Page 13

ANISSA

It’s kinda interesting going into town with a guy like Matvei. He parts the crowd with a look. I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it.

His hand rests on my lower back, a sign of possession. Men don’t even look at me. Women stare at him, then me, wide-eyed and fascinated. And many obviously recognize him.

I’ve never been in this little town outside of Moscow before, but I’ve heard about it—small, tight-knit. Ruled by Bratva. They’re known for their excellent food, curated shopping, and Bratva enforcers.

He walks beside me as we look for O’Rourke under the pretense of shopping, but he’s nowhere I’d expect him. The bars, the alleyways, the usual haunts. He’s a big guy, hard to miss.

“You sure Rodion was right? He was heading out of the country and definitely not here.”

Matvei’s lip curls into something like a half smile, but his gray-blue eyes are steely. “I’m sure.”

Maybe I should be afraid. I should definitely be planning my next escape, but instead, something dark and dangerous and seductive tempts me. Because for all his talk of punishment and retribution, he hasn’t really hurt me. Not yet.

He says it’s about loyalty, about making me suffer. But then why does he stop himself when he could break me? Shove me in a cage as well-furnished as a luxury hotel? Why does he feed me, wash me, and make my body sing? Why does he look murderous when anyone so much as glances at me too long?

I’m playing the long game, earning his trust. But then, why do I watch him when he isn’t looking? Why do I notice everything about him?

Why does something dark and thrilling curl in my stomach when he says I’m his? I need to be careful.

He isn’t the only one losing control.

It’s time I changed the game.

I know exactly how to play it.

“Here, first, please. Do I have a budget?”

“Of time or money?” he asks, stormy eyes narrowed.

“Uh, both?” My eyes light up at the glittering rows of cosmetics and lotions, lip gloss and eyeshadows. It smells like heaven in here. All that’s missing is an excellent little cosplay shop where I could get some wigs and trendy little outfits. I’ll have to go hunting online.

“The quicker we are, the better.”

I nod, lifting a tube of my favorite lipstick, a neutral stain that gives me just a hint of color.

He hasn’t said anything about money.

So I have a little fun. I grab the best skincare products, my favorite makeup. I treat myself to a luxury box of haircare products and a few of my favorite scents. It’s a shopping spree funded by the Bratva. It feels like poetic justice. And even though he doesn’t look at the total at the register, he definitely notes the creepy guy at the exit who scurries away with one look from Matvei.

I buy the prettiest panties and the most comfortable, silkiest bras. A variety of clothes and shoes for comfort and style. And every store we go to, I step up my game.

I lean in too close when he isn’t expecting it, close enough to catch the hitch in his breath.

I brush my fingers over his wrist, light as silk, when I’m looking at options by the lotions. I pretend I don’t notice the way his fingers twitch as if eager to restrain me.

I bare my neck when I spritz on body spray, tipping my chin just so. “Like this one?”

I tilt my head just enough when I speak—letting my voice dip, my lips part. Just enough to make him notice.

And he does. My god, he does.

I can see it in the way his fists clench when I get too close. The way his breathing shifts when I touch him. In the heat of his wicked gaze. Wicked.

He wants to hurt me, but he… doesn’t.

Instead, he shadows me. Watches the way I move. Takes his sweet time threading his fingers through my hair and doesn’t even bother hiding it when he inhales deeply.

“You like that scent?”

He only growls low in response.

Affirmative.

“You see O’Rourke anywhere?” he asks.

I’m frowning at my phone. The text I sent Cillian shows undelivered. “No, and he always read my texts.”

Matvei makes a sharp, irritated sound. “Maybe he finally figured out you were mine. ”

I glance up, arching a brow at him. “Yours?” I lean in closer. My breasts brush his chest. I ghost my fingers over the swell of his bicep.

“Tell me otherwise, solnyshka .”

I’m used to arguing, pushing back, but the way he says it—nah. I’m going to sit with this a little longer.

He’s watching me. Not just the way a hunter watches prey. No… this is different. Deeper. Like he’s memorizing my pulse in my throat, my movements before I make them.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say with a smirk.

We’re standing outside a shop. He’s laden with shopping bags in each hand.

Now might be a good time to run.

“You play dangerous games.”

I feign innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Run.

Too late.

He moves before I can blink. He doesn’t grab or pull me but shifts—hard—so that my back meets the brick wall behind me. Two young women walking past stare, their conversation coming to a stuttering halt. One gives me a look of pure jealousy, and I shake my head at her.

You have no idea.

