Chapter 7
The gates slam shut behind the car with a heavy, final sound that lands in my chest like a weight.
The iron wolves on either side are huge, mid-snarl, all teeth and rage. I watch them in the side mirror until they disappear into the dark.
The peppermint tablet on my tongue has almost dissolved, but I keep rolling the last sharp grain around my mouth like it’s the only thing I can still control. Everything else—my future, my body, Mishka’s life—is in someone else’s hands now.
The driver doesn’t look at me once. I should be grateful. I don’t think I could handle anyone’s eyes on me right now, any kind of attention. His hands are tight on the wheel, knuckles pale. He looks like he’s having a bomb in the backseat.
My own hands won’t stop shaking, no matter how hard I clamp them together in my lap.
I press my fingers so tight my nails dig crescents into my skin.
It doesn’t help. Great. Really helpful, nervous system.
Tremble harder. The last thing I want is to walk into Roman Volkov’s house looking like someone who knows she doesn’t get to leave.
I try to keep my thoughts on my brother—Mishka leaving school, Mishka at the bus stop, Mishka completely unaware that one man’s debt and another man’s power turned him into leverage.
The car climbs higher. Moscow spreads beneath us—streets glowing, domes and towers catching the last of the light.
Somewhere down there is the illusion that if I crossed enough borders and changed languages enough times, my past would stop knowing where to find me.
Last week I was with Zhenya at Propaganda, drinking until collapse and laughing our souls out.
Then armed men arrived at my door and I only remember the words Bratva, debt, marriage.
Idiot, Mama says in the back of my head. You can’t outrun blood.
The mansion appears through the trees—huge, perfectly lit. Money built it. Power decided who feels small inside it.
The driver stops. A guard opens my door. Cold air hits my face and claws through my coat, but the shock helps. It keeps me from vomiting.
My boots crunch on the gravel. The guard gestures toward the front steps, expression blank. I follow because there is no alternative.
The stone stairs stretch up, wide and imposing. I count without meaning to. One, two, three. By step forty my breath starts to come faster. By step fifty-three my mind is a quiet, repeating drum of of don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall.
Inside, the temperature jumps. Warmth, polished marble floors, high ceilings. Chandeliers throw soft light over everything. Icons hang on the walls—saints with sorrowful eyes, gold halos, blue robes. They stare down at me like they know exactly what kind of house this is. I look away fast.
A man steps out from a side corridor. Tall. Broad. Blond hair, pale eyes, a face that looks like it’s been broken and set again at least once. He wears a suit but stands like a soldier.
“Miss Morozova,” he says. “I’m Luka. Follow me.”
My throat has tightened so much it hurts, so I just nod.
My legs move, which feels like an accomplishment.
We walk down a long hallway lined with oil portraits.
Generations of men stare down—same eyes, same hard jaw, same sense that their version of love comes with conditions and body counts.
I try to match them with the few photos I found on Google of Roman Volkov.
We stop at a heavy wooden door carved with wolves in mid-hunt. Someone took time making sure the teeth are sharp.
“He’s inside,” Luka says. “Don’t make him repeat himself.”
My pulse stutters. There’s a warning in his tone that isn’t loud, but I hear it.
Luka knocks twice, then opens the door and steps aside.
Smoke hits me first—rich tobacco. The room beyond is darker than the hallway. Bookshelves, a fireplace, thick rugs, a desk that belongs in a history book.
The door closes behind me with a soft click. It sounds final.
A man sits behind the desk. When he stands, my heart misfires.
Roman Volkov is big in a way that feels wrong for a room this size. Wide shoulders under a charcoal suit, chest broad, narrow waist, everything about him is built for impact. Dark hair, short on the sides. A scar runs along his jaw to his ear, pale against his skin. And those eyes.
Grey. Cold. Focused entirely on me.
He doesn’t great me. He just watches me like I’m something he ordered and wants to make sure arrived as described.
His gaze moves down my body and back up again—slow. It feels like being evaluated.
Holy shit.
I resist the urge to tug at my coat and make myself presentable. What the fuck? I stand still because moving feels like it would show too much.
“You’re late,” he says at last.
His Russian is clean. Mine is nowhere near ready for this. I haven’t spoken it in seven years and did my best to forget it, along with my memories.
“Probki,” I say. Traffic. The word sounds clumsy in my mouth. “There was… traffic. And I needed a moment.”
His expression doesn’t flicker.
“Lügnerin.” Liar.
He fucking speaks German!
My stomach drops. “What?”
“You sat outside my gates for seven minutes,” he says. “I timed it.”
Seven minutes I thought belonged to me.
“You were deciding whether to run,” he continues.
Heat crawls up my neck. Fantastic, he watched the panic show through the windshield.
