13. The Fight
Chapter 13
The Fight
The metal door slams shut behind me with a thud—the sound is like a gut punch. I’m alone now, trapped in a new concrete box, my thoughts swirling like a hurricane. Lena and Tatiana are still locked in the Doctor’s room, at the mercy of Nikolai’s men.
My eyes scan the room, a sterile white box with a single harsh fluorescent light that makes everything feel like a bad dream. I’m left here, alone. There’s no furniture, no windows, and no other doors.
I try to push back the fear and the panic. But it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave. I need an anchor, something, anything.
My mind races back to my family, to John and Elaine Parker, my parents. They were my foundation, but now everything feels shaky, uncertain.
I remember our kitchen, the scent of my mom’s cinnamon rolls, a memory so vivid it stings. It was our little haven, a place of warmth and laughter. We didn’t have much, but we had each other.
My dad, a workaholic, was always on the phone, closing deals and making connections. He’d come home weary, but he always had a smile for me and a hug that made me feel safe. Still, I can’t help but wonder about the secrets they kept from me, their real identity, my real identity. Suddenly, my mother’s accent wasn’t just cute and different. It was a Russian accent.
Why did they flee Russia? What were they running from? A monster?
They never told me the truth. I can see now that they were always careful, always evasive. But now, years later, I realize their silence wasn’t just about protecting me. It was about protecting themselves.
My head is spinning. I need answers, but I’m only getting more questions. Who were they before they became John and Elaine? What kind of life did they have in Russia? What happened to them?
I’m not looking for a happy ending. I’m looking for the truth, even if it’s ugly. Even if it breaks me. I need to know who I am, where I come from, and what I’m fighting for.
I close my eyes, trying to find hope in the darkness. But all I find is a relentless storm of questions about to knock me over.
My thoughts drift to Nikolai and his chilling eyes; his ruthless behavior. Goosebumps erupt on my arms. The thought of being at his mercy, of being forced to submit to him, is a horrifying nightmare. I’d rather die than be a pawn in his twisted game.
A loud clang shatters my thoughts. The metal door swings open, the sound heavy, like a final judgment. My heart races, and my body tenses. He’s here.
Nikolai steps into the room, his handsome features softened by a sly smirk. He walks toward me, his movements fluid, almost graceful, like a wolf. The nickname Wolfie suits him . He stops before me, his gaze lingering on my bound hands.
“You look lovely, Anya , even with—ropes,” he says, straightening his tie, his voice smooth as silk. “Or especially with ropes.”
“Fuck off—” I spit.
“You learn your place—-in time—”
I don’t answer, my pulse thrumming in my temples. He leans down, his fingers nimble as he undoes the knots, his touch surprisingly gentle.
“Let’s get you out of these, da? ” he says, ensuring I see the gun inside his jacket pocket. Oh, so charming. So polite. He’s playing a game, and I’m unsure what the rules are.
He leads me down a hallway past a series of closed doors. I smell exotic perfumes, a heady mix of musk and spices that make me feel trapped. The door on the right at the end of the hallway swings open, revealing a scene that makes me step back into his arms.
“Easy, Anya ,” he chuckles and pushes me inside the room.
It’s a beautifully appointed room, unlike the rest of the club. The walls are lined with silk drapes, creating a sense of intimacy and seclusion. A table laden with exquisite silver and crystal is set with a romantic elegance that feels jarring and out of place. Candles flicker, their soft glow casting a warm, inviting light that feels like a trap.
There’s a bed in there, too. And on the bed is a stunning crimson dress draped, a silken invitation to seduction that makes me shiver.
“This is where we— know each other much better, milyya ,” Nikolai says. His English is broken, a tool of control, a way to make me feel off-balance. He gestures to the table, his smile suggestive.
Two of his men decked out in suits that scream , “I’m here to intimidate, ” follow us into the room. They plant themselves by the door, their faces locked in a stony stare, making it clear that this is a one-way trip.
