9. Anya #3
My feet hurt. My head hurts. There are bruises on my arm, dried blood under one fingernail, and a dress in the bathroom that will never be clean again.
How long can I run? Maybe I can look the other way when Dmitri steps out on me. I won’t be the first women in history to do that.
“What does he want with me?” I ask.
Sergei looks away too quickly. “He wants to speak.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
I don’t believe him. But I also don’t know what else to do.
So I get dressed. Not in the black dress.
I refuse to put it back on. I change into yesterday’s clothes instead, the ones I wore under my coat before Marina dragged me into Venera.
A plain sweater. Dark skirt. My old shoes.
My hair is a mess, but I twist it back with shaking hands and tie it badly at the nape of my neck.
The girl in the cracked mirror looks nothing like a bride.
Good.
I hate her less that way.
Sergei waits by the door, too tense to sit, too nervous to speak. His eyes keep moving to the hallway as if someone might appear there at any second and drag him away before he can finish selling whatever piece of me remains.
I sit beside my father in the back seat of a car.
The city slides past the window in gray morning light.
Shops opening. Street cleaners pushing dirty water toward drains.
Women carrying bags. Men smoking outside cafés.
Everything ordinary. Everything moving forward as if I have not spent the last few days falling out of my own life.
I lean my head against the cold glass.
I tell myself this is temporary. I tell myself I will listen, understand what Dmitri wants, and then find a way out.
The thought sounds weak even inside my own head.
After twenty minutes, I realize we’re not driving toward the main Volkov estate.
I sit up slowly.
The roads are wrong. The houses are wrong. The gates we pass are unfamiliar, taller, more private, hidden behind old trees and high stone walls. There are no wedding flowers here. No rows of white chairs. No pretty lake where guests can pretend they are not surrounded by armed men.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Sergei doesn’t answer.
“Papa.”
He flinches at the word, but keeps looking forward.
The car turns off the main road and passes through a set of black iron gates. Two guards stand on either side, both armed, both expressionless. They look at the car, then at us, and wave us through without hesitation.
My stomach tightens.
This is not Dmitri’s house. The estate beyond the gates is darker than the Volkov one.
Older. Less polished. It sits back from the drive like it has no interest in being admired.
Gray stone, tall windows, ivy crawling up one side, the whole place surrounded by trees that block out most of the morning light.
It’s beautiful, but not welcoming. It feels lived in by ghosts and men with secrets.
The car stops at the front steps.
I don’t move.
Sergei opens his door first. “Come.”
“Where are we?” I ask.
He still doesn’t answer.
I step out of the car because staying inside will not save me.
The front doors open before we reach them, and a man in a black suit lets us in without a word.
Inside, the house is quiet and cold. The floors are dark wood, the walls lined with old paintings, most of them men who look like they learned tenderness too late or never at all. There are no flowers. No family photographs. No soft touches anywhere.
Sergei moves ahead of me, distracted and pale. He keeps adjusting his cuffs, then stopping himself, then doing it again. I watch him and understand something with a sick twist in my stomach.
He is afraid to be here.
My father, who shoved his way into my hotel room and dragged me into a car, is afraid of the man waiting for us.
We’re led into a study. The room is large, with bookshelves along two walls, a wide desk near the windows, and a fire burning low despite the morning.
At first, I don’t see anyone.
Then Sergei steps forward and lowers his head. “Sir,” he says, voice rough with relief and fear. “Thank you for helping us.”
My heart stops.
No.
I turn, and there he is.
Yaromir Volkov stands near the fireplace, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a glass he does not drink from.
He’s dressed in black, as if color is something other men need to seem alive.
Silver threads through his dark hair at the temples.
The scar down his face catches the firelight, pale and brutal. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
Last night comes back to me in pieces.
Was it him?
No. I don’t know that. I don’t know anything.
His eyes move over me once. Slowly. Not like Dmitri used to look at me, with easy ownership and shallow appreciation. Yaromir looks at me as if he sees right through me.
Something hardens in his expression.
Then it’s gone.
“Anya,” he says.
My name in his voice makes my stomach tighten.
Sergei turns toward me. He looks almost relieved now. Like the worst part is over because he has delivered me to the correct room.
“Daughter,” he says quietly. “Meet your future husband.”