Chapter 4
ANYA
The first thing I register before my eyes even open is how damn quiet it is in this place.
There’s no traffic bleeding through thin Brighton windows or distant music from Neptune.
This isn’t some cheap apartment in Brooklyn.
Viktor has gone through a lot of trouble to find a safehouse in a very rich district.
I don’t get up immediately. I stare at the ceiling and count my breaths, trying to control my anger. One breath in. Hold for eight counts. One breath out. Repeat.
It’s not horrible for a prison. The bed is comfortable and the sheets are a high thread count. I’m under no illusions, though. This definitely is a prison. Viktor Kovalev didn’t rescue me last night from Mikhail’s thugs.
For what reason, though? Does he have a death wish?
Mikhail won’t stop coming for me, which was something I was ready to handle.
It would have been easier to disappear on my own.
I didn’t have a plan, true, but whatever was going to happen after Viktor killed Mikhail’s men could have involved me disappearing into the night.
There’s no logical reason for Viktor to have brought me here. That makes him dangerous. Logic, at least, makes men predictable. I could reverse engineer whatever the hell he was thinking and figure out his motives. Without it, I’m left completely in the dark.
I turn my head slowly and take in my gilded cage.
The room is clean but impersonal. The walls are painted a neutral beige, and there are no pictures or artwork.
Not even the stock photos you’d see at a hotel.
The furniture is also minimal. There’s a bed, a nightstand, and a wardrobe.
Nothing else. The room also has a slightly musty smell, like it hasn’t been aired out in a while.
Whoever owns this place doesn’t live in it.
I sit up and force myself to actually wake up and figure out my next move. There are no weapons in the room. I check the nightstand, and of course, it’s empty. The wardrobe as well. All I have are the clothes I came in.
I walk over to the window to see if, maybe, it’ll open.
Not that it would matter since the room is on the third floor of the brownstone.
Even so, the window is sealed shut. There might as well be bars on it, though they would stand out in this neighborhood.
I try to figure out where we are. Brooklyn Heights?
Williamsburg? Maybe Bay Ridge or Red Hook. We’re definitely not in Brighton Beach.
So, he’s made me cross territory lines. That could be impulsive, or it could be incredibly calculated. There’s no way for me to tell. I try to remember what little I know about Viktor Kovalev.
He’s the heir of the Kovalev Bratva, I remember that much. His father died fairly recently, although that’s relative. For all I pay attention to other families, that could mean the last six months or the last five years.
I remember that he’s called The Enforcer, though I don’t really remember why. I assume it’s because that was his main role in his family before his father’s death. He certainly is physically imposing. Ironically, he isn’t the kind of man I would want to run into in a dark alley.
So why didn’t he just leave me? Why did he force me to come with him? He gains nothing from this. If anything, he stands to lose big because of it.
I walk over to the door and gingerly check the knob. It isn’t locked. I pause with my hand on the handle, considering what to do. He’s clearly given me the freedom to leave the room. What about the house? How easily could I get away?
That’s answered immediately when I step out into the hallways and see a guard standing there. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but I know he would stop me from leaving the house if he had to. Sure enough, he dogs me as I move through the place.
I also pretend not to notice the cameras all over as I explore. They’re not well-concealed, but then they probably aren’t meant to be. He wants me to know he’s watching.
First, I find the bathroom. It’s also pretty bare, with only a couple of bars of soap and one towel. There’s a thin shower curtain, like something in a cheap hotel. Everything about this screams minimal effort.
There’s another door on this floor and I peek in to find another minimal bedroom.
From there, I go down to the second floor, where there’s another bedroom and bathroom.
The bedroom is much larger and the bed looks slept in.
This must be where he stayed last night.
I don’t linger in the doorway very long. Something about it feels invasive.
Instead, I go down to the main floor, where I find an open living room and a large kitchen. There’s a smattering of pastries on the kitchen counter and a few bottles of water in the fridge. I ignore them and continue my search around the house, noting the layout.
There are two possible exits downstairs.
The front door, obviously, and a back door off the kitchen.
It isn’t clear yet if there’s anything in the back that would prevent me from running, like a reinforced alleyway.
Based solely on Lurch following me around, I’m sure he has guards who would prevent me from trying.
I don’t go to the front door, because I know it would be useless. There’s no way he’s left the front door open for me, or that one of his guards wouldn’t prevent me from leaving. He’s not stupid. He’s a man who relies on psychological warfare just as much as physical.
