Chapter 10 #2
I stifle a growl.
“Am I a prisoner?” Stefan asks, his voice trembling slightly.
Semyon doesn’t respond, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch in the mirror. I hold back a smile, though it’s more out of exhaustion than amusement.
I cock my head and look at Semyon sweetly, in a way I know annoys him. “Is my brother a prisoner, husband?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “If you want to label it, neither of you will leave without my permission. Neither of you will roam this house freely until I know you’re trustworthy.
I won’t have you ruining things, leaving fingerprints on my table, touching things that don’t belong to you, or making me lose sleep because you’re impulsive. ”
I cross my arms, making a sound of disgust. “Do you think treating us like this will make us warm up to you?”
Semyon growls, his voice dangerously low. “Do you think I care? Do you think I wanted to run out in the middle of the night, in the rain, dragging your brother into this mess?”
I flinch slightly at the rawness in his voice, but his words keep coming, sharp and cutting.
“I don’t,” he snaps, his tone softening only slightly. “But it’s my responsibility. I take care of what’s mine.”
My chest tightens at his words—what’s mine.
I don’t want to be his. I don’t want Stefan to be his responsibility. But some traitorous part of me, the part that’s so damn tired of fighting, clings to the word responsibility like a lifeline.
“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms. “But if you think treating us like this will make us trust you, you’re in for a rude awakening.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he doesn’t respond.
We drive in silence. I glance back at Stefan, whose eyes are closed. He’s snoring softly.
When we arrive at the house, Semyon parks and turns off the engine. I kneel on the seat to gently shake Stefan awake. “Honey… we’re home.”
He doesn’t stir.
“Watch your foot,” Semyon barks at me. “You’re going to scuff the—”
Something inside me snaps. I plant my muddy shoe on his pristine console and smear it across the surface.
In one swift motion, his palm slams against my ass. My breath catches in shock.
“What did I tell you about acting like a child?” he snaps, his voice low and lethal.
“Hey!” I gasp, my cheeks flaming. Something dark and unfamiliar flares in my chest.
Between my thighs.
My body betrays me, heat pooling in places I want to ignore. His gaze pins me in place, his tone leaving no room for argument, a promise there’s more where that came from.
Oh god.
“Anya, turn around and sit properly before I spank you again,” he growls. “And clean up the mess you made.”
I huff indignantly but grab the tissue he hands me to wipe the console. It was childish. Still, I hate the smug look on his face as I obey.
“I need to wake him up,” I mutter.
“No,” Semyon says, his tone clipped. “He’s a child and exhausted. I’ll carry him upstairs.”
And then he’s out of the car, pulling Stefan into his arms like he weighs nothing. I want to hate him—I do hate him—but the way he holds my brother, careful and steady, breaks something inside me.
Stefan looks so small in his arms, so fragile. He’s always been too thin, no matter how much I’ve tried to feed him. He grows like a weed, but there’s never enough.
Semyon carries him toward the house with his back straight, his movements precise. I feel an ache in my chest born of grief and relief, opposing feelings but holding the same space somehow.
“I’ll put him in the second room on the right,” Semyon says, his voice cold. He glances back at me, his eyes sharp and half-lidded. His voice drops an octave as if trying not to wake my brother.
“When you come upstairs,” he murmurs, “I want you waiting in your bedroom.” I stare at him.
“I want your clothes off, Anya.”
I stare at his retreating back before I somehow make it up to my room.
Semyon is so cold, so detached—like a machine, ruthless and efficient—but today, he brought my little brother home. He carried Stefan into this house like he was something precious. That’s not something I can forget.
Earlier, when I first walked into this room, I hadn’t even looked around. Now, as I stand here trembling, I force myself to take in every detail.
He’s coming back for me.
I can barely begin to process everything that’s happened in the last few hours. It’s all too much, too fast, and every time I try to piece together my fears of what happens next, my thoughts dissolve into chaos.
The room itself is larger than anything I could have imagined.
It’s more lavish than I expected too. A massive king-sized bed dominates the center, draped with a heavy ivory duvet, soft and inviting.
Ample pillows are propped neatly against the headboard, and the room is accented in polished silver and glints of warm gold.
Somehow, it feels simultaneously impersonal and beautiful.
I expected a prisoner’s confines. But this? This is anything but.
In the corner stands a large white desk, solid and heavy, paired with a sleek standing lamp. On its surface, brand-new accessories are arranged in perfect order—pens, pencils, even a tape dispenser and scissors. My bag sits empty beside a closet door, an incongruous reminder of home.
