Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Anissa
I sleep in his bed that night.
And the next.
And the next.
Matvei’s hunger for me is endless, a craving that seems to border on madness.
He doesn’t ask but takes, rolling over in the dead of night, his body heavy on mine, possessive, claiming.
A hand on my hip, a rough, sleep-sexy murmur, and then he’s inside me, stretching me open, filling me like I was made for this.
I am.
I mold around him, slick and ready at a moment’s notice, like a fucking law of nature.
I love it. The way he touches me when the world is silent… when it’s just us. The way his cock slides in me, thick, deep, owning me. The way we move together.
He's insatiable, and I am not complaining.
He’s mentioned a baby, and if that is his plan, he wins a gold medal for effort.
We fuck in the shower, in bed, cowgirl style, missionary. I sit on his face. He goes down on me until I'm so wet, then glides into me with perfection. We fuck in every room in his house—the guest rooms, every shower, the dining room table, the kitchen.
He fucks me like I'm his full-time job, and the man is looking for overtime.
I've never been with anyone who could meet my needs the way he does. He takes immense pleasure in watching me come. I didn’t know giving a woman an orgasm could be a kink, but it is for him.
The way his eyes light up when I moan, the way he groans every time I come, the way he won’t come when he’s inside me until I do.
We’re messy and loud and unabashed in our lovemaking, and every single time, I swear I let a little bit of my guard down.
But… my period is a few days late. And I know it's not for the reason he suspects or hopes for.
One night, we share a joint together. I sit in his lap, and he blows smoke in my mouth. I take the joint from his fingers and take a tentative hit. I love the way I get lightheaded, and the pressure on my chest loosens.
But that night, I fall asleep high. I dream. I dream so hard. I’m pinned down and screaming for mercy, but no one comes.
I wake up in a sweat.
I should know it was just a dream. I try to tell myself that it is, that I'm not awake, that I'm with Matvei now, not in my father's house, which isn’t even there anymore. But it's so vivid, so real. Especially the fear.
It claws at my chest like a parasite, as if trying to get out of my skin. It shakes me to my core. I can still see my abuser—his thick face and jowls, his oily hair and thick fingers. The way he glared at me when I wouldn't submit. I can still feel the pain.
The kicks to my rib cage. A kick to my stomach. The way he ordered his men to beat me and watched, the fucking bastard. The pain. The helplessness. The blood.
I roll over to find Matvei hard and ready for me. I don’t want to tell him no.
I want to forget. He slides into me mirthlessly, fucks me until I scream his name, and falls asleep, still inside me.
But I don’t forget.
I remember lying in my room, eating saltine crackers and hot tea, the only thing I could keep down in the aftermath of that brutal beating. My father, not to my surprise, took his friend's side.
"You should've gone with him," he said. "How could you do this to me?"
He looked at the broken, beaten body of his daughter and actually said to me, "You should've thanked me for this. He would've taken care of you.”
As if he knew anything about taking care of me.
"He won't take you now," he said, but he never mentioned what happened to me when he arranged my marriage to Rafail. I decided then that I would not be used as their property. I wouldn't be taken.
And a part of me, even now, feels that.
I fall back asleep, almost instantly back in the room at my father’s house. I want to wake up again. I know this isn’t real—I know this is the past, and I have to wake up.
I thrash in the sheets. They're tangled around my legs, and the pain is too much. I'm still half in the dream, still clutched in his grip, the pain of that night etched in my memory as if carved into stone.
I've never felt so helpless in my life, and I told myself then it was the last time.
No one can hurt you if they can't find you.
There's a wetness between my legs. Strong arms wrap around me.
I scream, thrashing, biting at air.
"Anissa, Jesus, it's me."
I'm pinned to the bed, and Matvei's eyes are above mine, boring into me with concern.
"You're dreaming. You're just dreaming. Are you okay?"
I blink, and his face is in front of me. But I can still see my abuser. I can still hear his oily voice, see the yellow of his eyes, and still feel his grip on my arms as he held me and assaulted me.
It flashes in my mind like a bad movie.
I close my eyes, and this time, the memories don't go away like I've trained them to.
I clear my throat.
I try to speak, but I'm in actual pain. It takes a minute to realize it's not just from the memory.
I shake my head.
"I'm okay," I rasp.
But I'm not.
I'm fucking not.
I want him to toss me in that cage, lock me in, and throw away the key.
Because when I'm behind those metal bars, no one can get me.
And I can't run anymore.
