10. Yaromir
YAROMIR
Anya goes still.
This is the kind of stillness that comes when the body can’t decide whether to run or strike first.
Her eyes move from Sergei to me, then back again, as if she’s waiting for one of us to laugh and make this something other than what it is.
She looks exhausted. Pale. Her hair is pulled back badly, loose pieces falling around her face.
There are shadows under her eyes and bruises near her wrist that someone should answer for.
Sergei, most likely.
My gaze stays there a second too long.
Her hand curls into a fist at her side.
Good. Anger is better than fear.
“No,” she says.
Sergei’s jaw tightens. “Anya?—”
“No,” she repeats. “What did you do?”
Sergei takes half a step toward her, and she moves back immediately. The reaction is small, but I catch it. So does he.
It makes me want to break his hand.
“You should be grateful,” Sergei says. “Yaromir, I mean Mr. Volkov, is helping us.”
Anya gives a short, stunned laugh. There’s no humor in it. “Helping us?” Her voice nearly cracks on the words, but she catches it. She lifts her chin like pride is the only thing holding her upright. “You dragged me out of a hotel room and brought me here without telling me anything.”
“I told you enough.”
“You told me you were in trouble.”
“I am.”
“And now I know your solution is selling me again.”
Sergei flinches, but only because she says it in front of me. Not because it’s untrue.
I set my glass down. “Leave us,” I say.
Sergei turns toward me quickly. “Sir, she is upset. I should?—”
“You should leave.”
The room goes quiet. He looks at me, then at her, calculating whether he has permission to argue.
He does not.
“Of course,” he says finally.
Anya doesn’t look at him when he passes her. That, more than anything, tells me how deeply he has hurt her.
When the door closes, she and I are alone. The fire snaps softly behind me, and for several seconds, neither of us speaks.
She stands near the center of the study, shoulders tense, eyes bright with fury she’s trying not to let turn into tears. I have seen men beg with more dignity than Sergei. I have seen killers die with less courage than this girl is using to stand here.
Her mouth tightens. “You planned this?”
“I made an offer.”
“To my father.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not marrying you,” she says.
I walk away from the fireplace, slowly enough that she has time to retreat if she chooses.
She doesn’t. She watches me come closer, and for all the anger in her eyes, her breathing changes before I’m within arm’s reach. Just slightly. A catch. A pause. Her body remembers me, even if she wishes it didn’t.
I stop in front of her. Not touching. Close enough to see the pulse beating at the base of her throat. “You can say no,” I tell her.
Her eyes narrow. “Can I?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me leave.”
“The door is not locked.”
Her gaze flicks past me.
She checks. Smart girl.
She looks back, less certain now. “And if I walk out?”
“I won’t stop you.”
“But?”
I almost smile.
Not as airheaded as she looked at lunch. Not even close.
“But your father’s debt remains,” I say. “The men he owes will not care that Dmitri humiliated you. They will not care that Sergei used you. They will not care that you are tired.”
Her face hardens at the mention of Dmitri. I notice that too.
“They will kill him,” I say.
The color drains from her face, though she tries to hide it.
“I know.”
“No,” I say. “You don’t.”
Her lips part, then close again.
I step a fraction closer. Still not touching.
Her scent reaches me then. Soap from some cheap hotel. Cold air. Something faintly sweet under it. Not perfume. Her. It drags through me with more force than it should.
I keep my hands at my sides.
“You marry me,” I say, “and the debt disappears. No collectors. No threats. No men waiting outside his house. Your father lives.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “What do you offer me?” she asks.
I look at her. “I already did.”
Anya shakes her head. “No. That was for my father. The debt disappears. His life is spared. His mess is cleaned up. What about me?” For the first time since she entered my study, her voice doesn’t shake.
She’s angry enough to think clearly now.
“Isn’t this supposed to be a marriage of convenience? ” she asks. “Where is my convenience?”
Bruised wrist. Tired eyes. Chin lifted. A woman dragged through humiliation, fear, and blood, still standing in front of me demanding terms.
Dmitri was a fool.
“You want terms?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“You get protection.”
She laughs once. “That is still survival. I asked what I get.”
“You get my name.”
“I had a Volkov name waiting for me two weeks ago. It didn’t save me from being made a fool.”
“No,” I say. “Because it was Dmitri’s.”
Her mouth tightens.
There it is. The wound. Still open. Still bleeding.
“You want something for yourself?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Then I will give you Dmitri’s humiliation.”
She goes very still.
I stop in front of her. “When this marriage happens, he will watch you stand beside me. He will watch the city whisper that his bride ran from his altar and chose his brother instead.” My voice lowers. “He will wonder if you think of him at all when you share my bed.”
Her breath catches.
Not fear. I see the difference now. I can see it in the way her eyes flicker, in the way her lips part before she presses them shut, in the way her body goes tense but doesn’t move away.