That’s why I didn’t run last night. He was right when he said I had nowhere else to go. I could have run when we arrived at the house, but there were already men waiting for us.
Instead, I asked him where I would be sleeping and he told me to pick a room on the third floor. That was the last interaction we had, and now I don’t even know where the hell he is.
I go back to the kitchen, my hunger getting the better of me.
I grab a bottle of water and a pastry, and sit down at the table, slowly taking a bite.
I stare out onto the street. The whole place is so bright and airy, but it’s an illusion.
I have a feeling you can’t see into the house from the outside.
He’s smart enough to know that keeping the house locked down and all the blinds closed would be too obvious of a tell.
“You’re awake,” Viktor says as he walks into the kitchen, causing me to startle as he pulls me from my thoughts.
I ignore him, looking over his shoulder longingly at the knives sitting on the counter. He tracks my gaze.
“Try it,” he says mildly. “I’d love the sparring practice.”
I roll my eyes and keep my gaze fixed on him. He’s larger in the light of day. He’s not bulky, necessarily, but he’s clearly well-built and very, very tall. His shoulders are broad, and his arms are thick enough to be imposing.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“It’s probably better that you don’t know,” he says carefully.
It doesn’t matter, I realize. Either way, we’re away from Brighton Beach, and Mikhail isn’t going to like that. He’s going to tear up the city looking for me.
“You’re not known for rescuing women,” I continue. “So what exactly is this?”
He goes to the counter where he brews coffee at a Keurig I didn’t notice. He doesn’t answer my question at first, instead taking his time to make his drink. He’s irritatingly patient.
I get up and join him in the kitchen, grabbing one of the knives since his back is to me. Immediately, he turns on me, wrapping his fingers around my wrist until I’m forced to let go of the handle. The knife clatters onto the floor, the sound of metal hitting wood filling up the space.
He looks mildly amused before he twists my arm behind my back and pushes me into the kitchen island. My hip hits the edge. His body follows a second later, pinning me.
I immediately notice the heat of him against my back. He’s warm and solid through his shirt.
I wrench out of his grasp and turn on him, driving my knee upward. He blocks it easily with his thigh without even looking down. I try to roll my shoulder under his arm and slip free. He adjusts with me like he’s anticipating the shift before I make it.
His other hand settles at my waist to stop my rotation and his grip tightens slightly.
“You’re wasting your energy,” he says quietly into my ear. “I’m not like those men who tried to grab you last night. I have much more training.”
“Let go of me,” I hiss, not even trying to get away. I know when I’m physically outmatched.
“Not until you agree not to try and attack me again.”
My body is flush against his for a second longer than it needs to be.
I hate that I register the shape of him. I hate that my body is so aware of his. He’s not even out of breath.
“I will never submit to you,” I tell him through clenched teeth.
His mouth lifts slightly on one side. It isn’t a smile, exactly, but he does look amused.
“Good,” he replies calmly.
That wasn’t the response I expected. He leans in just enough that I feel his breath near my ear. “Fight me.”
The words aren’t mocking, but he’s definitely challenging me, testing my resolve. Then he releases my wrist abruptly.
I shove him back on instinct. He gives ground half a step, more to reset than because I moved him.
I put space between us.
“You think this is amusing,” I say, irritated. “This is my life. I’m not some pawn for you or my father or Mikhail to use.”
“Is that what you think?” he asks, looking genuinely curious.
“You brought me here because you think I’m useful,” I say. “You think you can use me as leverage. Maybe you want some of his territory or you think you can negotiate some kind of treaty.”
He neither confirms nor denies, which is even more irritating. His face is completely impassive. I wish I understood anything about him, but he’s giving me nothing to go on.
“You miscalculated,” I continue. “Mikhail doesn’t negotiate when he’s embarrassed.”
His eyes sharpen slightly at that.
“Does he embarrass easily?” he asks, almost smirking.
He’s trying to get a rise out of me, I know. That’s all this is. I won’t give into it. I hold his gaze. Then I push him again, out of frustration.
He studies my face like he’s cataloging information.
“Watch yourself, Valkyrie,” he says slowly. “I’m not always so patient.”
He takes a step back, but I can still feel the tension rolling off of him. I’m going to make him regret ever bringing me here.