The pain radiates across my back and spasms in my abdomen. It feels as if someone's wrapped a vise around it and is pulling.
I try to curl my legs up to my chest, but Matvei is on me.
"Get off," I croak.
Reluctantly, he slides off me as if he somehow wanted to make sure I stayed.
Maybe he did.
"What's going on?" he asks. "Are you sick?"
I lift my knees to my chest and rock, and it does a little bit to ease the discomfort.
"I have my period."
He blinks, and something like pain flashes across his face.
"Your period," he repeats, staring at me.
I nod.
"They're really bad when I get them. I have a… condition."
I shake my head.
It hurts too much to explain about scar tissue, illness, and the fucking plague of my life.
Now I know why I’m wet between my legs. And I want to get to the bathroom to clean myself off, but I’m in so much pain. I don’t trust myself to move. The doctor I saw in Paris told me the pain level mimics active labor.
I’ll never know.
"You’re in pain because of your period?" he asks. Is it my imagination, or is his voice wobbling? This big, strong, fearless psychopath. Why does he sound unsteady?
I nod and squeeze my eyes shut as a spasm of pain takes over again.
There are meds that I can take, but I don’t have them. I’ve tried a few different things, but I’ve been on the run for too long to gather an arsenal of necessities—things like hot water bottles and the right supplements. Those are the types of things you have when you have a… home.
I haven’t had a home in over a decade.
I squeeze my eyes shut when the pain wraps around my midsection, stabbing between my legs, my back aching like it’s being pulled apart.
I try to breathe through it, pressing my lips together and inhaling through my nose, but this is the worst I’ve ever experienced.
I whimper, hot tears splashing onto my cheeks.
He’s standing, wringing his hands, looking at me in helpless confusion.
"What can I do?"
I kick off the blanket when the pain hits me again. To my shame and embarrassment, blood smears my legs.
"Oh god," he says, shaking his head as if reliving his own trauma. Maybe he is.
"I don’t know." It hurts too much to think right now. "Give me something to clean myself up. Please," I tack on like an afterthought. It’s hard to talk.
One spasm builds on another, then another. I hear his heavy footsteps retreat, then return. The bed sinks down when he sits next to me.
"Let me," he says softly.
I shake my head and reach for the washcloth in his hand while he stands there helplessly.
"Leave me alone," I tell him, riddled with shame and pain.
"This doesn’t bother me," he starts.
"It bothers me! Leave me alone, please."
I get a momentary break from the pain. I breathe through my nose, clumsily clean the blood, dab my wet legs with the towel, and toss everything in the general direction of the laundry hamper.
I curl up on the bed, and I hear him talking on the phone.
I’m afraid he’s going to call an ambulance and have me taken to the hospital, but when I breathe hard and try to listen, I’m hit with another spasm of brutal, blinding pain. And I can’t think anymore.
The memory of the night of my assault flashes in front of me every time I close my eyes, but when I open them, the pain seems even harder to bear.
I try everything.
I roll onto my side and bring my knees to my chest, a move that sometimes brings temporary comfort. It doesn’t.
I get on my hands and knees and rock back and forth—a move an OB in London once taught me—and it has worked before.
Not this time.
I stretch my arms and legs on the bed like a starfish, and it hurts so badly I immediately crawl back into a fetal position, grit my teeth, and bear it.
Just like I did that night. When fighting didn’t work, and I couldn’t escape, I bore it and reminded myself that I wasn’t going to die, that this wasn’t the end, and that, eventually, I would get my vengeance.
But there is no getting vengeance when my own body is assaulting me.
God.
I’ve ruined his sheets.
I bleed heavily because of scar tissue, and I’ve never found anything that helped with that either.
I need feminine supplies. Privacy. A shower.
But I can’t.
I’ll get new sheets. I just don’t want him near me right now.
There’s silence.
Just me.
And my pain.
My memories.
My shame.
And then I hear two voices. A female one and a male one, followed by another male one. But then one leaves, and it’s only Matvei and a woman.
And the voice, it… sounds just like my own.
No—
The door opens, and Polina comes in.
She’s wearing slouchy sweats, her hair in a haphazard bun, and thin little glasses on the tip of her nose as if she’s just woken from sleep and hasn’t put her contacts in yet.
"Anissa, tell me what’s going on."
She sits on the edge of the bed next to me and reaches for me, then stops herself midair and places her small hand on the bed beside me instead.
My cheeks flame with embarrassment.
I’ve only just met my sister.
I don’t know her at all.
And yet—here I am.