Chapter Thirty-Two Anya
I wake to the smell of antiseptic and something metallic, sharp enough to scrape the back of my throat. My head throbs, a dull, pulsing ache that seems to radiate behind my eyes. For a moment, I don’t move. I catalog sensations—breathing, listening, feeling.
The surface beneath me is too firm to be a bed at home. Leather, maybe. A couch.
I open my eyes.
The ceiling above me is unfamiliar. Smooth, white, with recessed lighting instead of the ornate chandelier I’ve grown up under. My heart stutters, then begins to race. I turn my head slowly, every movement making my skull protest.
Igor is sitting in a chair across the room.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as if he’s been praying. His dark eyes are fixed on me, unblinking.
I suck in a sharp breath and push myself upright, nearly falling back when the room tilts. “What—” My voice is hoarse. My throat burns. “Where am I?”
“My apartment,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “You fainted in the car. I brought you somewhere safe.”
I stare at him, fury cutting through the fog in my head. “You drugged me,” I snap. “You kidnapped me.”
His expression tightens, wounded. “I gave you a mild sedative. Only enough to help you sleep. You were upset.”
I swing my legs off the couch, my body sluggish, my limbs heavy as if I’m moving through water. “You put a needle in my neck,” I say, my voice shaking now with rage. “That isn’t helping me sleep.”
He stands, palms out, as if approaching a frightened animal. “Anya, please. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Don’t come any closer.” I scramble to my feet, my back brushing against a counter. The apartment is sleek and modern—steel, glass, muted colors. No warmth. No comfort. “You had no right.”
“I did it because I love you,” he says softly.
The words hit me harder than the drug ever could.
I laugh, short and incredulous. “You don’t love me.”
His jaw tightens. “I have always loved you. Since the day we met. I knew you were the one for me. I’m not like the others. Everything I’ve done has been to give you the life you deserve.”
My chest tightens despite myself. “What have you done?”
“I thought…” He drags a hand through his hair, pacing now. “I thought once Alexi was gone, everything would fall into place.”
Cold spreads through my veins. “Gone?”
“I knew he never wanted the Bratva,” Igor continues, his voice gaining intensity. “He despised it. He was weak, sentimental. Alexandr saw that too. I thought—once he was out of the picture—your father would finally look at me as a son. As the heir he always wanted.”
“You tried to replace my brother,” I whisper.
“I wanted to protect you,” he insists. “To marry you. To keep you safe.”
My stomach churns. “By abducting me?”
He stops pacing and looks at me sharply. “Do you know how angry I was when Alexandr started considering Oleg, Artem, and Pavel?” His lips curl in disgust. “Men like that had no business breathing the same air as you.”
My heart begins to pound. “You killed them?”
A slow smile spreads across his face, something dark and satisfied. “They tried to hurt you,” he says simply. “They thought they could touch what was mine. It was my pleasure to punish them,” he says, his voice low. “They begged. They always do.”
The room seems to close in around me. My ears ring. “You murdered them.”
“Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t deny it. “For you.”
I shake my head, backing away until my shoulders hit the wall. “You’re sick.”
“You’re alive,” he counters. “Because of me.”
“No,” I choke. “I’m terrified because of you.”
Something flashes across his face then—anger, sharp and sudden. He reaches into his jacket pocket.
“No,” I whisper as I see the syringe glint in his hand, already filled with clear liquid. “Please don’t.”
“Just something to calm you down,” he says, stepping toward me. “You’re hysterical.”
I look around desperately, my body still sluggish, my mind screaming at me to move faster, think faster. There’s nowhere to run.
“Stay back!” I scream, my voice breaking as he closes the distance, the needle catching the light.
He doesn’t stop.
I scream again, the sound tearing out of me, raw and desperate, filling the apartment as he reaches for me.
The door explodes inward with a deafening crack.
For half a second, I think I’m hallucinating—my drugged, panicked mind conjuring salvation out of sheer desperation. Wood splinters fly across the apartment, the sound sharp and violent, and then the room is suddenly full of men, motion, noise.
“Anya!”
Vladimir’s voice cuts through everything else. My knees nearly buckle at the sound of my name on his lips.
Igor spins toward the door, the syringe still clutched in his hand. He doesn’t even have time to react before Alexi slams into him from the side. Dominic is right behind him, a wall of muscle and fury. Igor grunts as they drive him backward, the syringe skidding across the floor.
“Get off me!” Igor snarls, fighting like a cornered animal.
Alexi’s face is unrecognizable—no hesitation, no doubt, just pure, focused rage. “You don’t get to touch her,” he growls.
Dominic scoops up the fallen syringe in one smooth motion. “Hold him.”
