Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“Anissa”
I glance at the large bed in the center of the room. Questions swirl in my mind, but the most pressing one is—how do I share a bed with a stranger?
And how am I supposed to accept this man as my husband? There’s an implied intimacy that makes no sense to me. How can I be close with a man I hardly know… a man who honestly scares me?
"I'd like to talk to the doctor tomorrow," I say thoughtfully. "I want to know more about this amnesia. About how I can bring my memory back."
Frowning before he answers, he finally nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Wordlessly, I watch him walk over to the chest of drawers made of dark maple, worn but obviously well-made. It matches the bed and the bedside table, all of it solid wood.
I wonder if this was his parents' room.
"You said your brothers are adults?"
Something flickers across his face before he answers without looking at me. "Only Zoya’s still a minor.”
I watch him, trying to stay focused but unable to hide my unbridled curiosity. He is my husband, after all. Those muscles? That tanned skin? Those corded forearms with visible veins, a smattering of dark, coarse hair, and strong, powerful hands I can almost feel all over my body—mine.
I swallow hard. Opening the top drawer, he pulls out a white T-shirt and a pair of boxers. But then, his hands shift to an ivory tank top and matching shorts—women’s clothes. I don’t recognize them, but I wonder if they’re mine.
“Are those… mine?”
Not bothering to turn, he throws them aside. “No. My sisters thought you’d need those.” I see a corner of his lips quirk up when he gives me a sidelong look, his eyes burning a hole straight through me. “Cute.”
I stare, my mouth open. “What do you mean?” I finally manage to ask.
“You’re my wife, Anissa.” His tone is tight, clipped, and laced with authority.
“I’ll give you leeway, knowing you can’t remember many things, so allow me to remind you.
” When he turns fully to look at me, I nearly swallow my tongue.
Sweet Jesus, it’s like looking at the body of a vengeful god—beautiful and terrible, capable of utter destruction and relentless protection.
When he continues, there isn’t a hint of hesitation.
He studies me and steps closer. I feel the weight of his glare, the heat of his gaze, his masculine scent overwhelming me as he draws near. His fingers trail down my neck, lingering with a possessive, almost punishing slowness that makes my pulse race.
“You’ll obey me, Anissa,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “And in turn, I’ll give you everything. Safety. Devotion. A life where no harm will ever come to you. All you have to do is submit to me. Learn your place as my wife.”
That’s it, eh?
Still, a thrill—unsettling yet undeniable—weaves through me, wrapping around me like a spell, an unbreakable vow, something ancient and powerful binding us together.
I feel half hypnotized in his presence. I open my mouth to protest, to resist, to claim a part of my identity, but my resistance falters when his thumb sweeps against my jaw, tipping my face up to meet his dark, stern gaze.
“You’re asking me to surrender to a man I don’t remember,” I whisper, my voice shaky, even as a part of me knows, somehow, that this was always my destiny. Somehow, I can’t remember my own name, but I know the law of the Bratva.
“I’m not asking, Anissa,” he corrects, his grip both firm and reverent. “I’m demanding it. In return, I vow my utter protection. I’ll shield you from anything that tries to hurt you. But I am not a man who shares or who gives up an ounce of control.”
Something inside me stirs like a forgotten memory, a whisper that somehow, this is a familiar dance—a test of wills, an exchange of power I both hate and somehow crave.
“Do you understand me, beautiful?”
I nod. “I do,” I whisper, unable to fight the need to say yes, to see him actually make good on his promises. “Yes.”
Bending toward me, he claims my mouth in a punishing kiss, his fingers anchored in my hair. His tongue licks mine, and my insides melt into liquid fire before he pulls away.
Our foreheads meet. “That’s my girl,” he says in a heated whisper. “Good girl.” His hand strokes down my back in a gentle, possessive sweep, and I shiver under his touch.
Then his voice drops, a rough edge slipping into his tone as he whispers, “Moya dyevochka… moya kharoshaya dyevochka.”
My girl… my good girl.
My heart skips at the words—low and intimate. I close my eyes as his praise washes over me, threading through me, bringing life to my tired body and awakening a primal need as he traces the outline of my jaw. His gaze darkens. “Ty prinadlezhish mnyeh.”
You belong to me.
His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to hold his gaze. “And that means no one gets a piece of you. Not your heart. Not your loyalty.”
I can barely breathe, caught in the intensity of his stare and the raw promise of his words.
