3. Anya
ANYA
By the time I get away from the table, I’m irritated enough to snap at someone.
Katya knocked over half her cocktail onto my dress ten minutes ago, apologizing immediately, but not before dark pink liquid spread across the front of my white skirt.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, pressing napkins against the fabric while the others fussed around me.
It could have been an accident. Probably was.
Still, something about the way her mouth twitched annoyed me.
Now I’m standing in the restaurant bathroom, dabbing cold water against the stain while muttering under my breath. Perfect.
I stare at myself in the mirror. The stain is faint now, barely visible unless someone looks closely. My hair is still neat, lipstick untouched, mascara perfect.
Good.
I refuse to look messy in public. My mother raised that much into me before she died.
I smooth my dress down once more and leave the bathroom. The corridor outside is quieter than the restaurant. Dim lighting. Dark walls. The distant sound of voices from behind closed doors. I’m halfway toward the terrace when someone steps around the corner.
I stop.
Yaromir Volkov barely slows.
Up close, he’s somehow larger than he looked from across the restaurant. Tall enough that I instinctively tilt my head back, broad shoulders filling the narrow corridor.
And older. Not just older than Dmitri—older in a way that shows.
Early forties, maybe. Dark hair streaked with gray at the temples, not hidden, not softened.
It only makes him look more dangerous. Like time has carved him into something harder instead of wearing him down.
The scar is more visible now, pale against his skin.
It should make him frightening.
It does. But not in the way I expect.
For one disorienting second, all I notice is the smell of him. Not cologne. Something darker. Clean musk, smoke, cold air, cedar maybe. Masculine in a way that feels almost unfair.
My body reacts before my brain does. Heat rushes through me instantly, stealing my breath, and I freeze.
What the hell?—
I have never reacted to a man like this before.
Not Dmitri.
Not anyone.
I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything: the pulse in my throat, the fabric of my dress against my skin, the way Yaromir’s gaze drops briefly to the damp mark near my waist where I failed to fully dry the stain. Embarrassment flashes hot through me.
Then his eyes lift back to mine. Calm. Steady. Completely unreadable.
I should say something, but I just stand there staring at him like an idiot.
His attention shifts slightly, taking me in without hurry. My face. My hair. The ring still glittering on my hand.
Something cold moves through his expression at the sight of it.
Not jealousy. Not anger, exactly.
Something heavier.
“You stained your dress,” he says finally. His voice is deep, rougher than I expected.
Not warm. Just certain.
I glance down automatically. “Your observation skills are impressive.”
One side of his mouth almost moves.
Almost.
“It’s hard to miss.”
There’s a beat of silence. I become painfully aware that we’re alone in the corridor, and that he smells so good it’s making it difficult to think clearly.
God. What is wrong with me?
I’m engaged. To his brother.
I straighten slightly, trying to pull myself together. “I didn’t realize Dmitri had family in town.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Because it sounds childish. Defensive.
“You’re mistaken. I’m the furthest thing from his family.”
I study him more carefully now.
Dmitri is handsome in an obvious way. Easy smile, expensive suits, effortless charm. Women notice him because he wants them to.
Yaromir is different.
Nothing about him asks for attention. He simply takes up space like he expects the world to adjust around him.
And worse?—
I think he knows exactly what he’s doing to me right now.
Heat creeps higher into my face at the thought.
“You’re staring,” he says.
Mortification crashes into me. “I’m not.”
“You are.” His tone stays calm, but there’s the faintest hint of amusement underneath now.
I hate that I like hearing it.
I fold my arms. “Maybe your ego is bigger than your reputation.”
His eyes hold mine for a second longer than necessary, and the air between us suddenly feels too tight, too warm.
Then voices sound somewhere down the corridor, and the moment breaks.
Yaromir steps aside first, giving me room to pass. “Congratulations on the engagement,” he says.
The words are polite. The tone isn’t.
I move past him before I can embarrass myself further.
But as I walk back toward the terrace, my skin still feels hot.
By the time I get home, my heels are killing me and I’m already exhausted from pretending I enjoyed the afternoon.
The Sokolov house sits on the edge of the older district near the river, tucked between larger estates owned by men more important than my father will ever be.
The gates are rusting in places. The marble near the entrance is cracked.
One of the garden lights flickers every few seconds because Sergei refuses to replace it.
He likes appearances.
Only from a distance.
Inside, the house smells faintly of cigarette smoke and old leather. Familiar. Heavy. I drop my purse onto the console table and immediately feel my shoulders loosen for the first time all day.
I hate this house. I hate the peeling wallpaper my father keeps promising to replace. I hate the dining room with its oversized chandelier trying too hard to look expensive. I hate the silence that always hangs in these rooms, thick with things no one says aloud.
But it’s the only place I don’t have to smile every second.
“Anya.” My father’s voice comes from the dining room.
Of course he’s still awake.
I walk in to find Sergei sitting at the table with a drink in one hand and paperwork spread around him. He’s loosened his tie, gray creeping heavily through his dark hair now. He looks older every month lately.
