Anya
My skin is still buzzing when I reach the top of the stairs.
I press my back against the wall of the hallway and close my eyes and take a breath that does absolutely nothing to calm the heat rolling through me like a slow wave.
My heart is hammering. My cheeks are on fire.
And between my thighs there's a pulse that has nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with what I just saw in that basement gym.
Connor Orlov, shirtless, drenched in sweat, muscles flexing under skin that gleamed in the overhead light.
The way his chest moved when he breathed.
The width of his shoulders. The trail of dark hair below his navel disappearing into the waistband of those gray sweats, which sat low enough on his hips that I nearly forgot my own name.
I've been attracted to men before. I've had boyfriends, brief ones that Diomid scared off or that fizzled out on their own.
I've felt the pull, the warmth, the curiosity.
But I have never in my life felt my body react the way it just did.
Like every nerve ending I have woke up at once and pointed in the same direction.
And it wasn't just the body, though God, the body was enough to make me lose my train of thought mid-sentence.
It was the way he looked at me when he caught me staring.
That moment of surprise, then something shifting behind his good eye, something loosening, like he'd been holding himself tight and decided to let go, just a fraction.
The teasing. The almost-smile. The way he leaned against the squat rack and just.. . let me look.
Like he was daring me to like what I saw.
I liked what I saw.
A shiver runs through me and I push off the wall, pressing my palms to my cheeks, willing the flush to die down. I can't walk into a kitchen at breakfast time looking like this. They'll know. Saoirse will definitely know I’m having thoughts about her son.
I wonder if this is just relief. If the chemical cocktail of fear and escape and safety is playing tricks on my body, making everything feel more intense than it actually is.
If I've been so numb for the last few weeks, so locked in survival mode, that the first time I feel something that isn't terror, my system overcompensates and turns it into raw, consuming want.
But even as I think it, I know that's not it.
Not entirely. Because relief doesn't make your mouth go dry when a man drags a towel across his chest. Relief doesn't make you look at a man's hands and wonder what they'd feel like on your skin.
Relief doesn't follow a scar with your eyes and find it makes the man more attractive, not less, because it's proof that he fought and survived and is still standing.
Something about Connor Orlov specifically makes my body light up. And I don't know if that's terrifying or wonderful, but I know I want to find out.
The kitchen is at the end of the hall, just where Connor said it would be.
I hear it before I see it, the clatter of plates, a kettle whistling, voices layered over each other in the easy rhythm of people who've done this a thousand times.
I smooth down Iris's borrowed T-shirt, run my fingers through my hair, and walk in.
It's chaos. The warm, loud, wonderful kind.
Saoirse is at the stove, spatula in one hand and a dishtowel thrown over her shoulder, flipping what looks like a small mountain of cinnamon waffles onto a plate.
The kitchen is huge, but it feels full. Lived in.
There's flour on the counter and a stick of butter melting in a dish and the whole room smells like cinnamon and coffee and something savory, bacon maybe, that makes my stomach clench with hunger.
"Anya." Saoirse spots me before anyone else does. "Sit down, sweetheart. Tea or coffee?"
"Coffee, please." I hover at the edge of the room, not sure where to put myself.
A woman with dark brown hair and kind eyes solves the problem by pulling out the chair next to her and patting the seat.
"I'm Grace," she says. "Liam's wife." She's got a baby on her hip, a chubby boy with Liam's dark hair and her soft features.
He's gnawing on a wooden teething ring and staring at me with wide, suspicious eyes.
"And this is Lorcan," Grace adds, bouncing him gently. "He's deciding if he likes you."
"Fair enough." I sit down and Lorcan studies me for another three seconds before shoving the teething ring back in his mouth and losing interest. Grace laughs.
"That's about as warm a welcome as anyone gets from him. You should feel honored."
Another woman at the far end of the table waves a fork at me.
She's striking, sharp-featured and bright-eyed, and she's already halfway through a plate of waffles piled with berries.
"I'm Katya. Killian's wife. And these waffles are the only reason I'm vertical right now, so if you go near them, I won't be held responsible. "
"She's been craving waffles since the second trimester," says the woman beside her with an amused expression that tells me she's been listening to Katya talk about waffles all morning. "I'm Tanya. Aidan's wife."