Tentatively, I walk over and push the door to the closet open. My breath catches.
The closet is enormous, a walk-in space larger than Stefan’s entire room back home.
Shelves line the walls, displaying rows of shoes so pristine they look like works of art.
Heels, boots, flats, all arranged by style and color—black, nude, and red blending into softer pastels and bolder choices.
Dresses and skirts hang neatly beside sweaters and coats, all perfectly organized.
Everything is new, modern, expensive… and my size.
They all sit beside my mother’s clothes, in such stark contrast it makes my nose tingle.
The two pairs of worn shoes and the few faded garments I’d packed sit awkwardly on a shelf. My cheeks burn at the sight of them. They don’t belong here. They’re relics of a simpler, poorer life, a life that feels a million miles away now.
I slam the light switch off and turn my back to it all. If he thinks he can buy my affection…
No. He won’t win.
But he said he doesn’t want my love. He doesn’t care for my attention. So what is this game he’s playing? I won’t forgive him for what he’s done.
And yet… it’s getting harder to hold on to my anger.
I take a deep breath, willing the rising tide of confusion to settle. Stefan is asleep, safe down the hall in another room. I can almost picture Semyon laying him down. He wouldn’t have left the coverlet on to get dirty—he’d have removed Stefan’s shoes first, then tucked him in neatly.
Would he? Does he have that kind of softness in him?
Panic grips my chest. Is my brother really safe here?
I shake the thought away and move to the door, trying the handle. It doesn’t budge.
Locked.
Oh god.
I whir around, scanning the windows for the first time. They’re locked, too, with heavy steel bars framing every pane. He doesn’t trust me not to run. And why would he? I already proved I would at the first opportunity.
My phone buzzes on the desk, a text lighting up the screen. It’s Ophelia.
Ophelia
Are you all right?
I grab the phone but hesitate. Semyon’s cold words echo in my mind: You’re not allowed to contact my wife without my permission.
The sound of footsteps outside the door breaks my thoughts. My stomach drops, and I shake my head, denial flooding my mind.
What is he going to do to me?
I scramble, stripping off my wet dress and tossing his jacket onto the pile of discarded clothes. But then I pause, staring at the heap on the floor.
Which is worse—disobeying him by not undressing as he ordered or leaving a mess in his pristine room?
Semyon is always precise. Impeccable.
I scoop up the clothes and toss them into a nearby hamper, stripping the rest of my garments as quickly as I can. My gaze catches on the full-length oval mirror in the corner.
For a moment, I freeze, staring at my reflection.
My cheeks are flushed, my hair wild in soft waves over my shoulders.
Standing naked, I take in what I haven’t seen in years.
My body is unfamiliar, the curves of my full breasts and the flare of my hips foreign after years of not looking.
My belly is soft but flat, and my thighs strong.
My hands trail down my sides unconsciously.
Semyon’s voice echoes in my mind: I like my wife with curves.
I swallow hard and avert my eyes, wrapping my arms around myself. What is he going to do?
The door handle clicks. My heart leaps into my throat. I stand frozen, my breath shallow. I have never felt more vulnerable in my life.
“Good,” Semyon says, his voice tired and taut. “For once, you did something I asked you to.” He steps into the room and removes his tie, unloosening it with his large, thick hand. I watch, mesmerized. I cross my arms over my chest, but he only shakes his head sternly at me.
“No. Don’t cover up. You’re my wife. Hiding accomplishes nothing.”
“I’m your wife, but I hardly know you.”
He doesn’t respond because he’s too busy staring at me.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his voice softer than before, as if testing the words aloud. Nodding, satisfied, he repeats himself. “Beautiful.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What?”
His clinical gaze lingers. “A simple observation, but it’s true.” It’s the first time I realize he’s soaked to the skin like I was.
“Are you trying to manage me with compliments?”
The furrow of his brow hints at confusion. Frustration? “No.”
He's standing before me, wearing nothing but the white T-shirt clinging to his skin, tucked into a pair of soaking-wet pants. He walks over to me, and I stand stock still. I don't know what to expect.
"Your hair is wet." He strokes it out of my face—not like a gesture of tenderness, but as though he needs to see my eyes. "Where did you get that dress?"
I swallow hard. "It was my mother's."
"I thought so.” Wordlessly, he trails a finger over my shoulder and down the length of my arm.