“You’re late,” he says.
“It’s barely ten.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Sit. Eat something.”
There’s untouched soup on the table already growing cold. I sit mostly to avoid another argument.
Sergei watches me for a moment. Then his eyes drop to my hand. To the ring.
His entire face softens.
I almost roll my eyes.
“You have no idea how proud you’ve made me,” he says.
There it is.
Not you look beautiful.
Not how was your day.
I pick up the spoon slowly. “You say that every day.”
“Because it’s true.” He leans back in his chair. “The Volkovs are powerful people. Powerful enough to change everything for us.”
Us. Always us when he wants something.
I stir the soup around without eating it. “You mean for you.”
His expression tightens slightly. “You’ll benefit too.”
I laugh quietly. The sound surprises even me.
Sergei frowns. “What’s funny?”
“You talk about this marriage like a business deal.”
“That’s because marriage is a business deal.” His tone thickens. “Especially in our world.”
There it is again. That same bitterness I’ve heard my whole life from men who make ugly choices and call them practical.
I look around the dining room. The expensive furniture bought years before we could afford it. The cracks hidden beneath rugs. The silver polished only when guests come over.
This house is my father. Pretending.
Always pretending.
And suddenly I’m exhausted by all of it.
“I saw Yaromir Volkov today,” I say casually.
The reaction is immediate. Sergei stills completely. Even the ice in his glass stops moving. “Where?”
“At the restaurant.”
His jaw tightens. “What did he want?” The question comes too quickly.
I shrug. “Nothing. We spoke for maybe a minute.”
“That’s a minute too long.”
I blink at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says carefully now, “that Yaromir is not a man you involve yourself with.”
“He’s Dmitri’s brother.”
“Half brother.” The correction snaps out instantly.
There’s real dislike there. Maybe even fear.
I lean back slightly. “You don’t talk about him much.”
“Because there’s nothing to talk about.”
“That’s not true.”
Sergei drains the rest of his drink. “Anya.” His warning tone. I’ve hated it since I was twelve. “He’s dangerous,” he says. “Stay away from him.”
Something about the way he says it irritates me immediately. Not protective. Controlling. Like he’s trying to hide something.
“Dangerous how?”
“That’s enough.”
I stare at him. God, I hate him sometimes. I hate how quickly he bends for powerful men. I hate how he speaks about loyalty while spending his entire life afraid. I hate that he acts like this marriage is some great victory when everyone knows he would hand me over to secure his own survival.
Maybe he already has.
I push my chair back. “I’m tired.”
“Anya.”
I pause in the doorway.
“You should focus on Dmitri,” Sergei says. “Not Yaromir.”
The way he says the names makes my skin crawl. Like one is safety and the other is ruin.
I go upstairs without answering.
My bedroom is colder than the rest of the house. I leave the lights off except for the lamp near my bed and change slowly, slipping out of my dress and into a thin camisole.
Then I check my phone.
Nothing from Dmitri. Not even a goodnight.
I stare at the screen longer than I should.
Finally, I type: Miss you.
I wait.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Nothing.
My chest tightens with something ugly and embarrassing, and I throw the phone onto the bed harder than necessary.
Somehow, against all logic, my thoughts drift elsewhere.
To dark eyes.
To a rough voice in a quiet corridor.
To the way Yaromir looked at me without trying to impress me.
I shouldn’t keep thinking about him. I know that. But my body clearly didn’t get the message. By the time I finally fall asleep, restless and annoyed with myself, the last thing in my head is the smell of smoke and cedar lingering around him.
And then I dream.
In the dream, I’m back in the corridor outside the restaurant bathroom. Only this time, Yaromir doesn’t move aside to let me pass.
He steps closer. One large hand settles against my waist, fingers spreading slowly over my dress. Heat rushes through me instantly, so intense it almost hurts.
“You keep staring at me,” he says quietly.
His voice slides through me.
I can barely breathe.
“I don’t,” I whisper.
He looks at me like he knows I’m lying. Then his hand moves higher, slow and deliberate, dragging up the side of my body until my skin feels too sensitive. My pulse pounds between my thighs. I’ve never felt this way before—hot, shaky, desperate for something I can’t even fully understand.
His mouth brushes my jaw, and I make a sound I’ve never heard from myself before. Low. Needy.
“You’re engaged,” he murmurs against my skin.
The words should stop this. Instead, they make the heat worse.
In the dream, I grab his coat and pull him closer. His body is hard against mine, overwhelming, consuming. His hand slides down my thigh and I gasp sharply as pleasure crashes through me so suddenly my knees nearly give out.
“Yaromir—”
I bolt upright on my bed, my sheets tangled around my legs. And I’m wet. Completely, embarrassingly wet. My heart pounds violently as I stare at the ceiling, breathing hard.
For a second, I don’t move.
Then shame floods in hot behind the lingering pleasure.
I press my thighs together instinctively, still sensitive, still aching.
Oh my God.
I just had a dream about my fiancé’s brother.