“What is this place?” I ask, my voice tight, my gaze darting around the room. “A bed next to a dinner table? Tell me the truth.”
Ava, you know the truth.
“A place—dream come true, Anya .”
I shiver. He’s a wolf, and this is his hunting ground. He’s playing me, manipulating me.
He gestures to the bed and the dress laid out—a beautiful, silky red dress, deep cut and long. It’s like a visual representation of the power he wants to exert over me.
“I don’t want your dress," I say, trying to maintain my composure. "I don’t—I don’t want any of this."
“We need—talk—each other. You and me,” Nikolai says.
“No,” I say. "I don't want to play your sick game.”
“Do you want your friends—in pain— if you do not talk?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, displaying a grainy image. A woman, her eyes filled with fear, is bound and gagged, a guard standing behind her, a blade glinting in his hand.
No, no, no. He's using them, playing a cruel game—the game of a monster. My heart plummets, a sickening feeling spreading through me. He's playing with my emotions, twisting the knife deeper. He's a master manipulator.
A burning rage ignites within me. "You wouldn't dare," I say.
"I would do anything for—to keep close to you, Anya ," he whispers.
I look at the dress, the exquisite table, and the flickering candles. And I see a trap. A twisted, elaborate trap.
But I'm not going to be his victim . I have to play him in his court. I have to make him believe. And then, I have to strike like a sniper. Just like Zara taught me. Zara—Zara, the traitor. I forgot about her in my rush, my panic. I thought I found an ally, a friend, maybe. And instead, I got stabbed in the back. I long to plant a fist in her pretty face for pretending. But not now. First, I need to play part one.
I move towards the bed, my steps slow and deliberate, a tiny rebellion against his control. My gaze locks with his; it’s like a silent duel. I feel the two other men in the room. They watch me, their faces blank, their eyes filled with a predatory anticipation that makes my skin crawl. They're here to make sure I stay put, to make sure I don't try anything stupid.
I pick up the dress. It is silk, cool and smooth against my fingertips, and its scent of wild roses is intoxicating. It's a beautiful dress designed to accentuate my curves. He wants to see me as a plaything, a doll he can dress up and break.
I reach for the makeup on the table, my hands trembling slightly. I apply the lipstick, the rouge, the powder, my movements slow and calculated, a facade of compliance. He wants me to play the role, to be his submissive.
Nikolai watches me from the corner of the room, his eyes a deep, knowing brown. He smirks as I transform myself.
I feel exposed, vulnerable. Still, a fire burns within me; all I need is to ignite the ember. I keep my face neutral, my gaze is unwavering. I am a warrior. I am Ava Parker. I repeat the mantra.
I need to find my moment. The room is a stage set for seduction, a carefully curated illusion of intimacy. Candlelight casts long, dancing shadows across the polished table, the sparkle of silver reflecting in the wine glasses. There’s a scent of fresh flowers in the air, a heady sweetness that lingers in my throat. I wonder if they're from Ms. Pennyfeather's flower shop?
Nikolai pulls out my chair, a gesture of chivalry that feels utterly out of place. He smiles, a warmth radiating from his eyes that contradicts the ruthlessness I've witnessed.
We sit across from each other. He pours me a glass of wine, a rich, velvety red. "Drink," he says, his voice a soft murmur. "Enjoy—moment."
“This feels—surreal,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. My gaze is fixed on the wine glass.
“Don’t you find—exciting?” he asks, leaning closer, his eyes intent, his gaze burning into me. “You and me here—dinner.”
“It's intense,” I reply, a single word that feels inadequate to encompass what I feel about all of this.
He nods slowly and glances towards the bed. “ Intense . Is how I like it.”
His words make me shiver.
He pours himself a glass of wine; his movements are smooth. He takes a long sip, savoring the moment. Then, he turns his eyes on me, holding mine captive.
“Tell me about yourself , Anya ,” he says. His eyes are a deep, mesmerizing brown. “Who are you—really?”
