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“No, but it shows me as the one willing to do what’s necessary.” I hold her gaze, letting the silence hang between us like a sealed verdict. "I will have the full backing of the law, Anya. My enemies don't care whether you want to be here or not. The moment you are not here, they will come for him and they will kill him to cripple me."

Her hands flail out as her defiance erupts into something explosive. She scoffs loudly and tries to turn, but I snatch her arm at the elbow. “You bastard,” she mutters, her voice cracking at the edges with emotion. She's refusing to let herself cry, but it doesn't matter to me what emotion she feels. She will leave my home alone or she will stay and be my wife, ensuring my claim to my own son.

I reach for the ring without looking away from her. She watches every movement, the way one watches a weapon being drawn. I hold it out, steady, forcing no words between us, andher face is stone cold. I can't break down that wall she erected between us.

“You want to leave?” I say again. “Go.” Anya's eyes flick up to meet mine again, but I can see the tide turning in my favor. There is no way she will leave her precious "Koyla" here with me, and there's no way I'm letting her sneak out with him under cover of darkness. This is just the first step in my plan of assuring his permanent safety, even if she refuses to see it that way.

She doesn’t budge. I press the ring into her hand and her fingers curl on reflex, holding it as if the decision has already been made. She lowers her head slightly, and after a moment, she slides the ring onto her finger without ceremony.

Father Gavril clears his throat and adjusts the collar of his cassock. He opens the folio with both hands, flattening the pages like he’s performed this act a thousand times before. He doesn't look at either of us as he begins to speak.

"By the authority of the church and the state of Russia, we gather for the solemn binding of man and wife," he starts. The rhythm of his words is slow and measured and his eyes glance up at me several times, testing the water to see if this is his job.

Anya flinches as the first phrase falls into the space between us. She doesn't lift her head. Her gaze stays anchored to the grain of the table, as if looking at anything else would trigger an explosion again. Her hands remain clasped in front of her body.

I watch the priest and let her feel my silence beside her as I take her hand firmly and pry it away from its mate. Her resistance is futile, though she does fight me until I clear my throat and the priest goes on.

"This union is recognized before God and witnessed here today. Do you, Rolan Vetrov, enter into this marriage freely and without coercion?"

"Yes," I say. My voice doesn’t quaver one bit because I'm certain this is the course of action to take.

He pauses as Anya swallows hard and sighs. The annoyance on her face isn't what I hoped to see from her, but it doesn't deter me.

"And do you, Anya Morozova, enter into this marriage freely and without coercion?"

Her body locks tight. She doesn’t speak. The silence goes on too long. Her shoulders rise and fall once, as if she’s forcing air into her lungs.

"Anya," I snarl. It makes her jolt and tighten further, and then she speaks.

"Yes," she whispers. The word barely forms, but it’s there.

Father Gavril doesn’t ask again. He turns the page to the certificate and gestures for me to sign, and I do. The pen scratches against the paper, leaving my signature. Then he hands it to her, and she takes it with a hand that shakes just slightly and signs her name in tight, rigid strokes.

He folds the papers and murmurs a final blessing, signing the cross in the air above us both.

"The marriage is now sealed," he says. "By law, and by God."

There are no speeches or cake, no vows of monogamy, faithfulness, or lasting love, just names exchanged in a room that feels more like a business negotiation than a union.

Anya's posture is rigid, the silence clinging to her like armor. She refuses to meet my gaze, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond the desk, detached from everything that just happened. Since the moment she slid the ring onto her finger, she hasn't moved an inch.

I don't really need her approval or her blessing to do this, and having her here to sign this of her own accord was really just an act of kindness to her. I could've signed the damn name myself, but I hoped…

"I hate you," she mutters when Father Gavril turns his back to tuck his files away.

“Next week,” I say with a steady voice, “we file for Nikolai’s adoption.” The words sever any last thread of hope I have that she will be civil with me. I watch her wilt like a desert flower and shrink away from me. Again, I pause and watch this strange reaction from her, and I wonder how she can't see I'm doing this for his wellbeing.

She doesn’t answer, but her eyes drift slightly around the room before they finally settle on mine. What stares back at me isn’t confusion or submission—it’s pure, unfiltered contempt.

Behind her gaze, I see it all, stolid grief pressed flat beneath fury, and something colder than either—hatred, maybe, or the hard edge of survival. I meet it without blinking and hold her glare, anchored in place by the brutal clarity of what we’ve just become. Man and wife—father and mother. And now, anyone who comes for her will have to go through me first. And they won't win.

17

ANYA

The garden behind the estate is quiet this afternoon, but not peaceful. It smells like damp earth and frostbitten soil, a bit on the cold side for outdoor play, but Nikolai is too rambunctious to stay indoors all winter. The stone benches are wet from last night’s sleet, but I sit on one anyway. The cold seeps through my jeans, but I don't move. I’ve been numb since yesterday.

The hedge maze rises in the distance, brown and half-bare in the early winter light. A wrought-iron fence encircles the grounds, its black bars wet with condensation, but large Christmas wreaths now adorn them. The sky hangs low and gray, and the trees stand stiff and stripped of their color, except a few scraggly pines along the northern wall. The whole place feels suspended, waiting for some rescuer to free it from oppression.