Chapter 11 #2
I feel his heat behind me as he approaches, but he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. “What do you do for work?” I ask. “You said you’re Bratva.”
I see them then. Familiar faces swimming in my mind’s eye. One with tattooed markings along his inner arm, another man so big he fills a doorway. I screw up my face, try to conjure up more vivid details, but it’s gone as fast as it came. A flicker of memory, then.
I want to cry.
“Yeah,” he says behind me. I hear the telltale squeaky sound of drawers opening. “My operations span a lot. Black market shit. Drugs. We own a few clubs and lots of real estate throughout all of Russia, not just Moscow.”
“And Zalivka?”
“In our pockets.”
I nod. “And America?”
“We have property in America, as well, yes, but I prefer staying here in Russia.”
Right. I nod. He manages properties, clubs, and illegal activities that pad his family’s pockets.
I take a deep breath. The scent of cinnamon and coffee lingers in the air, and my stomach rumbles. Someone’s up.
I swallow, staring out the window from my gilded cage. Inside this well-appointed room, I have everything I could desire. It’s a suite fit for a queen. I almost feel selfish asking for more, but it’s normal and natural to want freedom, friends… family.
I let my gaze wander outside. A wall of tall, sturdy pines, as dependable and impenetrable as he is, line the estate.
I hold my head up high and stand to my full height, bracing myself on the windowsill.
“You said I’m your wife. Then maybe it’s time you treat me like that.
” I turn to face him. “I want out of this room. Crutches. An appointment with the doctor so I can ask my questions.” I swallow hard. “I want to meet your family.”
A shadow crosses his features before he answers.
“There's always a threat, Anissa," he says. "I'm not letting you walk right into danger. You don’t have to work, but I’ve already accepted that you’d want to.”
He’s bare-chested and sexy as fuck, as he prowls over to me.
I turn away from him, purse my mouth, and gaze out at the evergreens. “Very generous of you,” I mutter. “For fuck’s sake. I’m so over—” I gasp when his palm slams against my ass. I turn around, my cheeks flaming.
“Hey! You can’t do that!”
“I just did. Don’t sass me, and I won’t.”
“Oh, is that all?” I ask as his eyes flash at me.
“No. Definitely not.”
I scowl at him and open my mouth to argue—to tell him he has no right to tell me what to do, but something in his expression stops me.
This… bossiness… I’ve encountered it before. This feeling of imprisonment… it isn’t foreign either.
Who else made me feel this way? Was it him? Or someone else? I don’t know.
I cross my arms on my chest, even as heat rises in my belly, and I feel a strange, albeit maddening, attraction to his dominance. "Just so you know, when I get stronger? I am not helpless."
"I know," he says, his tone softer but still rigid. "But until we know more, you're staying here where I can keep you safe."
This feels familiar… the same story, just a different day. Every response, every feeling… I’ve felt it all before.
The delectable smells wafting from the kitchen make my mouth water. My belly flips. I'm hungry. “Do I get to eat breakfast, or should I wait until you spoon-feed me?”
Why does that narrow-eyed look make me shiver?
“Watch it, beautiful,” he says, shaking his head. “You know what I said about disrespect.” I toss my head to cover up the feeling of the blood rushing in my ears.
"Yeah, we'll go downstairs and eat breakfast. I'll help you with the stairs and get you a pair of crutches. It's something."
I jump at the sound of a knock at the door. My frustration flares as he turns toward it.
"Come in," Rafail barks in a tone that would make anyone cower. The door opens, and one of his brothers—Semyon?—stands awkwardly in the hallway. He's tall and lean, looks a lot like Rafail, but slightly younger, his beard a bit more scant. I don't think he's much older than I am.
"I need to talk to you," he begins, but Rafail cuts him off.
"Not now." He runs a hand through his hair, his patience frayed. "I'm busy."
His brother frowns, his eyes flickering to me, then back to his brother. "It's about the shipments. You told me to keep track of them—"
"I said not now," Rafail snaps, his voice sharp like a whip. His brother visibly flinches. "Stop asking questions and leave us. I’ll talk to you over breakfast." He gestures angrily at the door.
The harshness in his tone catches me off guard, but his brother doesn’t seem surprised. His mouth opens and closes like he's trying to find the right words but knows better than to cross the beast.
"Rafail," I venture. "We're just going down to breakfast. You probably have to put a T-shirt on or something," I add, glancing at his bare chest. "Maybe you should let him speak."
