Chapter 35
MARIYA
Isit on the plush cream sofa in Anatoly's living room, my hands folded carefully in my lap while I fight the urge to bolt for the door.
The room is elegant in that cold, sterile way that screams money but no soul.
Everything is white or beige or some shade of expensive neutrality.
Even the guards positioned near the windows blend into the background like well-dressed furniture.
Anatoly sits across from me in a leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, his posture relaxed.
He's objectively attractive. I can admit that.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features and dark hair styled perfectly.
His suit is tailored to show off his build, and there's a dangerous edge to him that would probably make most women weak in the knees.
But his eyes are dead.
That's the only word for it. When he looks at me, there's nothing warm there.
No humor, no genuine interest, just cold calculation.
Like he's assessing a business acquisition instead of talking to a person.
It makes my skin crawl in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with revulsion.
He's been talking for the past twenty minutes about our "future together", his voice smooth and confident. How well-matched we are. How our families would benefit from a true alliance. How I'm exactly the kind of woman who could stand beside a man like him.
I nod occasionally, making the appropriate sounds of interest while my stomach churns. The gun resting on the side table next to his chair is probably meant to intimidate me, but honestly, it just makes him look insecure. Like he needs props to feel powerful.
"You understand the importance of legacy, don't you, Mariya?" Anatoly leans forward slightly, his pale eyes locked on my face. "A man in my position needs heirs. Strong sons who can carry on what I've built."
The word "heirs" makes bile rise in my throat. I swallow hard, forcing my expression to stay neutral. The thought of this man touching me, of bearing his children, makes me want to vomit all over his expensive couch.
"Of course," I manage, my voice steady despite the nausea rolling through me.
He smiles, clearly pleased with my response. "I knew you'd understand. You're intelligent and beautiful, and you come from good bloodlines. Our children would be exceptional."
I dig my nails into my palms, using the pain to keep myself grounded. Don't react. Don't give him anything he can use against you.
But my mind keeps drifting away from Anatoly's droning voice, away from this sterile room and his dead eyes. Instead, I find myself thinking about Andrey.
The comparison is unavoidable. Even when Andrey first captured me, when I was terrified and furious and convinced he was going to kill me, his eyes had never been this cold. There was always something there. Heat, anger, desire, amusement. Something alive and real.
I'd never felt disgusted in his presence. Frustrated, yes. Furious, absolutely. But never this bone-deep revulsion that makes me want to scrub my skin clean.
And lately…
The realization hits me like a physical blow, stealing my breath.
Lately, I've looked forward to spending time with Andrey.
Not just the sex, though God knows, that's incredible.
But the conversations over breakfast. The way he listens when I talk about my day.
How he touches me casually when we pass in the hallway, his hand finding the small of my back or his fingers brushing my arm.
The quiet moments in bed after we've both finished, when he pulls me against his chest and I can hear his heartbeat beneath my ear.
I've fallen in love with him.
With my husband. With a Pakhan. With the man who kidnapped me and forced me into marriage.
The truth crashes over me with such force that I actually sway slightly in my seat.
My chest tightens, my pulse racing as I process what this means.
I love Andrey. I love his strength and his protectiveness and the way he makes me feel safe even when everything around us is dangerous.
I love how he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
And I'm sitting here in another man's living room while that man talks about making me bear his children.
"Mariya?"
Anatoly's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I blink, focusing on his face. He's watching me with that calculating expression, his head tilted slightly.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "What did you say?"
His lips curve into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes. "I asked if you thought I should kill Andrey Melnikov. It would simplify things considerably. No messy divorce, no territorial disputes. Just a clean elimination of the problem."
My blood runs cold. "Kill him?"
"Of course." Anatoly's tone is casual, like he's discussing the weather. "He's the only obstacle between us and a very profitable future. Once he's gone, you'll be free to marry me properly. The families will unite, and we'll control territories from Moscow to the Baltic Coast."
I open my mouth to respond, though I have no idea what I'm going to say. My mind is screaming at me to stall, to say something that won't get Andrey killed but won't make Anatoly suspicious either.
Before I can form words, bright lights flood the living room.
They're coming from outside, harsh and blinding through the tall windows. I raise my hand to shield my eyes, confusion mixing with sudden hope. What's happening?
Anatoly jumps to his feet, his hand immediately going to the gun on the side table. The guards near the windows move into action, weapons drawn as they rush toward the doors.
Then the quiet evening explodes into chaos.
Shouts erupt from outside, male voices yelling in Russian. Gunfire cracks through the air, sharp and terrifying. The front door bursts open with a crash that makes me flinch.
I dive to the floor without thinking, my body moving on pure instinct. The plush carpet cushions my fall as bullets start flying. The sound is deafening, overwhelming, and I press my hands over my ears while my heart slams against my ribs.
Andrey. It has to be Andrey.
The firefight is brutal but brief. I keep my head down, my eyes squeezed shut as the gunfire continues. Men are shouting, some in pain, others barking orders. Glass shatters somewhere to my left. Something heavy hits the floor with a sickening thud.
Then, suddenly, it's over.
The silence that follows is almost as loud as the gunfire. My ears ring as I slowly lift my head, my hands shaking as I push myself up slightly to see what's happened.
Anatoly lies on the floor a few feet away, his dead eyes staring at nothing.
Blood pools beneath his head from the bullet hole in his temple.
His guards, the ones still alive, are being dragged forward by men I recognize as Andrey's.
They're forced to their knees, weapons pressed to the backs of their heads.
But I don't care about any of that.
My gaze finds Andrey immediately. He's standing near the entrance, his broad frame silhouetted against the lights from outside.
His dark hair is disheveled, his suit jacket torn at the shoulder, and there's blood spattered across his shirt.
But his eyes are searching the room frantically, desperate and wild.
When his gaze lands on me, relief floods his face so completely that it takes my breath away.
He moves toward me immediately, stepping over bodies and debris without looking down. His focus is entirely on me, and the intensity of it makes my chest ache.
I push myself to my feet on shaky legs, my whole body trembling with adrenaline and relief and a dozen other emotions I can't name. He came for me. Of course he came for me.
Andrey reaches me in seconds, his hands going to my face as he searches for injuries. "Are you hurt? Did he touch you?"
The concern in his voice, the way his fingers tremble slightly against my cheeks, breaks something inside me. All the fear and disgust and confusion from the past hours crashes over me at once, transforming into fury.
"What took you so long?" I demand, my voice sharp and accusing.
Andrey opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. His expression shifts, confusion flickering across his face. Then his hands drop from my face, and I notice the blood.
There's so much blood.
It's pooling across his chest, spreading dark and wet across the white fabric of his shirt. The stain grows larger even as I watch, and my brain struggles to process what I'm seeing.
"Andrey?" My voice comes out small, frightened.
He sways slightly, his pale eyes meeting mine. I see the exact moment his strength gives out, the way his body goes slack.
Then he falls to the ground.