Chapter 5 #2
Alexei nodded, satisfied, then moved closer.
Anya's hands gripped the back of the sofa, knuckles white against the charcoal fabric.
I started to stand—instinct screaming that she was about to bolt—but forced myself to stay seated.
She was an adult. Could handle a conversation with my brother.
Didn't need me hovering like an overprotective—
"We need to ensure you understand your role in our organization," Alexei said, his tone shifting to business. Not unkind, just matter-of-fact. The way he'd discuss a new acquisition or a strategic partnership. "The Morozov intelligence you possess will be valuable."
Anya's breathing had gone from fast to nearly invisible. Her chest barely moved. Her face could have been carved from marble.
"Your linguistic abilities will also prove useful," Alexei continued, oblivious to or ignoring her distress. "We have operations in multiple countries. Having someone who can translate, decrypt, analyze communications—it's an asset we've needed for years."
Asset. The word hung in the air like a curse.
"We'll need to debrief you after the wedding," Alexei said. "Get a full accounting of what you know, what you have access to. But I want you to understand—you're family now. We protect our own. Your father's reach ends at our territory line."
Anya's laptop closed with a snap that echoed off the brick walls. The sound was sharp, violent, completely at odds with the careful control she'd maintained on her face.
"I understand perfectly," she said, and her voice had gone from flat to crystalline. Cold enough to freeze. "I'm a tool you've acquired. A decoder who comes with a marriage license. Very efficient."
Alexei's eyebrows rose slightly—surprise that she'd interpreted his words as transactional rather than protective. "That's not—"
"My father treated me like an asset for twenty-six years," Anya interrupted, and there was something raw in her voice now, something that cut through the control.
"Kept me locked up, used my skills, reminded me daily that my only value was what I could provide.
And now I've been transferred to new ownership with the same expectations. At least he was honest about it."
I moved without conscious thought. One moment I was at the table, the next I was between them—body angled to shield her from Alexei's presence, hands at my sides but ready. Ready for what, I didn't know. My brother wouldn't hurt her. But my body had made a decision my mind was still catching up to.
"Alexei." My voice came out harder than I'd ever used with him. Hard enough that his eyes sharpened, focused on me with the kind of attention that meant I'd surprised him. "She's not an asset. She's my wife."
Not my wife yet—the wedding was two days away. But the claim was there in my tone, in my stance, in the way I'd positioned myself between them like I had any right to protect her from family.
"Of course," Alexei said slowly, and I could see him recalculating, reassessing. "I apologize if I—"
But Anya had already moved. She'd circled wide around us both, giving Alexei the maximum possible distance, her laptop clutched against her chest like armor.
Her face was still that terrible blank mask, but I could see her pulse hammering in her throat, could see the slight tremor in her hands that said she was holding on by force of will alone.
"Excuse me," she said to neither of us in particular. "I need to—excuse me."
Then she was walking toward the guest room, not running but moving with rigid control that was somehow worse. The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded like a cell door locking.
Alexei and I stood in the sudden silence, my heartbeat too loud in my ears. I'd just challenged the pakhan. Hadn't raised my voice or made threats, but the implication had been clear—back off. She's mine. Don't touch.
"You care about her," Alexei said finally. Not a question.
"She's terrified." I forced myself to turn away from the closed guest room door, to face my brother. "She's been treated like property her entire life. And you just—"
"I understand." He held up one hand, cutting off my building anger. "I handled that poorly. I was thinking strategy, not psychology. Clara would have my head if she'd heard me."
Clara. His own wife, who he'd taken from similar circumstances, who'd taught him that bratva brides needed more than just protection and resources. They needed to be seen as human.
"The Morozov intelligence is valuable," Alexei continued, his voice quieter now. "But you're right. She's family first. The rest can wait until she's ready. If she's ever ready."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My hands were shaking slightly—adrenaline from the confrontation, from watching Anya shut down, from the overwhelming urge to go to her room and make sure she was okay.
"Clara wants to meet her. After the wedding. When she's had time to settle." He moved toward the elevator, then paused. "Ivan. You stood up to me just now. Called me on my bullshit."
"She needed someone to stand up for her."
"Yes," Alexei agreed. "She did. And you were right to do it." He pressed the elevator call button, the soft chime sounding like a dismissal. "But brother—if you care about her that much already, you need to be careful."
I nodded.
The elevator doors opened. Closed. Alexei disappeared.
And I stood alone in my penthouse, staring at a closed guest room door, wondering if I'd just made everything better or infinitely worse.
The bridal boutique occupied a converted townhouse in Tribeca, the kind of place where appointments were made three months in advance and price tags didn't exist because if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.
Margot—the owner and apparently the only person trusted to dress bratva wives—had let us jump the queue.
Special accommodation for the Volkov family. Discretion guaranteed.
Anya sat on a velvet settee in the private viewing room, her hands folded in her lap, wearing the carefully blank expression she'd perfected over the last few days.
She'd barely spoken since Alexei's visit yesterday.
Had emerged from the guest room for dinner, eaten in silence, retreated immediately after.
This morning she'd been in the Eames chair again when I woke, reading different book, chewing on a different sleeve.
I'd made coffee, she'd accepted it with a quiet "thank you," and we'd existed in separate orbits until it was time to leave for this appointment.
I'd made the appointment thinking I was doing the right thing.
