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My heart aches, splintering apart piece by piece as I watch him play. I know I’m leaving. I know I have to, but part of me fears Nikolai will only be upset. He hasn't seen the real stakes ofthis circumstance. He only sees Papa Rolan as a good man, not the monster he is.

To him, when I yank him away in the middle of the night, I will seem the monster.

I hope he can forgive me.

16

ROLAN

The hallway outside my office is quiet, muffled by heavy rugs and thick walls that have kept secrets longer than I’ve been alive. Morning light bleeds through the tall windows, but it's not enough to aid the overhead lights. Thick clouds blanket Moscow, holding the chill down to the earth. The cold outside seeps into the corners of the house despite the radiators cracking to life. It suits the moment.

Father Gavril stands near the study door, adjusting the cuffs of his black wool coat, and he keeps his expression guarded. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and glances toward the folio tucked under his arm.

“She won’t fight you?” he asks, keeping his voice low. His brows draw together slightly in a way that hints at unease without crossing into judgment.

“She already has,” I answer. “Now she chooses—my name or she loses her son.” I see my statement take root behind his eyes and he turns away, unable to hold my gaze.

His shoulders square as he feels me stare at him, and from inside the leather folio, he removes the marriage certificate and lays it on the table. Every line is filled in except Anya's. I let myeyes drift over the paper for a moment before turning over my shoulder toward the door where my guard waits.

“Stepan,” I say, not raising my voice, and he’s already in motion, straightening and readying himself for my orders. “Bring her to the parlor.” He heads off to collect her and I gesture at Father Gavril to follow me, and he snatches up his paperwork, seeing the folly of getting too comfortable too quickly. At least he understands his job.

I enter the main parlor with the priest and notice the fireplace is cold. We won't be here long, so I leave it that way. A single oil lamp near the bookshelf throws light across the carved edges of the coffee table and the worn velvet chairs that frame it in. A tray with two glasses rests on the sideboard untouched, and Father Gavril hovers near the writing table on the far side of the room.

Time passes before footsteps approach, echoing down the hallway. Anya enters first, her sweater loose around her shoulders, the fabric hanging unevenly from the tension in her frame. Her arms are folded, her mouth set in a line. Her eyes are locked on mine. She stops a few paces inside the room with Stepan behind her in the doorway. I nod once, and he closes the door behind her, leaving us to our privacy.

“Sit,” I tell her, watching her closely.

She remains standing. Her chin lifts a fraction higher in quiet resistance to my order, tension laced into every line of her posture. I move closer to her and her grip tightens on her sleeves, but she doesn’t move.

"What's this about, Rolan?" Her eyes flick toward Father Gavril and back to me. "What is going on?" I read the anxiety all over her face. She doesn't even try to hide it anymore the way she did working at the track.

“Things have changed,” I tell her. “I no longer trust you to stay put here, and I won’t let my son be taken and hidden fromme again.” I stop in front of her and meet her stare, letting the words drop on her like an anvil.

Her lips press together. “So, you’re done pretending?" Her eyes narrow on me as the tight hug she has on her middle strengthens. "You're done playing house with me and now this is a real prison?"

“I’m done letting you gamble with him.” My voice stays stern as I hold her gaze, which grows darker by the second. She's a mama bear wanting to defend her child, but he's my child too, and I'm far more powerful than her.

“Then what?” she asks. “Lock me up? Put a gun to my head and call it safety?” The bite in her voice is sharp as a knife, and the expression on her face matches it pound for pound.

“No,” I say. “I’m offering you permanence. A legal, binding marriage.” I give her no space to misinterpret it, no room to breathe false hope.

She shakes her head as she scoffs and a humorless smile flashes across her face. “Absolutely not.” Her weight shifts subtly, a flicker of indecision at her edges. Instead of withdrawing, she stiffens and drops her arms to her sides with fists dangling. "I'm not marrying you."

I don’t respond. I turn to Father Gavril, who takes out the folio and a small velvet box. He sets them both on the table between us, then steps back without a word.

Anya doesn’t move. Her body is still, her face frozen in place, her stare locked on the table.

“You can’t be serious,” she mutters.

“You want to leave?” I ask. “Go ahead. But you go alone. Nikolai stays here. He is my blood, and I’ll protect him—with or without you.” My words only darken her eyes further until they're black as midnight and laced with hatred. It makes me pause for a moment to consider her, but I know what's best. This has to happen.

“This is blackmail,” she hisses in quiet fury as her shoulders square, bracing for a fight she knows she can't win. Anya isn't used to being ordered around. Living wherever the hell she was for the past five years has made her noncompliant, and I'm showing her how things are going to work.

“No. This is protection. You can’t keep him safe. I can.” I take a step forward, shortening the distance between us, and she winces as she takes a step backward.

She looks down at the ring box and her fingers twitch. Her jaw flexes once, then stills. I wonder what's going through her mind. It isn't like she hasn't come to me to have her fill of my body at times, and I provide everything she could need, along with the best private education our son could ever ask for.

“You think forcing me into this gives you more power?” Her voice falters under the strain of fear, barely able to hold itself upright.