Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Semyon
The grand hall of the Romanov estate gleams. Crystal chandeliers hang like constellations, and gold-trimmed mirrors illuminate everybody here.
Some might think the gold-trimmed mirrors are just for show, but I know they give Mikhail Romanov and his brothers a better vantage point around the marble columns in this huge place.
Mirrors are helpful—they give you a second set of eyes.
What people don't know about my glasses…
The air hums with murmured conversations, soft laughter, and the clink of champagne flutes. Since I've known the Romanovs, they’ve been famous for holding these galas. Here, people pretend that we're civilized for a little while.
I fucking hate them.
In a way, it’s reminiscent of grand dances they held in ages past, the kind where tension simmered beneath every polite bow and curtsy, where hidden motives and unspoken feelings played out across a crowded room.
Of course Rafail’s wife, Polina, loves it.
This is her family home, after all. Though she grew up in New York, her roots are firmly planted in Moscow’s elite circles.
My sisters adore it, too, a chance to get dressed up and mingle, to pretend for a little while there isn’t a constant shadow of danger that lurks and follows us.
Everyone’s on their best behavior at a Romanov gala.
Not me though. There’s no need.
There are so many different people here, so many different families, and Anya looks a little out of place and confused.
But tonight, she's the only one I'm focused on.
She's wearing that champagne gown that hugs her figure and cascades in soft waves to the floor.
But like a good girl, she's wearing her shawl.
I’ll take that off tonight.
The color sets off her auburn hair, swept up in a sophisticated updo, and her hazel eyes seem to shimmer under the lights. If there was ever a doubt in anyone’s mind that Anya has come into her own, they’ll be gone tonight. Anya has come into her own.
Heads turn as we ascend the staircase together, me at her side in a tailored black suit, my hand resting gently on the small of her back.
"Stunning," I murmur under my breath.
"It is beautiful," she says, looking around. "I feel like—"
"Not the ball, sweetheart."
I love the way her lips quirk, and her cheeks turn pink. She's so cute.
"You clean up pretty well yourself," she says with a wink. I give her a discreet little pinch to the ass. I'm the only one who knows she's wearing a vibrator—remote-controlled, the remote in my pocket. She said I’m kinky and wicked.
She has no fucking idea.
Tonight, I’m the one who has to stay sharp, to keep control.
But Anya? She can lose herself entirely—and if I have anything to say about it, she’s going to end up screaming my name in our bed before the night’s over.
I want her so fucking wound up, so desperate for me, that by the time I get her home, she’s begging, pleading for me to take her. To ruin her.
Every look, every touch will be a slow, deliberate tease until she can’t take another second without me inside her.
“Is Matvei here tonight?”
“Should be. Why?”
With a frown, she shakes her head. “I don’t… trust him.”
Good. She shouldn’t. But she’s safe with me.
As we enter the ballroom, a familiar figure approaches.
Speak of the devil. He greets us with a courteous nod, his dark eyes darting around the room.
But there’s an undercurrent of something else.
Large events like this draw plenty of locals and their attention.
If we’re going to get any word about Polina’s sister, it’ll be tonight.
Anya bristles beside me. I don’t blame her. We’re pretty sure he’s a psychopath.
"Good evening, Anya," Matvei says, his tone smooth, distant. "You look lovely."
"That's enough of that," I say, dragging her away from him.
He chuckles, and she thanks him, but her smile is plain and guarded.
She told me he unnerves her. She knows he's loyal to Rafail, and I’ve explained to her that his brother Gleb betrayed us.
Matvei is polite on the surface, but there's a hard edge beneath his charm—a quiet ruthlessness she’s very aware of.
Matvei will stop at nothing to show his loyalty.
Once inside, I’m ushered to a more private area where Rafail and Polina are already having drinks. Anya stiffens when she realizes this isn’t a huge crowd but a small, intimate gathering. Elegant food is being served on small silver trays, and drinks are being poured.
"Champagne, ma’am?" a waiter offers.
Her back is tight and rigid as I hit the lowest setting on the vibrator in my pocket. Her lips part, and her cheeks flush as she looks at me, a wicked glint in her gorgeous eyes.
"Two, please," she says, plucking two flutes of champagne off the tray and handing one to me.
"I told you I wasn’t drinking tonight," I remind her.
"I know," she says with a little grin. "You’re holding the second one for when I’m done with the first." She sips. I hit the higher button on the vibrator to punish her for her sass. She groans softly and hides it behind her flute of champagne.
