Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Anissa”
I'm lying in the bed, staring at the wall. Trying to remember who I am or why I’m here.
It’s strange having a vague sense of self, of purpose, and yet realizing I can’t quite grasp any of it.
I think our identity is something we take for granted, the natural order of things, and when it’s gone, it’s as if the sun’s been turned off, and you no longer recognize the playing field anymore.
Zoya, the sweet girl that she is, has told me almost nothing.
I watched as she opened her mouth, then looked at her phone and promptly shut it again. She stood, pacing at the foot of the bed, and though she looked perplexed, she didn't respond when I asked her what was going on.
She says my name’s Anissa. I expect it should sound familiar, if that's my name, but it’s completely unnatural, like a shoe that doesn’t quite fit.
Zoya stands and flits toward me, wringing her hands, though her voice is steady and calm.
“Rafail is coming back to see you. He will answer your questions,” she says, a new hardness to her voice as if she’s angry with him.
"Did he give you permission to unfasten me?"
I imagine that I am a captured princess, with people out there who love me, coming to save me from whatever lies ahead.
I feel fragile and dependent, and I hate it.
"You can ask Rafail," she says quietly. “He's your…” She shakes her head. “No, I'm going to let him tell you that.”
She comes to my side and presses something cold and small in my hand—a tiny silver charm of a bird in flight.
“For luck,” she murmurs, glancing nervously at the door as if we’re going to be discovered at any moment.
“This is yours. Or it… was.” The delicate bird feels strangely familiar, like a piece of a lost dream.
Her voice trembles. "Anissa, I know he can be scary. I know he’s dangerous.
They all are, really, though I think you’ll like Yana, and I think she’ll understand…
” Her gaze trails off as her voice does.
“But you're going to be okay." Giving my hand a gentle squeeze, her tone is vehement. "You're strong."
"So are you," I whisper, even though I hardly know this woman. She’s small and fragile, and I know that whatever she's been through has made her stronger. I can see it in her eyes.
A ghost of a smile crosses her face as the door opens.
The air grows icy, sending a shiver down my spine. It’s utterly still.
My captor’s back.
Now that I’m a little more awake, I decide to assess the situation.
He’s maybe in his mid-thirties, tall and commanding, rugged and dangerous.
His dark, intense eyes seem to pierce right through me.
Right through anyone, I'd imagine, with that laser focus.
He has a sharp jawline and high cheekbones, and something tells me he is not a stranger to violence.
Everything about him embodies raw power, but there's something more, something familiar… He's a man used to being obeyed.
Dressed in a white T-shirt, faded jeans, and leather boots, he feels oddly familiar, and even in casual dress, he exudes unbridled physical strength.
His dark-brown hair is a touch too long, with a hint of curl that would seem playful if not for his cold expression and mask of control.
The stubble on his chin is somewhere between rugged and five o’clock shadow, enough to give him an edge of dominance I crave.
I shiver. He’s harsh and ruthless, there’s no doubt.
Zoya would tell me nothing, nothing of substance.
He walks over to me and folds his huge frame into the small chair at my side. "Feeling any better?” The rough, angry tone of his voice sets me on edge.
I shake my head. It feels like my brain rattles against my skull.
"No," I say. "I’m not. I have no memory of anything. I don't even know the name Anissa; it's foreign to me. Don't know why I'm in this bed. And Zoya, as nice as she is,” I amend because she is kind, "won't tell me anything."
"That's because I ordered her not to,” he says sharply. He nods to her as if silently thanking her for her obedience.
"So you're the boss around here?" I don’t bother to hide my disdain.
"I am.” His cold, calculating gaze defies me to challenge him.
I swallow hard. "I have questions.”
Narrowed eyes meet mine, and he speaks in a half growl. "I'm sure you do."
Frowning at him, I try to sit up, but it proves impossible with my wrists restrained. I do, however, manage to keep my voice strong and sure. I don’t know who this arrestingly handsome asshole is, but I’d like to find that out as soon as possible.
“You act as if you hate me, and I don’t even know who you are. So do me a favor and fill me in so I know if I should hate you back and decide if your lack of hospitality is warranted.”
“Lack of hospitality?” he snarls. “You’re warm and fed, and that’s more than you deserve.”
I purse my lips. "I don’t know much, but I can say with confidence you and I have very different concepts of hospitality. So why don’t you tell me what I supposedly did since it’s an obvious point of contention between us.”
