11. Anya
ANYA
For a few seconds, I can’t move.
I sit on Yaromir Volkov’s desk with my skirt pushed high on my thighs, my hair loose around my face, my mouth still swollen from his kiss, and I hate him so much I can barely breathe.
I hate him because he stopped.
I hate him because I wanted him not to.
Worst of all, I hate him because he knows both things.
He stands a few feet away from me, adjusting his cuff like he didn’t just have his mouth on my neck and his hand between my thighs. Like I’m the only one ruined by what just happened.
But I saw him. I felt him.
He is not unaffected.
That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
My body is still shaking. My skin feels too warm, too sensitive under my clothes. The place where his hand touched me still pulses with a humiliating ache, and I squeeze my thighs together before I realize I’m doing it.
His eyes drop down there.
My face burns.
“You’re disgusting,” I say.
His mouth barely moves. “Possibly.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I slide off the desk too quickly, and my knees almost give. I catch myself before he can move toward me. I would rather fall on my face than let him steady me right now.
He notices that too.
I straighten my skirt with shaking hands, then smooth my sweater, as if there’s any chance of pretending I still look composed. My hair is falling out of its tie. My lips feel bruised. I can still taste him.
Smoke. Whiskey. Heat.
I hate that too.
“You think you can kiss me and make this simple?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then what was that?”
His gaze holds mine. “Proof.”
“Of what?”
“That you’re not as indifferent to this arrangement as you want to be.”
I laugh, but it sounds wrong. Thin. Unsteady. “You are insane.”
“Yes.”
The answer is so calm that it steals whatever I planned to say next.
He walks to the side table, pours water into a glass, and brings it to me. I don’t take it at first. My pride refuses. Then my throat reminds me I’m thirsty, exhausted, and still not strong enough to survive on stubbornness alone.
I take the glass.
Our fingers don’t touch.
That feels deliberate.
I drink too quickly. Cold water hits my empty stomach and makes me realize I haven’t eaten properly since yesterday.
Yaromir watches my face. “Have you eaten?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“That means no.”
“It means mind your business.”
“If you marry me, you become my business.”
The words land low in my stomach. Why does he even care?
I set the glass down on the desk, careful not to look at the scattered papers, because I know what just happened on top of them. “I don’t belong to you.”
“No,” he says. “You don’t. Not yet anyway.”
I blink.
He steps closer, but stops before the air can turn dangerous again. “I have no interest in dragging a woman through a wedding while she hates every step.”
“You don’t mind being hated.”
“No. But I prefer to be hated accurately.”
For the first time since I entered his study, I almost smile.
It’s small. Bitter. Gone immediately.
He sees it anyway.
I look away from him. The room feels too clean, too controlled, too much like him. Dark wood. Books arranged with precision. Heavy curtains. Fire burning low. A large desk that still holds the shape of what happened between us, even though no one else would notice.
I hate that in this room, surrounded by his power, I feel less invisible than I did in Dmitri’s world.
Dmitri looked at me like a pretty thing. Yaromir looks at me like… I don’t even know what to make of that look, but it turns my stomach to knots.
“What happens to Dmitri?” I ask.
His expression doesn’t change, but something shrewd enters his eyes. “That depends on what you want.”
I look at him then. “I want him humiliated.”
“Then he will be.”
“I want him to know I didn’t crawl back.”
“He will know.”
“I want Katya to know too.”
For some reason, saying her name hurts more. Maybe because I expected nothing better from Dmitri in the end. Maybe some part of me always knew he was capable of this.
But Katya was my friend, or at least as much of a friend one could be in this world. The truth was I never belonged with them. They were Bratva princesses, where I was a mere underling’s unwanted daughter.
Yaromir’s gaze narrows slightly. “Katya?”
I go still. He doesn’t know.
For one second, I consider not telling him. Then I think of her mouth on Dmitri’s, her hand on his chest, her voice asking what would change after the wedding.
“My bridesmaid,” I say. “That’s who he was with.”
Yaromir says nothing. The silence is worse than anger. I watch his hand curl once at his side, then relax.
“Did you see them?” he asks.
I swallow. “Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
His jaw tightens.
I don’t understand why that makes me feel safer.
“Then yes,” he says quietly. “She will know too.”
The promise in his voice is not dramatic. That’s what makes it believable.
I turn away again, because if I keep looking at him, I will remember his mouth on mine, and I can’t afford that. Not now.
“My father,” I say. “If I say yes, his debt is gone?”