Igor struggles, but Alexi locks him down, forearm across his throat, pinning him hard.
Dominic plunges the needle into Igor’s arm without ceremony.
Igor’s protests turn sluggish almost instantly, his strength draining as the sedative takes hold.
Within seconds, he goes limp, crumpling to the floor in a heap of dark clothes and broken plans.
I barely register it.
Vladimir is all I see.
His hands are on my face, warm, grounding, his eyes searching mine with naked fear. “Anya,” he says urgently. “Are you hurt? Did he touch you?”
I shake my head, my breath coming in shallow gasps. “No. He—he tried. He had another syringe.”
Vladimir exhales, a shaky sound I’ve never heard from him before, and pulls me into his chest. For just a moment, I let myself sink into him, my forehead pressed against his shoulder, my fingers curling into his coat as if he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs fiercely. “I’ve got you.”
I pull back, reality crashing in all at once. The clock on the wall catches my eye.
My heart lurches. “The theater.”
All three of them stare at me.
“I’m late,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I have a performance.”
Alexi blinks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Anya, you were just kidnapped.”
“I know.” My hands tremble, but my resolve doesn’t. “He doesn’t get to take this from me, too.”
“Anya,” Alexi says carefully, stepping closer. “You’re in shock. You need to rest. We can cancel—”
“No.” I lift my chin, meeting my brother’s eyes. “If I don’t go on stage, he wins. I won’t let that happen.”
Silence stretches tight between us.
Vladimir studies me, really looks at me, as if weighing something heavy and important. Then he nods once.
“I’ll take her,” he says.
Alexi turns to him sharply. “Vladimir—”
“I’ll get her there,” Vladimir continues, his voice calm but unyielding. “And I’ll stay with her.”
I look at him, gratitude swelling so fiercely it almost hurts.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He offers me his arm, steady and sure. “Come on, moya malen’kaya voitelnitsa,” he says softly. “Let’s get you to the theater.”
I preen at him calling me his little warrior.
By the time I slip through the stage door, the familiar hush of the theater wraps around me like a held breath.
I’m late—only by minutes—but it feels monumental after everything that’s happened.
The corridors buzz with quiet urgency. Stagehands glide past with headsets and clipboards, dancers stretch in corners, and the sharp scent of rosin and hairspray anchors me to something solid and known.
I rush to put on my costume, leaving Vladimir to find his seat.
Silk clings to my skin, the bodice fitted just right, the skirt whispering when I move.
My hair is pinned, my makeup flawless—evidence of muscle memory and discipline taking over when my mind threatened to fracture.
No one asks questions. They never do. On this side of the curtain, there is only the work.
I take my place in the wings as the orchestra begins the overture. The music swells, rich and familiar, vibrating through the soles of my shoes and straight into my bones.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I shove Igor out of my mind with ruthless precision. The apartment. The syringe. The look in his eyes. All of it gets locked away behind a door I refuse to open. The Bratva follows—my father, the blood, the secrets, the weight of it all. None of it belongs to me here.
Here, I am someone else.
When the curtain rises, I step into the light, and the world narrows to movement and sound.
My body remembers what my mind tries to forget.
Every turn, every extension, every controlled breath pulls me deeper into the role.
The audience disappears. Fear dissolves.
There is only the music and the story unfolding through my limbs.
I lose myself.
Almost.
Because no matter how fiercely I focus, one thought slips through the cracks.
Vladimir.
I feel him the way I feel the rhythm—steady, grounding, impossible to ignore. I imagine him somewhere in the darkened theater, watching with that intense, unreadable gaze of his. I picture his hands, warm and sure, the way he held my face earlier, anchoring me when the world spun out of control.
When I leap, I think of trust.
When I land, I think of safety.
It startles me, how comforting that is.
The performance flies by in a blur of motion and emotion. The final notes ring out, and the curtain falls to thunderous applause. My chest heaves as I bow, sweat cooling on my skin, adrenaline rushing through me in a way that feels clean and earned.
Backstage, congratulations swirl around me, but I barely register them. I change quickly, hands shaking now that the music has stopped and the silence has room to creep in.
When I step out of my dressing room, I see him.
Vladimir stands in the hallway as if he belongs there, broad shoulders filling the space, his expression softening the moment his eyes meet mine.
Something inside me breaks open.
I don’t hesitate. I drop my bag and run to him, my arms going around his neck as he catches me effortlessly. I laugh as I kiss him, the sound bubbling out of me before I can stop it.
“You were incredible,” he murmurs against my hair.
I pull back just long enough to smile at him—wide, unguarded, real—before settling into his embrace again. His arms close around me, solid and protective, and for the first time all day, I feel truly calm.
Content.
Safe.
Held exactly where I belong.