Chapter 2 - Anya
“Emmanuil, please, just tell me what’s going on.” My voice sounds strong, even, and calm, but my body is on fire with fear and confusion. I haven’t seen him in years. I don’t want him to know the effect this moment is having on me.
I’m in complete and utter shock. My hands are shaking as I clasp them tightly together to try and hide it.
His eyes are cold and void as he stares down at me. I can’t read his expression. I used to be so good at reading the slightest flicker on his face.
When three men rushed into Georgie’s dorm room, where I was waiting to surprise her after her trip to visit my brother, I was terrified.
I had no idea what was going on. I even threw her massive psychology textbooks at one of them and managed to split open the skin of his cheeks with one of the corners.
I put up the best fight I could, but one girl against three men—it was hardly a fair fight at all.
They gagged me and tied me up and threw a hood over my face. I screamed against it, but there was no point. Everything was muffled; every breath I took was dusty from the fabric of the hood.
The man who smells like cigarette smoke, Logan—I think that’s what Emmanuil called him—carried me without an ounce of care or finesse. I’m sure my ribs and hips are bruised from being slung over his shoulder like that.
The entire time, my mind was racing, screaming, desperate to know what was going on. But when they took the hood off a few moments ago, the last person on the planet that I expected to be staring at was him.
He hasn’t changed.
Except he has.
His eyes are cold and dangerous.
As dark green as they always were, but there’s something missing.
Love. The gentleness that he used to have whenever he looked at me.
He’s hiding his emotions behind a wall of anger, visible in the muscles of his jaw as he clenches it shut. I swallow hard, fighting intense fear.
The knife in his hand is making me question everything.
He would never hurt you, Anya.
I don’t know that for certain.
I know what Bratva men are capable of. My father has always been a prime example of the evil in this underworld we live in.
I’ve never been afraid of Emmanuil, though—not of what he would do to me, but I know what he’s done to others.
I was never at risk of feeling the wrath of his capabilities, but that was then. And this is now. And I don’t know the man standing in front of me.
He lifts the knife slowly, pressing it against the soft skin beneath my chin. I hold my breath.
He looks the same. Pitch-black hair, just long enough to run my fingers through, a masculine, square jaw, shadowed with black stubble. Dark, but intense green eyes and the scar across his left eyebrow that only enhances his commanding stare.
He looks bigger, though. More solid, more muscular. He looks like he could snap me in half with one hand.
And with the darkness touching his eyes, it seems like he wants to.
My entire body is shivering now. What does he want with me? Why did he take me?
He’s even more gorgeous than the day I last saw him.
I open my mouth to say something, but he shakes his head.
“Not a word,” he growls in warning, his voice running over me like a drug, intoxicating, pulling memories to the surface that I’ve fought hard to push down. My heart stirs as his scent washes over me. He smells like pine trees after heavy rain. Like something wild and dangerous and beautiful.
I press my lips together and glare at him. Who the hell does he think he is?
But still, I find myself obeying him, not saying a word. It’s strange that even after all these years, my default reaction is to please him.
No, don’t be ridiculous, Anya. You’re not trying to please him, you’re trying to keep your cool until you can figure out what the hell is going on.
And he has a knife very close to my throat.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, and he pulls my bound hands up, then slips the knife between my wrists, and in a movement so fast I flinch in fright, he cuts away the restraints.
He pulls me close against his chest. An involuntary gasp escapes my lips, and my skin burns with desire.
“Do as you’re told, Anya. This will be over soon.”
What will be over?
I try to step away from him, to create some distance between us so that I can breathe and think and clear my head and stop this wild, urgent need that’s pulsing through my blood. But he refuses to let me go. He growls in anger and tugs me even tighter against his solid body.
“Did I say you could move?” he demands, loud and aggressive. I take a sharp breath in and feel my eyes flaring wider.
“No,” I murmur, realizing that Emmanuil is not the man I once knew. Not now, anyway. But he must be in there somewhere. The man I loved. Love.
Despite my best efforts to fight against it, a tear slips from my eye and rolls down my cheek. I don’t want to show weakness. I don’t want to show fear. Emmanuil sees it and reaches toward my face, moving slowly. He brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheek, wiping the tear away.
For the first time since he pulled the hood off my face, I see him as I remembered; I see his gentleness, the familiar gaze, the warmth. Then it’s gone, and instantly, I’m yearning to see it again.
I shake my head. Stop getting distracted. Figure out what’s going on so that you can escape.
Emmanuil seems angry that he let his mask slip. He sets it more firmly in place to hide any trace of kindness.
“We’re ready,” the round, weak-looking man near the desk says.
“Finally,” Emmanuil snaps, dragging me towards the desk. He pushes me forward over it and shoves a pen into my hand.
“Sign,” he snarls.
“What—what is this?” I stammer, trying to read the papers in front of me.
“Sign,” he yells.
My eyes dart over the words. Crisp and clear.
Marriage? He can’t be serious? Panic rises, flooding my body.
“I won’t,” I scream back at him, pushing hard away from the desk.
He grabs a handful of my hair and pulls my head back to stare into my eyes.
His face is inches from mine when he delivers the warning.
“Your brother’s life depends on you signing this document, Anya. Do it or he dies.” The words are only a whisper, but filled with darkness so deep it’s like he’s slipped a dagger between my ribs and pierced my heart.
I believe him.
He pushes me back towards the desk, and with trembling hands, I pick up the pen and sign.
He does the same.
“Is that it? Are we done, Sanchez?” Emmanuil asks.
“Do you want to say your vows?” Sanchez replies.
“Get it done quickly. I want to leave.”
