13. Anya #2
By the time we reach the upper floor, my legs ache from the day and the lack of sleep before it. I have been married, interrogated, paraded through a house, and reminded every ten minutes that I understand almost nothing about the life I’ve entered.
I stop near the landing. “Where am I sleeping?”
Yaromir turns. For some reason, the question changes something in his face. His expression remains controlled, but the silence after it is too long.
“I’ll have the guest bedroom prepared.”
The answer should relieve me.
It does, for one second. Then it hurts.
Stupidly.
I don’t want to share his bed. Of course I don’t. That would be insane. I barely know him. I should be grateful he’s not forcing the matter. This is the right answer, the respectful one, the practical one.
So why does it feel like rejection?
I fold my arms. “Fine.”
His eyes narrow slightly, as if he hears the wrongness in my voice.
Before he can answer, Larisa’s cane strikes the floor behind us.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
We both turn.
She stands at the top of the stairs, watching us with open displeasure. “Nonsense,” she says.
Yaromir goes still.
I already dislike the word before I know what she means.
Larisa looks directly at me. “You will share your husband’s bed.”
Heat rushes into my face.
“That is not your decision,” I say.
Her eyebrow lifts. It’s not a dramatic movement, but it makes me feel young and foolish.
“No?” she asks.
“No.”
Larisa looks at Yaromir. “Did you marry her or adopt her?”
My face burns hotter.
Yaromir says nothing.
I wait for him to correct her. To say the guest room is his decision. To say the terms we discussed still stand. To say something. Anything.
He does not.
He only looks at Larisa with that same cold expression, and I realize I have no idea what is passing between them.
Something did happen when they left earlier. Something that has made him harder.
Or made him remember that kindness is not useful.
Larisa turns back to me. “You are not a frightened mistress hidden in a side room. You are his wife. The house will know it. The staff will know it. The city will know it.” Her gaze drops to my ring. “Or do you plan to humiliate another Volkov husband by sleeping alone on your wedding night?”
The words hit exactly where she aims them.
My hands curl at my sides. “I humiliated no one who didn’t earn it.”
For the first time, Larisa smiles. It’s not kind. “Good. There may be some use in you after all.”
I hate her.
I hate the way she speaks about me as if I’m furniture being placed in the correct room. I hate that she looks at my marriage and sees performance. I hate that she’s not entirely wrong about the staff, the city, the gossip, the story everyone is already telling about me.
And I hate that Yaromir still has not spoken.
I turn to him. “Do you agree with her?”
His gaze meets mine.
This morning, in his study, he gave me terms. Money. Property. A way out after a year. He told me the door was not locked. He asked questions like my answer mattered.
He was almost kind.
Not gentle. Never that. But honest enough that I mistook it for safety.
Now he stands in the hallway, silent while his aunt decides where I will sleep.
“What happened?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes narrow slightly. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
Larisa watches us with obvious interest.
I don’t care.
“You brought me terms,” I say. “You told me this marriage would have conditions. You told me I could choose.”
“You did choose.”
“Yes. I chose to marry you. I didn’t choose to be ordered into your bed by your aunt.”
The hallway goes very quiet.
Yaromir looks at Larisa. “Leave us.”
Larisa’s mouth curves faintly. “How newly married of you.”
“Now.”
For a moment, I think she will refuse.
Then she inclines her head. “As you wish.”
She walks past us slowly, the cane tapping against the floor. As she passes me, her perfume cuts through the air, expensive.
She pauses just long enough to look at me. “Do not mistake discomfort for injustice, girl. Appearances are not decoration. They are armor.” Then she continues down the hall.
I watch her go. When she’s gone, I turn back to Yaromir. “Is that what I am now? Armor?”
His jaw tightens. “No.”
“A weapon?”
He says nothing.
That silence answers more than he wants it to.
I laugh quietly, but it comes out uneven. “Of course. You’re A Volkov, after all.”
“Anya.”
“No.” I step back from him. “I should have known.”
“You should have known what?”
“That the man in your study was just another negotiation tactic.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
Anger, maybe.
Regret, maybe.
I don’t know him well enough to tell the difference.
“You think I lied to you?” he asks.
“I think you gave me just enough truth to get me here.”
His face hardens.
Let him be offended. I’m offended too.
He steps closer, but not enough to crowd me. “You will not be forced.”
“Then say it clearly.”
His voice drops. “You will not be forced.”
My chest rises and falls too quickly.
I want to believe him. I hate that I do.
“Then why didn’t you say that in front of her?”
His silence is brief this time, but still there.
Long enough.
“Because she’s right about one thing,” he says.
My stomach tightens. “What?”
“If you sleep in a guest room tonight, people will notice.”
“So?”
“So by morning, Dmitri will know. My father will know. The city will know by dinner. The story becomes that I married you and couldn’t even get you into my bed.”
My cheeks burn. “That’s disgusting.”
“Yes.”
“You care what they think?”
“I care what they use.”
The answer is too practical to dismiss.
I hate it anyway.
“So I’m supposed to share your room for appearances.”
“Yes.”
“And nothing happens.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. Only for a second, but I feel it everywhere.
“Nothing happens unless you ask for it.”
My breath catches.
He sees that too. Of course he does.
I hate this. I hate him. I hate that my body has no loyalty to my anger.
I look away first. “Fine,” I say.
His voice stays even. “Fine?”
“I’ll sleep in your room.”
“You can have the bed.”
I look back at him. “And where will you sleep?”
“The chair. The sofa. The floor. Wherever I decide.”
“You would sleep on the floor in your own room?”
“If necessary.”
For some reason, that makes me angrier. Because it sounds like the man from the study again. The man with terms. The man who made me feel like I had some agency of my own. I don’t know which version is real.
Maybe both.
Maybe that’s the danger.
“I have work,” he says. “Nina will show you the room.”
“Your room.”
“Our room,” he corrects.
He turns before I can respond and walks down the hall, leaving me standing alone at the top of the stairs with my ring heavy on my hand and Larisa’s words still crawling under my skin.
You are in a Volkov house now.
I look down the hallway where Yaromir disappeared.
Three days ago, I agreed to a marriage of convenience. Today, I understand the first lesson.
Convenience does not mean comfort.
And in this house, even the bed is a battlefield.