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But he doesn’t. Instead, he touches me. Not rough or possessive. His fingers trace over my skin, over every bruise and mark he left, as if memorizing the damage. His breath hitches, and when I glance up at him, there's something in his expression I don't understand. Regret? Guilt? It’s almost like he’s ashamed of himself. Like he hates himself for the way he just fucked me.

A part of me thinks about throwing it in his face, laughing at him, taunting him. But I won’t. I can’t. Because when he moves, when he leaves the bed, I feel his absence like he just took a part of me with him. What the fuck is that?

I sit up slowly, my body sore, my thighs shaking. He fucked the hell out of me, and he was not gentle.

And then—warmth. Gentleness. A cloth pressed to my skin, wiping away the sweat, the mess, the evidence of what we just did. I freeze. There’s nothing he could’ve done that would’ve taken me off guard as quickly as this.

I don’t know what to do. He kneels in front of me, his expression unreadable as he cleans me and takes care of me. Carefully, delicately, like I’m something fragile. Like he cares.

I bite my lip hard enough that it hurts because something inside me is breaking open, and I can’t handle this. I don’t want him to know that his tenderness undoes me in a way his roughness never could.

I can handle his cruelty, his punishment. I can handle the way he holds me down and takes me like I belong to him, tosses me around, slaps my ass, bites me, marks me. But this? This tenderness? This fucking gentleness?

I want to shove him away, tell him to stop because it’s making me sad. My throat is tight, my chest is hollow, and my hands curl into fists in my lap. His fingers skim over my skin, his touch light.

"Anissa." His voice is low and strained.

I shake my head. I don’t want to look at him because if I do, I might cry. And I don’t cry. Why is he treating me like I’m something precious?

For the first time… I don’t want to run. I want to stay right here.

"We’re going to the Kopolov house," he says with a self-deprecating smirk. "You should wear… long sleeves."

"I should wear a strapless, backless top," I snap. "I’m not ashamed of the marks you left on me. Are you?"

For one second, the momentary softness evaporates, and in its place is my ruthless captor.

"I’m not fuckingashamed," he says in a low voice. "But any fucker in that house will take one look at you and know what I did, and I'd fucking have to kill them.I’mthe only one who touches you. I’m the only one who fucks you.I’mthe only one who knows when I fuck you. Understood?"

I nod as my brain catches up to me. "Wait a second. You said Kopolov house?"

Shit. Shit. No. Fucking shit?—

"Yes. You’re going to be okay."

I shake my head. I’m not ready for this.

Doesn’t matter.

“Rafail called us to him. He and Polina were traveling. They had to leave for an emergency, and now they’re home. He wants you to meet your sister, and he wants to talk to you."

Oh shit.

I blanch, and I don’t know what to say.

"Excuse me?" I say, raising a brow. He has the audacity to smirk because it's not often he catches me off guard—but he just did. The absolute nerve.

"You heard me." He leans back against the headboard, completely at ease, stretching one arm behind his head. "It's time to meet the family."

My stomach turns to ice. No. No, no, no. Not the Kopolov estate. The lion’s den.

Rafail.

I don’t want to see the man I ran from. I don’t want to see him, or the rest of his wolves, waiting. Watching. Judging. I burned that bridge years ago. I set it on fucking fire. I walked away and never looked back. Matvei came for me, but… what if they still see me as a traitor?

I would rather be a vagabond, running from place to place. I would rather be without any ties at all than under the thumb of Rafail and his brothers. What if they make an example of me?

My pulse pounds in my ears. I scramble off the bed, the sheets tangling around my legs. I shake my head.