Giving her the full experience. The kind of wedding dress shopping that normal brides got—champagne, multiple options, the moment where she'd see herself in white and feel something other than dread.
But watching her sit there, spine straight, face empty, I was starting to think I'd miscalculated.
"Miss Morozova," Margot said, emerging from the back with a garment bag that probably cost more than most people's cars. "I've selected several options based on Mr. Volkov's description. I think you'll be very pleased."
Anya's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The Morozova instead of Morozov—feminine form of her father's name, but still her father's name. Still claiming her as his property even here, even now.
"I'm sure they're lovely," she said, her voice carefully modulated. Pleasant. Empty.
Margot unzipped the garment bag with reverence, revealing something that looked like it belonged in a cathedral.
Vera Wang, I recognized the design from the research I'd done.
Layers of silk organza and hand-beaded lace that caught the boutique's soft lighting and threw it back like captured stars.
A full skirt that would require three people to carry.
A train that would trail behind her like a white shadow.
A neckline so ornate with crystals and beading that it looked like armor made of light.
Forty-five thousand dollars, according to the discreet research I'd done last night. A dress designed to make statements, to display wealth, to show everyone watching that the bride was valuable property being transferred between powerful families.
Anya went pale.
Not dramatically—just a slight draining of color from her cheeks, a tightening around her eyes.
"It's very . . ." she started, then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "It's beautiful."
The lie was perfect. Her voice steady, her expression pleasant, nothing that would tell Margot she was screaming inside. But I heard it anyway. Heard the terror underneath the performance.
"Would you like to try it on?" Margot asked, already moving to unhook the dress from its special hanger.
"I—" Anya's hands clenched tighter. "If that's what—"
"You hate it," I said quietly.
Her eyes snapped to mine, surprise breaking through the careful control. Like she couldn't believe I'd noticed. Like she'd expected me to accept the performance the way everyone else in her life probably had.
"No, I—it's fine," she said quickly. "If this is what you want—"
"What do you want?" I interrupted.
The question seemed to short-circuit something in her brain. She blinked at me, genuinely confused, like I'd spoken a language she didn't understand. Her lips parted, closed, parted again. No words came out.
"Anya." I leaned forward slightly, keeping my voice low enough that Margot probably couldn't hear. "What do you want? Not what you think I want. Not what would be appropriate for a bratva wedding. What would make you feel—" I struggled for the right word. "—less like you're being put on display?"
Her throat worked as she swallowed. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Something simple. Something that doesn't make me feel like I'm—like I'm a thing to be looked at instead of a person."
The honesty of it, the quiet desperation, made my chest tight. I turned to Margot, who'd been standing frozen with the Vera Wang still on its hanger, clearly unsure how to navigate this deviation from script.
"Show us the simplest dress you have," I said. "No beading. No train. Nothing that requires a team of people to put on."
Margot's professional composure slipped for just a moment—surprise that a bratva boss was prioritizing the bride's comfort over spectacle. But she recovered quickly, carefully returning the Vera Wang to its garment bag like she was putting a child to bed.
"I have a few options that might work," she said. "More modern. Minimalist. Give me just a moment."
She disappeared into the back, leaving Anya and me in the private viewing room. The silence stretched, but it felt different than the careful distance we'd been maintaining. Less like avoidance, more like the quiet after a storm when the air finally cleared.
"You don't have to—" Anya started.
"I do," I interrupted. "You're going to be wearing this dress for hours. At a ceremony full of people you don't know, making vows you didn't choose. The least I can do is make sure you're not trapped in something that makes you feel worse."
She studied me with those intelligent eyes, and I could almost see her mind working—analyzing, cataloging, trying to understand what this meant. Whether it was genuine or manipulation. Whether I'd use this small kindness as leverage later.
Margot returned with three dresses, each dramatically simpler than the Vera Wang.
We spent the next thirty minutes in a careful dance—Anya trying on options, stepping onto the viewing platform, studying herself in the three-way mirror while I watched from the settee.
Each dress was better than the last, but none of them were right.
Too structured. Too much detail. Still costumes rather than something she'd choose.
Then Margot brought out the Elie Saab.
It was barely there—just ivory silk that fell like water, clean lines that skimmed Anya's body without clinging, a neckline that was modest but elegant.
No beading. No train. Nothing that screamed.
The dress whispered instead, and what it said was that the woman wearing it was enough.
Didn't need embellishment or armor or anything to make her more than what she already was.
Anya stepped onto the platform in bare feet, and I forgot how to breathe.
She looked like herself. Not Viktor Morozov's daughter, not a treaty bride, not a decoder or an asset or a thing to be used. Just Anya. Young and beautiful and finally, finally not hiding behind careful control.
The dress moved with her as she turned to see the back view in the mirror, the silk catching light and releasing it, the color warming her skin instead of washing her out.
Her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders—Margot had insisted on taking it down from the severe bun, said it was important to see the full effect—and for the first time since I'd met her, Anya looked soft.
"This one," I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
She met my eyes in the mirror, and something passed between us. Recognition that I'd seen what she needed and given it to her without making her beg.
Her reflection smiled. Real smile, not the practiced one. Small, tentative, but genuine enough that her eyes warmed with it.
"This one," she agreed quietly.
Margot looked between us, probably calculating the lost commission on the Vera Wang, but professional enough to smile and nod. "An excellent choice. Simple elegance. I'll have it ready for Friday."