I nod, the barest hint of agreeing, but it’s enough. His thumb brushes my cheek, and I see the satisfaction flicker in his eyes as he repeats, softer this time, “Moya kharoshaya dyevochka.”
I watch, almost hypnotized, as he removes his shirt.
His arms lift, the fabric sliding up to reveal his bare back, every bit as powerful as I’d imagined.
My first impression was spot on. He’s built like a warrior, with silver scars crisscrossing dark ink on his shoulders, back, and torso—his past etched onto his skin. My heart aches.
Those marks. I know them. Every muscle, every scar, tells a story of battles fought and won, of violence barely kept in check. And I realize with brutal, heart-stopping clarity—that I’m his next challenge.
The sign of Bratva… like mine.
He’s honed his body to perfection, unsurprisingly. He’s a man who values firm authority—over his environment, and over those under his care. It shouldn’t surprise me, then, that he exercises rigid control over his own body.
I am not complaining. If I have to share a bed and take vows with a man I hardly know, it might as well be a man who looks like that. Vavoom.
He tosses his shirt toward the bathroom, and it lands in the wicker hamper.
I swallow and lick my lips. I had the distinct impression under those clothes of his, he hid a powerful, sexy body, and I am not disappointed.
Next, he unfastens his jeans. The moment feels too intimate, too private for two strangers. Yes, on paper, we’re married. At least that gold ring on my finger says so, and so does he, but it feels like just today, I learned his name.
We need weeks, maybe months, before we can even begin to understand what it means to get to know each other, but my thoughts quickly jumble together like soup when he steps out of his faded jeans.
Oh. My.
I stare, unashamed, at how his broad shoulders taper into defined abs, accentuated with a smattering of coarse, dark hair and powerful hips that—okay, alright.
Phew. I swallow and lick my lips again. His legs are thick, muscular, solid, and so utterly masculine my breath catches. I glance down at my own body—trim and pale in comparison. Fit, yes, but much smaller. Daintier. We couldn’t be more different physically.
My body reacts instinctively, drawn to the sight of him. I wait for him to pull on pajamas, but instead, he walks over to me, nearly naked, except for that tiny strip of fabric he calls boxers. It seems wildly inappropriate, but logic tells me it really isn't.
"You don’t need to wear anything to bed.” Is it my imagination, or has his voice gotten deeper? Huskier? More masculine?
Oh god. There is no damn way I'm letting this stranger undress me. "I'm fine," I say, panicking. "I'll just sleep in this." We both look down at my running shorts and rumpled tee.
His scowl sends a jolt through me, hardening my nipples under his intense gaze.
So maybe we don’t need weeks or months. My body already knows what to do.
"The hell you are. I'm your husband, Anissa. You’ll do what I say. And I’ve explained disobedience will earn consequences.”
I open my mouth to protest, but no words come out.
"I'm losing patience," he says in a low growl. A small part of me is curious what happens when he loses his patience, but the logical part of me realizes that wouldn't be very fun. “You don’t want that to happen.”
Or would I?
"I don't remember you. I don't even remember me. I feel strange being undressed by you."
His voice is low, raspy, commanding. "I don't give a fuck if it's strange. I gave you an order, and I expect to be obeyed."
Again, my jaw drops in shock, unable to respond. What the hell am I going to do about it?
My libido gives me a hint of false bravado. "What if I don't want to obey you?" I can tell by the sharp set of his jaw and the cut of his eyes that he doesn’t like my response. He opens his mouth as if to snap at me and then thinks twice about it.
"So you want to undress yourself," he says quietly. His jaw firms as his gaze meets mine. I want to take a step back; I want to turn away, but I make myself meet his stare.
I try to hold my ground. "I need time to feel comfortable getting naked in front of you."
His eyes flash. "I’m your husband." The words hang in the air between us as if he's staking his claim.
"Exactly. I'm not one of your siblings that you’re in charge of. I'm your wife."
His brows rise in mild surprise. Surprise at my words or my pushing back at his commands? Maybe both.
Strong, large, very capable hands anchor on his hips as he continues.
"I respect that you don't have a recollection of our world, but let me remind you," he says in a low, measured tone, "I do not tolerate disobedience.
Yes, from the people under my command, including my siblings.
But most especially my wife. It's my job to protect you, and if you defy me, you make that job difficult or damn near impossible.
I don't take kindly to defiance, Anissa. "
So maybe I don't want to find out what he'll do.