Rafail narrows his eyes at me, jaw clenched, but after a moment, he steps back and looks to his brother. Turning his back to him, he opens a drawer and grabs a white tee. “Fine. Make it quick."
His brother stares at me, his jaw unhinged. I smile at him. "What do you need help with?"
He speaks in a rush of words, making sure he can get it all out before Rafail cuts him off impatiently.
“We were supposed to receive thirty crates. Usual supplier. But only twenty showed up, and there’s something off about what came.
The stamps on the crates don’t match the manifesto, and half of the supplies are from another manufacturer. ”
“Motherfucker,” Rafail mutters, tugging his shirt on. His gaze darkens as he thinks this over.
“What do you think I—” his brother begins, but I cut him off with a sharp shake of my head.
“I got you a chance to talk to him. Don’t push your luck. Sounds like a good catch, but I’m sure your brother can handle it from here.”
Semyon blinks in surprise. I gesture toward the door, a silent command for him to leave the way he came.
What does he think this is, a democracy?
I’m still getting to know Rafail, but even I can see the fire building in his eyes, coiling like a dragon ready to snap its jaws and burn him to bits with his fiery breath.
“My wife is right,” he says in a very dragon-like voice. “Now get the fuck out of here.”
"But—" his brother continues. I actually flinch. There’s only so much I can protect him from.
"I said I'll handle it," Rafail barks, and finally, thank god, Semyon bolts when Rafail takes a step toward him, his body tense with barely controlled energy.
“Keep up the good work!" I yell after Semyon because I feel as if I need to protect him or something.
I turn back to Rafail, who is staring at me with a mixture of frustration and something else on his face. "What? Do you always talk to them like that?"
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel like it’s familiar… having siblings. Siblings… sometimes harsh to each other but loyal to the core. It’s all familiar too—a dance that I’ve danced once before and maybe still know the steps—as if from another life.
His low growl of a voice doesn’t surprise me but catches my attention. “Don’t do that again.”
"Now, listen," I say, meeting his gaze head-on. "I'm not going to stand by and just let you bully everybody into submission. That’s not how this works, not if you want me to actually like you."
"Bully everybody?" he says, as if shocked I accused him of such a thing.
I catch a flicker in his eyes, but there’s something beneath the surface that tells me I hit a nerve, that I’m standing on quicksand, and one step further, I may not be able to yank myself out.
Oh well.
"Yeah,” I continue. I can feel my eyes dancing at him. “Bullying. You’ve tried it with me, but luckily, I… kinda like when you get all bossy. Sometimes.”
What? Why did I turn this into flirtation?
He gets in my face, his breath hot on my chin. I can almost see fire dancing in his eyes. I reach my hand to his face, loving the way the rough stubble’s grown a little thicker. I shiver. Yum.
"I detailed what punishment looks like, Anissa. Maybe I’ve changed my mind about going down to breakfast." He takes me by the hand and then, in one swift motion, lifts me into his arms, marches to the bed, and tosses me down.
"Rafail—" I go to protest, but in the next minute, my wrists are bound in front of me with white satin. Jesus. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching you your place,” he snaps, rolling me over to give me a sharp slap to my ass before he's gone in a flurry of temper and heat. The door slams shut behind him.
"Very charming!" I yell after him before I let out a scream of frustration. God, just when I think I'm starting to see a little side of his humanity, that there's maybe hope for the two of us? He pulls this shit.
Voices rise and fall in the hallway. Well, fine. He can tie me to the bed, therefore I can eavesdrop, dammit.
I recognize his voice, engaging with a female one, but I can’t tell if it’s Zoya—the one who’s quickly become my favorite. He’s protesting something, and from the sharpness in his tone, I can tell he’s telling someone off again. I haven’t even met his second sister yet. Yana?
The other night, in the bath, for a moment, I thought that there was hope. I thought that maybe there was a chance that my brutal husband… maybe wasn't so brutal.
Perhaps I was wrong.
Or maybe we need sex to bring out the humanity in him.
I stare up at the ceiling and assess my pain level.
My leg does hurt, and so do the lacerations on my arm, but the medication he gave me is starting to kick in.
The lingering memory of the dream I had last night is only that now—a memory.
I can't remember the details, and I'm not sure I want to.
There's something about it that was unsettling, something about it I can't quite shake, though I'd be hard-pressed to even tell the details now.
My stomach churns with hunger, and I definitely need some food.
I need to settle my stomach, though, so I'm not sure food is what's going to do it for me.