“What do you want to know?” I ask, trying to maintain a neutral expression, my mind racing, searching for a way to answer without revealing too much. Without losing focus.
He leans forward, his smile suggestive. “Tell me your past, your dreams, your—- desires. I have missed—much.”
What is he talking about? Missed much? He’s talking like he knows me.
I take a sip of wine, trying to buy some time to think. “I grew up in Port Haven,” I say, my voice carefully neutral. “My parents—we were happy. A normal life.”
“Normal,” he says, his lips curving into a slight smile. “What normal mean? What normal?”
“You know what normal is,” I say, my voice rising, a tremor of defiance in it. “It’s not this, it's not this life. It’s not being forced to do things I don’t want.”
He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that makes the hairs on my neck stand on end. He's enjoying this, enjoying my anger.
"You came here, remember? You strong, Anya ," he says, his eyes gleaming. "You have fire in you. I find it—fascinating."
“Stop calling me Anya. My name is Ava ,” I hiss.
“So much—anger in you,” he chuckles. “I did not know this.”
"I want you to let the others go. This is your chance to end this, to make things right!"
He laughs again, a cruel, mocking sound. "You so naive, my love. So sweet, so innocent. You believe in justice, in fairness. But in this world, power is—only currency matters. And I have power. All power."
His rings clink against the wine glass as he empties it in one swift gulp. I notice how the veins in his neck throb near his serpent tattoo. He's excited—aroused . He's feeding off this, feeding off my fear. He wants to break me.
"Power doesn't make you right, Nikolai. It doesn't make you good. It doesn’t make you a king."
He leans back, his eyes glinting. "You think you play—what you Americans call it—moral high ground?"
"Maybe," I say, softening my voice, but only a little. "I know one thing—your power doesn't make you invincible. There are always those who fight back. And sometimes, those who fight back are the ones who win."
He smiles, his eyes narrowed, a flicker of amusement in their depths. "I like your spirit. I can see that is—strong."
He reaches for another bottle of wine, pouring me another glass. " Napitok, Anya. It means— drink in Russian," he says, licking his lips, a suggestive gesture. "Let yourself relax—for one night."
“I don’t want your wine!”
I’ve forgotten my role for a moment. I bite my lip quickly and reel back, pick up the glass, and take a sip. Nikolai is playing with me, playing with my emotions.
“You need to behave if you become— wife, mine to keep,” he says nonchalantly as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
I almost choke on the wine. "Your wife?" I ask, breathless.
He nods slowly, his smile widening. "There's something I need to talk—to you." He leans forward. "When you be my bride. I need you to comply, to behave of your own free will, da? Or else, you become— liability.” He watches me, waiting for my reaction. He knows what I'm thinking.
Bile rises in my throat. His words hang heavy in the air, a promise, a threat.
“So you want me to be a willing participant in your underworld, a docile wife who obeys every command?” I say. “Why would I ever agree to that?”
"You not have a choice, slatka ."
“A docile wife to a kingpin?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "How original."
He laughs, a sound that chills me to the bone. "That not entirely—inaccurate, love, ” he says, grabbing my hand and stroking my palm in sensual circles. "But I not looking for a trophy, Anya . I want you, and I want you to want me." He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing against my cheek. I pull back, my skin tingling where he's touched me.
“Why?” I ask, my voice sharp.
He leans back, his eyes dark and intense. “Because—” he says, his voice low, "I not man who enjoys force in wife, only in bedroom I like this— with bodies, hard and sweaty. In life I want—- compliance—-cooperation. I want you my partner, my equal. My bride.”
"And if I don’t?” I ask, my breath ragged, thinking about being his wife.
He sighs, his expression softening. “Then you become— liability," he says. "And I can’t have that."
"A liability," I repeat, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "What does that mean?"
He smiles, a knowing smile. "It means you would be—no use to me."
I’ll be dead.