I shut it off when the champagne is done.
“Semyon,” she pleads in my ear.
“Yeah, baby?”
She shakes her head as Polina approaches, elegant and graceful with her long blonde hair and silver gown.
We make easy chatter with Polina as she introduces us to a few more people her family knows. Anya nurses her second glass of champagne. I lean in and whisper in her ear.
“What would I feel if I put my hands between your legs right now?” I flick the button.
“Wet,” she gasps. “Hot. Need.” She’s lost the ability to speak beyond one syllable. I stifle a chuckle and embrace her.
"Baby," I murmur. "Put your head on my shoulder." She obeys without hesitation.
“Are you ready to come, Anya?”
“Mmmm.”
“Good girl. Let yourself go. Come, baby. No one’s here.
” She maintains the control of a queen as I press the vibrator button again.
She shudders, her release hitting in waves.
I laugh softly, pulling her into my arms as if her trembling shoulders are from laughter and not a climax in the middle of the room.
I grin to myself. One point for me.
"Good girl," I whisper approvingly into her ear. "I'm so proud of you."
"Oh, really?" she teases, tossing her head back and taking another sip of champagne. I note she’s a little wobbly on her feet though.
“Really.”
I pluck the flute out of her hand and set it on a nearby table.
"Dance with me," I say gently but firmly.
"You dance?" she asks, blinking.
“I do tonight."
Quietly, she places her hand in mine. I lead her to the dance floor, where only one other couple is present.
The music shifts to something slower, more intimate.
I wrap my arm around her waist as I pull her close, my other hand clasping hers, steady and warm.
I love the way it feels with her here against me.
"You’re full of surprises, sir," she murmurs, her voice soft.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a small box.
"You haven’t seen anything yet. This is for you."
She looks down at my palm. "But we’re already married, Mr. Kopolov. That can’t be a ring?”
"I know. Open it and see what it is."
She opens the box with a sly smile and looks curiously at the key inside.
"What's this?"
"The key to your new bakery."
"New bakery?"
"I told you to trust me. Believe me, you’ll love it when it’s finished.
We’ll keep all of your mother’s appliances, every beautiful thing she installed in there.
The only new additions will be industrial locks on the doors, a much larger fridge, and a different freezer you’ll have access to.
I intentionally kept the original one though. ” I shrug. “It might come in handy."
We move through the crowd. Anya's posture is stiff, her fingers brushing the hem of her shawl like a shield. I’m getting better at reading her and knowing what she needs.
I don’t blame her for being nervous in a crowded place, especially when she’s a fish out of water.
She shouldn’t be nervous though. She’s with me.
“You’re frowning.” Her eyes meet mine, curious.
“I can tell you think you have something to fear here. But you don’t. Not with me.” I thread my fingers across the back of her neck and give her a gentle squeeze.
She wordlessly pulls closer to me, draws in a breath and nods, giving me the smallest of smiles. It’s all I need.
We need a breath of fresh air. I navigate toward the outdoor bar.
“I don’t really feel like I belong here,” she whispers in my ear.
“I can relate to that. I never feel like I belong anywhere.” I thought I was getting better at reading her, but I don’t fully understand the softness in her eyes when she looks at me and squeezes my hand.
I lean in closer. “I’m going to protect you, Anya. I always will. But you’re stronger than you think.” I tuck a finger under her chin and bring her gaze to mine. “Don’t forget who you are. If I had my way, they’d be bowing to you when you enter.”
One day, they will. They fucking will.
“Kopolov.”
My focus sharpens when I see him—Oleg Makarov. Unpredictable. One of the Romanov family's lesser allies here in Moscow, but still dangerous. He exudes an air of authority, his gaze honing in on Anya.
"It's been a while, Semyon," he says smoothly before turning to Anya. "And who is this? Your lovely little wife?"
Asshole.
Anya bristles beside me, immediately on edge. Makarov is ruthless and unpredictable, and I don't trust him.
His eyes immediately narrow on her, and his voice lowers. I don't want her to touch him, but when he reaches for her hand, she sticks her hand out and shakes his—mercilessly.
"Yes. Anya Kopolov. His ‘little wife.'" She emphasizes the words, and I love that she does.
He narrows his eyes. “Well, aren’t you the brave one?”
"And you are?" she presses, unbothered. Pride surges in my chest.