I’m too close. I know I am.
I tell myself I’m testing her. Testing her nerve. Her anger. Her capacity to understand what this marriage will mean.
That’s the lie I use to take one more step.
“He will understand,” I continue, “that he had you and was stupid enough to make you run.”
Her eyes flick to my mouth.
Her back hits the edge of my desk. She doesn’t move away.
“You’re too close,” she says.
“Yes.”
“You should move.”
“I should.”
I don’t. Neither does she.
She could push me away. She doesn’t.
My restraint cracks when her fingers touch my shirt. Not a shove. Not even close. Just the lightest contact against my chest, like she means to stop me and forgets halfway through.
I catch her wrist, and her breath catches.
“Say no,” I tell her.
Her eyes flash. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To feel noble for stopping?”
“No.” My grip tightens just enough for her to feel it. “I would hate it.”
That does something to her. I see it in the way her pupils widen, the way her mouth opens around a breath she doesn’t release.
She should say no. Instead, she whispers, “I hate you.”
I bend closer. “Not enough.”
Then I kiss her.
There’s nothing soft about it.
The first touch of her mouth is enough to make my control slip.
She makes a small sound against me, shocked and soft, and I take it deeper before she can pull it back.
My hand goes to the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair, holding her exactly where I want her.
She tastes warm, nervous, sweet from the fear she’s trying to bury under anger.
For half a second, she freezes.
Then her hands grab my shirt. Not gently. She fists the fabric like she needs something to hold on to, and the moment she kisses me back, everything in the room changes. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. That much is obvious. Her mouth is clumsy, hungry, overwhelmed.
It makes me want her worse.
I push her back against the desk. Papers scatter. Something hits the floor. She gasps into my mouth, and I use that sound, take it, swallow it. My hand drops to her waist, then lower, gripping her hip hard enough to keep her from sliding away.
She doesn’t try.
Her knees part when I step between them. I lift her onto the desk in one motion.
Her breath breaks. “Yaromir,” she says, and my name out of her mouth like that almost ruins me.
I drag my mouth from hers and kiss down the side of her neck. Her pulse is frantic beneath my lips. She tilts her head back before she can stop herself, giving me more access, and I feel the moment she realizes she has done it.
She stiffens.
I bite her lightly, just enough to make her gasp, and her fingers dig into my shoulders. She’s panting now, short uneven breaths that make her chest rise against me. I slide my hand up her side and cup her breast through the fabric of her sweater.
She goes still.
Then she melts. It’s small, but I feel it. The way her body softens into my palm. The way her thighs tighten around me. The way her lips part around a sound she’s too proud to let out fully.
I squeeze once, slow and firm, and her head falls back. Not the polished girl from the pier. Not Dmitri’s abandoned bride. Not Sergei’s frightened daughter. This woman is flushed, furious, aching, and unable to pretend her body is not answering mine.
I kiss her throat again, rougher this time, then drag my mouth back to hers. She kisses me harder, like she hates that she wants it and hates me more for knowing. Her hands slide into my hair. She pulls, and the small sting of it sends heat straight through me.
I press closer, letting her feel exactly what she’s doing to me.
Her eyes fly open.
Innocent. Startled.
Hungry despite herself.
That look nearly breaks what little restraint I have left.
I lower my hand to her thigh, sliding my palm over bare skin where her skirt has ridden up. She trembles. Not with fear now. I know fear. This is something else. Something hotter. Something she’s only beginning to understand.
My fingers move higher, stopping just short of where she’s burning. Her breath catches hard. I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric. She’s soaked. Completely wet for me, and the knowledge hits like violence.
Her eyes close. I watch her face as my thumb strokes once, slow, over the damp fabric between her thighs.
She nearly comes off the desk. A broken little sound slips from her mouth, and she grabs my wrist, but she doesn’t push me away. She only holds on, shaking, as if she’s afraid of what her own body might do next.
“Look at me,” I say.
Her lashes lift slowly. Her eyes are dark now, unfocused, angry, desperate.
Beautiful.
I stroke her again, just enough to make her hips move against my hand without meaning to. Her face burns when she realizes it, but she does it again, smaller this time, a helpless little chase that makes my jaw tighten.
I want to ruin her.
I want to put my mouth on every place Dmitri never learned how to touch.
I want to hear her say my name until she forgets his.
Instead, I stop. I pull my hand away and step back.
Anya stays on the desk, breathing hard, lips swollen, hair loose around her face, skirt high on her thighs. Her eyes open fully, confused first, then furious.
Good.
Let her feel the loss of it.
Let her understand the bargain.
I adjust my cuff like I’m not hard enough to ache.
She stares at me, chest rising and falling. “What are you doing?” she asks, voice rough.
I look at her mouth, then back into her eyes.
“Just a taste,” I say, “of what you get when you say yes to me.”