up in a brash act of defiance. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.
I know better than to goad an angry man. Talking back only escalates a confrontation and paints a target on my mouth. Pyotr gave me more than my fair share of split lips before I managed to learn that lesson. And now, I’m about to learn it all over again.
I can see the fire that ignites behind Miko’s icy-blue gaze.
He takes a meaningful step toward me, his hands coming up as he closes the distance between us with frightening ease.
After a day full of agonizing over this moment—the moment when Miko would choose to act upon his growing frustration with me—my frayed nerves can’t take it.
I feel them snap inside me as my body goes numb.
He’s going to hit me.
I flinch, bracing for a backhand as the truth comes crashing home—then I pause, confusion clouding my vision when the blow doesn’t come.
And in the split second of stillness that follows, I panic. Before I have time to process what happened, my flight instincts kick in.
Barefoot and without a plan, I bolt for the door.