Sanchez rushes through some half-assed vows in which I promise to be Emmanuil’s loyal and loving wife. What a load of shit this is. This is ridiculous. I say everything exactly as I’m asked to, and Emmanuil promises the same to me.
My husband.
There was a time in my life when this was all I dreamed of—with him. But not like this. It was supposed to be beautiful and magical.
This is a nightmare.
With business at the lawyer’s office concluded, Emmanuil drags me from the building, a firm grip on my arm. We head out to the car with those three assholes who kidnapped me, following close behind.
They get into their own car parked behind us.
Even in the backseat of the car, Emmanuil does not let go of me.
He hasn’t said a word to me after vowing to be my husband.
I turn my face away from him to stare out of the heavily tinted windows at the night lights of San Diego as we head back to his mansion.
The same mansion I know well.
Sitting with my body pressed against the side of his, I can sense the anger and the hatred pulsing from him in waves of heat that soak into me.
I’m relieved when we arrive at the mansion and I can move away from him. But as soon as we are out of the car, he takes my arm again and drags me up towards the front door.
It’s dark, but I can smell the ocean and hear the waves lapping against the shore. In daylight, the mansion has the most exquisite views. I’ve missed those views. I’ve missed this place.
“You know your way around, Anya, but let me make it clear from the moment you set foot inside: you are a prisoner here. You are not to leave the grounds, you are not to attempt any escape. You are to do anything I ask, and I suggest you stay out of my way.”
I glare at him, anger bubbling through me. “Fine.”
He shoves me through the front door and into the massive foyer.
The place is cold and dark and void of anything that might make it feel like home. It’s as though his house reflects him. Empty of emotion. It’s different from the last time I was here. Back then, it felt safe and warm. Welcoming. It reflected our connection, and I never wanted to leave.
An unwelcome ache of regret and tension sits in the pit of my stomach.
Emmanuil turns to the three men standing just inside the door. “Show her to her room,” he snaps, then walks away.
Logan steps forward and pushes me towards the stairs. “Come on,” he sighs, annoyed to be tasked with me.
The other two men stay behind, muttering to themselves.
“It’s the wrong fucking girl,” one of them whispers.
“So, Logan was right? That’s not Georgie?”
“No, that’s the guy’s sister.” Their voices are low, but I hear them clearly enough.
They hadn’t intended to take me. They wanted Georgie. Emmanuil was after my best friend, not me. No wonder he looked so horrified to see me when they removed the hood. No wonder he asked Logan if he knew who I was.
But what does he want with Georgie?
Logan pushes me along the passage towards one of the guest bedrooms.
“Don’t be difficult. Get inside.” He huffs.
I do as I’m told because my head is racing with this new knowledge.
If Emmanuil wanted Georgie, there’s only one possible reason for it.
He wanted to hurt her in order to hurt my brother. That’s it. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
I bite my lower lip as I watch Logan walk away. He doesn’t even lock the bedroom door. I’ve been warned, and they expect me to simply obey.
I walk over to the bed and sit on the corner, mind racing, trying to figure out what to do. Is he going to go after Georgie again? Seeing as they took the wrong girl the first time.
Was he going to marry Georgie to hurt Kristopher?
I have to protect her. I have to protect them both.
I’m the reason Emmanuil is so angry at Kristopher. They were always enemies, of course, but I made it a hundred times worse by allowing Emmanuil to think that Kristopher was responsible for what happened five years ago. He blames my brother, and I never corrected him.
I lie down on the bed, and the last thought I have before falling asleep is I have to keep them safe.
I’ll come up with something.
***
In the morning, I wake up with bright spring sunshine splashing over my pillow. The morning air is chilly, and I pull the blankets up over my face, groaning as I run through the memory of what happened last night.
I already know what I need to do.
But I’m terrified to face him—the man that I’ve spent years avoiding, years trying to distance myself from.
I need to go and negotiate with him for the safety of two people I love dearly. It’s strategic now. There are no feelings left between Emmanuil and me. This is a plan, and I have to make this sacrifice for my brother and my best friend.
I’m still wearing yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt when I make my way downstairs, the same outfit I was taken in, and the same outfit I slept in last night.
I brushed my hair, made it neat, and washed my face, so I look decent enough—but I couldn’t find the willpower to make myself at home, so to speak, choosing a fresh outfit from the closet in that room.
It was obviously prepared for Georgie. And until I know in my heart she is going to be safe, I won’t settle in or play this game.
Outside the kitchen, I pause, tilting my head to the side, my heart racing wildly.
I hear his movements, and I know it’s him because his cologne is so familiar.
Why does it still send me spiraling? My body is still sparking with desire at the scent of him.
I bite my lower lip hard enough to hurt, forcing myself to focus.
My heart is racing, and my head is spinning as I step through the kitchen door.
He’s standing at the coffee machine wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants. My throat goes tight, and my skin heats with desire. Fuck. He’s fucking gorgeous. Muscles ripple across his back in thick strands as he reaches for a coffee mug from the cabinet above him.
Oh my word—he’s divine.
I close my eyes, fighting for self-control. I take another step, further into the kitchen.
“Emmanuil, we need to talk,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster.
He turns slowly, taking all the time in the world.
He leans his ass against the kitchen counter and folds his thick, toned arms across his perfectly sculpted chest.
“Is that so?” he asks, his voice deep and quiet.
Dangerous. He’s definitely dangerous.
His eyes drift slowly up and down my body and narrow as they lock with mine. No smile. No hint of kindness. Not even a flicker that suggests he’s pleased to see me in any way whatsoever.
I clench my jaw and nod. Stay firm, be brave. “Yes, we definitely need to talk.”