"How far along are you?" I ask Katya.
"Five months." She puts a protective hand on the curve of her belly. "This baby wants cinnamon in everything. Cinnamon waffles, cinnamon toast, cinnamon in my coffee, which Saoirse won't let me have because of the caffeine, so I'm drinking decaf like a prisoner of war."
"You're drinking decaf because it's good for the baby," Saoirse says from the stove without turning around.
"Prisoner. Of. War." Katya mouths silently.
Tanya catches my eye and shakes her head, and I feel something loosen in my chest. This is.
.. normal. Loud and messy and warm and normal, in a way that my life hasn't been for weeks.
Months, maybe. Diomid's house is quiet and clean and perfectly organized, because that's how my brother functions, but it's never felt like this.
Like a place where people actually live, instead of just exist.
"Sit, eat." Saoirse sets a plate in front of me, two waffles, bacon, scrambled eggs, and a mug of coffee that smells strong enough to strip paint.
"She's right," a voice says from the doorway, and I turn to see a young woman who looks so much like Connor that it takes me a second to adjust. The same dark auburn hair, the same sharp jaw, the same green eyes, though hers come in a matched pair.
Iris. I remember her from when we were kids and suddenly I feel emotional.
She drops into the chair across from me and steals a piece of bacon off Katya's plate.
"Touch my food again and I'll bite your hand off," Katya says without looking up.
Iris grins and turns to me. "So. You're marrying my brother."
The table goes quiet. Every woman in the room shifts slightly, tuning in. Saoirse's spatula pauses mid-flip.
"That's the plan," I say.
Iris leans back in her chair and studies me with those green eyes, and for a second, I see Connor in the way she holds a gaze, testing, reading, deciding. Then she nods, and the tension breaks.
"Good. He needs someone who isn't afraid of him." She steals another piece of bacon, this time from my plate. "Also, he snores. Fair warning."
"She's lying," Saoirse says. "He doesn't snore. Eat your breakfast, Iris."
I'm laughing for the first time in weeks, when the men walk in.
They arrive together like a wall of muscle and dark hair, filling the kitchen doorway in a way that would be intimidating if every single one of them didn't immediately drift toward a woman.
Liam crosses to Grace and drops a kiss on Lorcan's head before stealing a sip of her coffee.
A man I recognize as Killian from photos Diomid showed me once makes a beeline for Katya, sliding his hand over the curve of her belly as he bends to kiss her temple.
She tips her face up into it without breaking conversation.
Another man, leaner, with lighter features, Aidan, wraps his arms around Tanya from behind and murmurs something against her hair that makes her roll her eyes but lean into him with a grin anyway.
Each of them stops by Saoirse on the way. Liam presses a kiss to her cheek. Killian squeezes her shoulder. Aidan says, "Morning, Ma," and snags a waffle off the stack, earning himself a swat with the dishtowel.
"Those are for Katya."
"She has a plateful already,” he points out with a laugh.
"She's growing a human,” Saoirse argues back easily. “Sit down."
Then Connor walks in.
He's showered, hair still damp, in a clean black T-shirt that stretches across his chest and jeans that sit on his hips in a way I'm trying very hard not to notice.
He smells like soap and something woodsy and male, and when he crosses to Saoirse and bends down to kiss the top of her head, I see the way her hand comes up to cup his scarred cheek, gentle and automatic, like she's done it ten thousand times.
"Morning, Ma."
"Morning, love. There's coffee."
He pours himself a cup and turns around finding me immediately. Something in his expression settles, like he was checking to make sure I was still here.
"Morning," he says, like we haven’t already seen each other this morning. I don’t know why that sends a bolt of thrill straight through me that has me clenching my thighs together.
"Morning," I say back, and I'm proud of how steady my voice is, because underneath this table, my knee is bouncing and my skin feels too warm.
He sits down at the end of the table.
Breakfast happens around us. Katya eats three more waffles.