“Yes.”
“No tricks?”
“No.”
“No men coming back in six months to collect interest?”
“No.”
“No one touches him?”
His eyes harden at that word. “No one touches anyone under my protection.”
Yaromir studies me for a long moment, then reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket.
He pulls out a card and places it on the desk.
“There is a suite upstairs. You will sleep there tonight. Eat. Bathe. Rest. Tomorrow, you speak to a lawyer who will explain the marriage contract in language no one can twist.”
“A contract?”
“A real one. With terms for you.”
I stare at him. That’s not what I expected.
“What terms?”
“Money in your name. Property in your name. Freedom to leave the marriage after one year if you choose.”
My pulse jumps. “Leave?”
“Yes.”
“Divorce you?”
“If you want.”
I don’t know what to do with that.
Dmitri never once spoke of marriage like I might have options inside it. My father never spoke of anything like I had options at all.
Yaromir does, and somehow it feels more dangerous than force.
“Why one year?” I ask.
“Long enough to make the insult permanent.”
“To Dmitri.”
“To Dmitri. To my father. To anyone watching.” Yaromir moves back toward the fireplace, putting space between us again. “You have three days to decide.”
I look up. “Three days?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you are exhausted and angry. I want your answer when you can stand behind it.”
I laugh quietly. This man puts his hands on me until I can barely think, then talks about standing behind my answer.
“You’re very noble after the damage is done,” I say.
“No.” His eyes meet mine. “I am practical.”
I believe that.
I believe he’s cruel. I believe he’s dangerous. I believe there are parts of him I should never get close enough to understand. But I also believe he’s telling me the truth.
That’s what changes things.
Not the kiss. Not even the revenge.
The truth.
Yaromir doesn’t dress the cage with flowers. He doesn’t call it love. He doesn’t tell me to be grateful. He doesn’t pretend I’m lucky while stealing the ground under my feet.
I think of Dmitri in his wedding suit, kissing Katya less than an hour before he was supposed to marry me. I think of Katya’s mouth softening under his.
I think of Galina telling me men like Dmitri do not belong in cages.
I think of my father’s pale, terrified face in that hotel room.
I think of the man in the club hallway, blood spreading under him while I ran for my life.
Then I look at Yaromir. Early forties. Scarred. Silver at his temples. Built like something that doesn’t move unless it chooses to. A man people fear enough to lower their eyes.
A man Dmitri will hate seeing beside me.
My answer arrives before I can make it pretty.
“Yes.”
Yaromir doesn’t move. The fire cracks behind him.
“No,” he says.
I blink. “No?”
“Not like this.”
My anger flares. “You said I had a choice.”
“You do.”
“Then I’m choosing.”
“You’re reacting.”
“Maybe I’m tired of men deciding what my choices mean.”
For the first time, I see him pause.
Good.
I step closer, even though my body still remembers what happens when I get too near him. My pulse is racing, but I don’t stop.
“You want me to stand behind the answer?” I ask. “Fine. I will.”
His gaze stays on me.
I lift my chin. “I’m saying yes because my father is a selfish coward, but I don’t want him dead.
I’m saying yes because Dmitri humiliated me and I want him to feel it.
I’m saying yes because I’m tired of running from men who think I’m easy to corner.
” My voice shakes once. I force it steady.
“And I’m saying yes because when you touched me, I wanted it. I hate that, but I won’t lie about it.”
The room goes silent.
Yaromir’s face changes. Not much, but enough. His eyes darken, and for one brief moment, the control slips just far enough for me to see the hunger underneath.
It scares me.
It thrills me.
I don’t look away.
“There,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Is that clear enough for you?”
He walks toward me. Slowly. This time, I don’t step back.
He stops close enough that I can feel the heat of him again, but he doesn’t touch me. “Say it properly,” he says.
My heart pounds. I know what he means. I hate that my body knows too.
I hold his gaze. “Yes, Yaromir,” I say. “I’ll marry you.”
For a second, nothing happens.
Then his hand lifts and closes gently around my chin. He tilts my face up, studying me like he’s committing the moment to memory. “You understand what this makes you?”
I swallow. “Your wife.”
His thumb brushes once along my lower lip.
My breath catches.
“No,” he says. “It makes you untouchable.”
“Go upstairs,” he says. “Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow we begin.”
I stare at him, still breathing too fast. “Begin what?”
His mouth curves slightly. Not a smile.
“Dmitri’s humiliation.”