I stare at the glass of wine, the rich, velvety liquid swirling in its depths. It feels like a deadly game, and he’s already won the first round. He's got me on the ropes. But I'm not going to go down without a fight.
I raise the glass to my lips and take a sip. The wine tastes like velvet and fire.
He watches me, his eyes unwavering. I can feel my body tensing, my breath catching in my throat. I need to be smart. I need to play with the same ruthlessness that he does. But he sees through me. He knows my vulnerabilities. He knows how to make me feel. And that's the most dangerous thing of all.
I lean forward; I need answers. "So, let's pretend I refuse to be your wife ?"
Nikolai's smile vanishes. His eyes narrow, a coldness spreading across his features like a dark cloud. “Well, actually—That not option, Anya . I own you.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Does he own me? I can't breathe, can't even form a coherent thought. He's playing for keeps.
"What are you talking about? Nobody owns me," I finally manage to say, my voice trembling. My hands shake. I push a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to gather myself and find some semblance of strength. This is different. This is not just about me anymore. I have a feeling it is about my family, about my past.
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound that chills me. “Oh, but I do own you, slatka . You— Yan Petrov’s daughter. Anya Petrov. My property to do with as I please."
The world tilts on its axis. Yan Petrov—John Parker—my father. I don't understand.
It's like the ground has shifted beneath my feet, and I'm falling, tumbling down a bottomless pit with no hope of reaching the end. Who is this man? What does he know? What does he want?
Nikolai leans back, his gaze piercing, his dark eyes holding mine captive. He begins to explain, his voice a smooth, chillingly calm monotone. "Your father Yan, or John, had— brother, Boris back in Russia. He gambler—reckless man who owed a lot of money to Romanov family. My family, my father Sergei. Your father—out of—duty, lent Boris enough to keep him alive. But Boris owe too much money. He— in over his head, da? So, he make deal with my family, a deal to secure his life. He promised us—child, the child of his brother and his wife, Elena Petrov, in exchange."
He pauses, letting his words sink in. He watches me closely. He revels in my shock and vulnerability. He knows he's winning.
“And that child,” he says, "is you. Anya ."
He leans closer, his face inches from mine, his eyes gleaming with a possessive hunger. "You are mine, Anya Petrov . Mine by blood, mine by contract. You were promised to my semyya , my family before you born. You belong to me."
The air feels suffocating. I can’t breathe, can't think, can't process this new reality. My parents—they made a deal. They promised me away. My entire life is a lie. I don't even know who I am anymore.
"My father—he wouldn't do that—"
I feel a wave of nausea rising in my throat. I push away from the table, my chair scraping against the polished floor. Suddenly, my hand shoots out, gripping the table's edge, my knuckles turning white.
I want to punch him. I want to tear him apart.
“You right—he didn't want to. Boris make deal with my father. When Yan find out— He plan to escape on boat to America. He succeeds. For another twenty-five years. That's how long it took me— find you. You were promised to my father, and now you promised to me. I am watching you for a while, Anya . You—fascinating."
"No!" I shout, my is voice raw. "Nobody owns me. Nobody!"
I stand, my body shaking, my gaze locked on his. My whole world has been ripped apart, and I don't know how to put it back together. My mind is flooded with a torrent of emotions, a mixture of anger, betrayal, and disbelief. I'm filled with a burning rage, but underneath it, a deeper, darker feeling churns—a deep, visceral fear.
"Is not about ownership, Anya ," he says, his voice a low purr. "Is ‘bout lineage, about family. Is—-tradition. And you—part of our tradition." His eyes hold a strange mix of possessiveness and twisted affection. He thinks this is love, this obsession, this sense of ownership. I’m guessing he's never known anything else, never experienced anything else.
I try to catch my breath, but the air feels thick in my lungs. My uncle Boris—he made a deal. They promised me away . My entire life is a lie.
I'm filled with a sense of betrayal, a realization that I've never truly belonged anywhere, that I've always been a pawn on someone else's chessboard.