“Yes,” I say. There’s no point lying. “I thought about it.”
“What stopped you?” he asks.
I swallow. “My brother. They showed me what happens to him if I don’t cooperate.”
His eyes darken, not with sympathy.
“You’re afraid,” he says.
I hold his gaze. “Yes.”
“You don’t try to hide it,” he notes.
“I don’t think I could,” I say. My voice wobbles. “And you’d see through it anyway.”
His attention focuses. He steps out from behind the desk and walks toward me with a calm stride that makes my heart pound harder. He stops just close enough that I have to tilt my head back to keep looking at him.
He switches languages again so smoothly it makes my skin prickle.
“You thought I was a primitive man.” His English is even better than his German.
Shit.
My mouth opens, but all that comes out is, “I didn’t—”
His eyebrow lifts slightly.
I shut my mouth again.
“You didn’t expect this,” he says. “The languages. The fact that I know everything that matters about you.”
Ice slides down my spine. “Everything?”
“Six years in Basel,” he says easily. “Toxicology doctorate. Research focus on stabilization of synthetic opioid derivatives. The stipend you sent home every month. The money to Mishka’s school. Your father’s gambling. Your mother’s work before she died. Your papers under her maiden name.”
He lists my life like he’s reading a grocery inventory. My chest feels too tight.
“You studied me,” I whisper.
“Of course,” he says. “I don’t make deals blind.”
Deals. That’s one word for it.
My vision blurs at the edges for a second. The room feels smaller. I drag in air but it doesn’t feel like enough. The buzzing in my ears gets louder.
He sees it before I do.
“Look at me,” he says.
I didn’t even realize my gaze had dropped, but I force it back up. My knees soften.
He moves forward and his hands close around my upper arms, steady and firm, catching me before I go down.
“Breathe,” he says quietly. “Here. With me.”
The warmth of his grip cuts through the ice in my veins. I pull in a breath, shaky and shallow, then another. My heart is going way too fast. I can feel it banging against my ribs.
“You’re not going to fall,” he commands me. “You can stand.”
“I don’t feel like I can,” I whisper.
His right hand releases my arm and comes up to my face. He cups my jaw gently, thumb brushing under my cheekbone in a slow stroke that sends a hot, unwelcome line of awareness down my spine.
Oh fuck. No. Not this. Not now.
My body leans into the touch before my brain can shout it down. Heat curls low in my stomach, mixed up with panic and shame.
“No one touches what is mine,” he says, voice low. “Not even fear.”
The word mine sinks deep. I hate that it works at all.
“I never agreed to be yours,” I say, somehow. My cheeck is wet and my eyes sting. Am I crying?
“You will,” he replies. “The contract is a formality.”
Arrogant doesn’t even begin to cover it, but the confidence in his tone makes my heart clutch. There is no room for negotiation.
His thumb makes one last pass over my skin, then his fingers loosen and fall away. I miss the contact in the exact same moment I want to scrub it off. The confusion makes my head spin.
He steps back a fraction, still close enough that I feel his body heat.
“Better,” he says, studying my face. “Your breathing has settled.”
“I’m… trying,” I say.
“You are doing more than trying,” he answers. “You’re still standing.”
He turns away, walks to the desk, and pours amber liquid from a decanter into a crystal glass. The sound of the whiskey hitting glass is weirdly loud in the quiet.
He brings it back and sets it on the edge of the desk near me.
“Drink.”
I look from the glass to him.
“It will help,” he says simply.
Or kill me. At this point, it’s hard to tell which would be kinder. But my hands are still shaking, and my eyes burns with tears, and I need it. I lift the glass. The whiskey scorches its way down my throat, then spreads warmth out through my chest.
I set the empty glass down carefully so I don’t drop it.
He leans against the desk, hands clutching it at his sides, ankles crossed. Somehow he still manages to look like he’s in control of every molecule in the room.
“If we are going to be husband and wife,” he says, “you need to understand something now.”
The words husband and wife make my stomach flip. I focus on his tie so I don’t start shaking again.
“All right,” I say.
“You have nothing to fear,” he says, “as long as you follow my rules.”
There it is. The line. The one my entire life is about to balance on.
I swallow. “And if I don’t?”
“Then Mishka’s safety becomes… uncertain. And I become less patient.”
My fingers curl into my palms so hard it hurts.
“Those are your choices, Anya,” he says. “Not yes or no. Not stay or go. Simply: how difficult you want me to make this while your brother keeps breathing.”
Panic rushes up fast again, colliding with anger. He’s not pretending this is anything other than what it is.
I steady myself, plant my feet, and lift my chin.
“Then we should talk about your rules,” I say.
For the first time since I walked in, his mouth curves, just a little.
“We will,” he says.