Lorcan drops his teething ring and wails until Liam picks it up and rinses it under the tap before handing it back to him.
Iris and Killian get into an argument about something that happened in 2019 that nobody else remembers the same way.
Tanya and Grace have a quiet conversation about a book they're both reading.
Saoirse moves through all of it like the center of gravity, refilling plates and mugs and settling disputes with a look.
It's a family. A real, messy, noisy, complicated family, and I want it so badly that it aches in a place I didn't know was empty.
Connor doesn't talk much during breakfast. He eats, drinks his coffee, listens.
When the plates are mostly cleared and Katya is negotiating with Saoirse for one more waffle, Liam pushes back from the table and looks at me and Connor.
"My office," he says. "Both of you."
Connor stands and offers me his hand to help me up.
His palm is warm and rough and twice the size of mine, and when his fingers close around my hand, I feel the contact all the way to my stomach.
He lets go as soon as I'm standing, but his fingertips brush the inside of my wrist on the way, and I don't think it's an accident.
Liam's office is down the hall from the kitchen, a dark-paneled room with a heavy desk and leather chairs and the kind of organized clutter that says the man who works here is busy but knows where everything is.
Grace follows us in, sitting on the arm of one of the chairs with Lorcan on her hip.
Connor leans against the wall near the window.
I take the chair across from Liam's desk.
Liam doesn't waste time.
"I spoke with Diomid last night. Then again, this morning.
We've reached an arrangement." He looks at me.
"Your brother is bringing the Agapov operation under the Orlov umbrella.
Territory, resources, manpower. He'll have our protection and access to our network, and in exchange, the Agapovs align with us formally.
It solves his corridor problem without the Baron. "
I let that sink in. Diomid, who has spent his entire adult life building the Agapov name as an independent operation, is folding it into the Orlovs. For me. To keep me out of the Baron's hands. The weight of that sacrifice presses against my shoulders.
"And Grigori?" I ask.
Liam's jaw tightens. "Kuznetsov is not happy.
He's already making noise with the Council.
Claiming we poached his deal, that the Agapovs reneged on an agreement.
The Council is listening because the Council is already prickly about us, and adding the Agapovs to our ranks doesn't exactly make us look less powerful. "
"Which is exactly what they're worried about," Connor says from the wall.
His arms are crossed and his voice is flat.
I can tell he's already five steps ahead.
"They forced us to marry to clip our wings, and now we're gaining territory and manpower through the marriages.
They're going to see that as us gaming the system. "
"Which is why this needs to happen fast," Liam says. "The marriage. If you and Anya are married before the Baron can mount a formal challenge with the Council, it's done. He can complain all he wants, but an Orlov wife is an Orlov wife. Untouchable."
"How fast?" I ask.
"Days. A week at most." Liam leans back. "Diomid is on his way here. He wants to see you before anything is formalized. He wants to see Connor." His eyes flick to his brother. "He wants to look the man who's marrying his sister in the face."
"Good," Connor says. "He should."
Liam nods. "I'll handle the Council. Killian is reaching out to our contacts in Europe to get ahead of whatever the Baron tries. Diomid and I will work out the formal terms of the alliance. All you two need to worry about is being ready to say yes in front of a priest by the end of the week."
He says it like it's simple. Like it's logistics.
But I'm sitting in this chair thinking about the end of the week, about standing beside Connor in front of a priest, about the word wife attached to my name, and what I feel isn't fear.
It's anticipation.
Because if my body reacts the way it did this morning, just from watching him lift weights in a basement gym, just from the brush of his fingers on my wrist as he helped me out of a chair... then I want to know what happens when there's nothing between us at all.
I want to know what his hands feel like on my skin.
I want to know what that rough voice sounds like when it's just for me.
I want to know if the heat I felt in that doorway, watching sweat roll down his chest while he watched me watch him, is the start of something that will burn slow and steady, or if it's going to consume me whole.
Either way, I want it.
"End of the week," I say to Liam. "I'll be ready."
Connor's good eye finds mine from across the room, and the look in it, dark and intent and hungry in a way he's not bothering to hide, tells me he heard what I didn't say.
He'll be ready too.