Despite his stoic expression, mild surprise registers in his eyes before he leans forward. Rising to his full height, I half expect him to do something drastic, but he only stares down at me as if assessing me.
That's when I notice he has a small silver metal key in his hand. Thank god.
But he’s in no hurry. He takes his time unlocking me, his hands brushing mine.
Rough fingers graze the tender skin at my wrists as he reaches for my hands above my head and slips the key in.
With a soft click, my wrists swing free.
God, it feels good to be able to move them again, even though it hurts.
Silently, still scowling, he takes my wrists in his large, rough hands and massages the chafed skin with his thumbs. I try to push away, to sit up, only to have him push me back down with a firm hand on my shoulder.
I swallow and stare up at him. I’m nothing close to free, even if I’m unshackled. I release a shuddering breath.
Leaning over, his voice is a low, dangerous murmur, each word a promise and a threat. “You say you don’t know who I am. We’ll cover that. I’ll explain in vivid detail what I expect of you. You’ve been brought here because you ran from me, and I had to make sure that never happened again.”
I blink up at him. “Excuse me?”
He says all this as if it’s just a matter of fact. With narrowed eyes, he shakes his head. “You think this is cruel, you being chained to a bed? Disobey me again, run from me again, and you’ll see firsthand what cruel really feels like.”
My jaw drops open as his hand drifts to my neck, his thumb pressing against my pulse, just enough to make it a little harder to breathe. I’m caught in his gaze, pinned into place by his oppressive, all-consuming presence.
I eye him suspiciously. I may not know much about my current situation, but I know this—nobody restrains anyone this securely, this uncomfortably, just to keep them safe.
What the hell did I do to this stranger?
"My ankles too," I remind him quietly. He moves the sheet at the bottom of the bed, and my cheeks immediately heat when I realize I'm wearing nothing but a short tee and a pair of panties. My instincts tell me to cover myself.
"Evacuate this room,” he snaps to everyone else as he pulls the sheet back over me. Everyone leaps to obey, even little Zoya.
We’re alone. I’m staring up at my captor, his angry eyes riveted on mine. “I know you say you don’t remember who you are, but I don’t buy it. It’s hard to imagine someone forgets her own husband that easily.”
My brain can barely catch up to the words. Husband?
"I can't be your wife,” I whisper, trying to return an excuse. “I have no… I have no ring,” I say wildly. Doesn’t a wife wear a wedding band? “And you had me tied to this bed. Who does that to his wife?”
“A man afraid that she’ll run away again when given the chance.”
I stare at him, aghast.
“I ran?”
He reaches into his pocket with the sort of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, but one that looks almost calculating. "You lost your ring in the accident. But I have it right here. And I told you, I had you restrained so you wouldn’t run again.”
Husband… I’m still reeling from the news. This apparently wealthy, powerful, dangerous man is my… husband? What?
I’m supposedly in one of the most intimate relationships two people can share, yet he’s a total stranger.
Zoya said my name is Anissa.
Anissa.
“Say my name,” I whisper, hoping that if he says it—if my husband speaks my name—it might trigger a memory, a hint of familiarity.
I don’t anticipate the note of pride in his voice when he responds. "Anissa Kopolova.”
Nothing.
I shake my head. "Why does that sound so foreign to me?"
I hate how small and vulnerable my voice sounds. I turn away from him. "Why did you look at me like you hated me? If I'm your wife… this doesn't make any sense.”
He doesn’t answer for long moments, his gaze trailing over me like… like he’s imagining the ways he could hurt me. I grip the sheets tighter. There’s no tenderness in his eyes, only cold hunger, a craving I don’t understand but feel deep in my bones.
And when he finally speaks, his voice is low and dark. “You don’t understand yet, do you?” I flinch when he reaches for me and he drags a thumb across my lower lip. Rough. Possessive. “You will.”
How is it that I remember nothing about who I am, much less who he is, but I remember everything about human behavior?
For example, that muscle ticking in his jaw tells me he's having a hard time being patient. The tentative way his thumb rubs along my wrist, unaccustomed to being gentle. But when I saw him with his sister, he was gentle with her.
Why not me if I’m his wife?
And why was she afraid of him?
"We've had a… rocky relationship," he says. "Just because we’re married doesn’t mean we’ve gotten along."
Hmm.
"Well, why not?" I ask him. It seems stupid to me that people would get married because they supposedly loved each other or whatever, and then they fight.