“Do you think I don’t see it?” His hand comes up, and for a moment, I think he’s going to grab my chin. Instead, he skims his knuckles over the curve of my jaw. I shudder and move closer. I’m wet.

I want him to hurt me.

I want him to push me against the wall until it hurts, until he’s crowded me in, nearly suffocating me, his hand flexing around my neck. I want to scrape my nails over his tats and take pleasure in his groans, to push him so hard he nearly stumbles before he pins me beneath him, face down, pressed into the bed while he spanks my ass before he rails me from behind.

I swallow.

“You, testing me. Teasing.”

I don’t deny it. Instead, I smile. “You’re the one obsessed with this whole concept of ownership. Keep saying mine and all that, half a breath away from smacking your chest like a gorilla.”

His nostrils flare, and his eyes darken.

Hahaha.

“There y’are, lass.” We both stiffen. Matvei’s eyes narrow on mine, as if assessing whether or not I planned it. I give him a shrug just to keep him guessing.

I tilt my head over Matvei’s shoulder to see O’Rourke, feet planted on either side of him, his eyes fixed on me. “Been looking for you,” he says as if a wall named Matvei Kopolov isn’t standing directly between us.

“Have you?”

Matvei turns around and jerks his chin at him. “O’Rourke.”

“Kopolov.”

Their glares are assessing and pointed, but neither makes a move.

Boys.

“You didn’t waste any time, did you, Kopolov?”

“Not something I generally do,” Matvei retorts. “Rodion says your boss met with Rafail yesterday. Looks like everything’s going as planned, no?”

They share a look I can’t quite read before O’Rourke nods slowly. “Aye.”

“Something you need?” Matvei asks, his tone sharp enough to cut diamonds.

“No. My visit today had shit all to do with you,” Cillian says. “I was needed nearby and fancied I’d grab a cuppa before I headed home.” He winks at me, and I swear to god, smoke comes out of Matvei’s ears.

When he turns back to me, his gaze is feral, his voice a low growl. “Fucking tell me what went on between the two of you. Now. ”

I stare at him, taken aback. “Nothing.” I narrow my gaze. “But if it had , it’s none of your fucking business.”

Leaning in so his mouth is up to my ear, his voice is tight and low. “None of my business? Anyone who touched you before me is my fucking business.”

Oh really ? I shake my head and roll my eyes, but only to mask the sudden fear that courses through me.I wish he knew who touched me before and what happened. It wouldn’t be what he thought it was. Not at all.

How can a memory scare me more than the dangerous man standing in front of me now?

I close my eyes at the flashback, the pain still vivid all these years later.

Pain. Blood. Cruel laughter. I was sixteen years old, running for my life, only to be dragged back and overtaken. Beaten. None of the blind rage I’d experienced before. This was slow. A lesson, but I was only the messenger. A boot to my ribs. A knee driven between my legs. Tearing. A heavy boot to my belly. Blood. So much blood.

I try to blink it away. The memory clears like the foggy remnants of a nightmare. His gaze narrows on mine.

“Were you and O’Rourke a couple?”

I grit my teeth and glare at him. Just when I think he’s got some redeeming qualities, he shows his true colors. “No, you asshole. I wanted to be with the Irish so I could have their protection, but they kept me apart from them. O’Rourke treated me like one of his men but with less respect.” I roll my eyes. “ God. ”

It gnaws at me. I wanted more than they gave me, and it doesn’t seem fair. The memory of what happened—the rejection from the Irish, knowing they have no allegiance to me anymore, that they don’t owe me anything—it aches.

And the man in front of me now—one second, I feel like he cares, but I know it’s only attraction. He doesn’t care about me. He wants to punish me, to hurt me.

When he leans in and buries his nose in my hair, I freeze, curious. He inhales, deep and long, as if allowing my scent to invigorate him.

"What are you doing?"

A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. "I like the way you smell. I had a dream about you last night.”

"Did you?"

"Yeah. Can’t get you out of my fucking mind."

He says it like a confession. Like a curse.

"Let’s finish shopping."

I don’t like being outside in public for long. But before I can argue, a shadow behind him catches my attention.

The entire square is alive with movement—noise, shuffling, voices. I’ve seen chaos before. Thrived in it. But there’s something about today that sends a cold shiver sliding down my spine.

Matvei has enemies. So do I.

A flicker in the crowd—eyes locking onto mine. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one. A face too familiar. Too wrong.

My breath hitches.

For the first time in years, I feel real fear.

Not even with Matvei did I feel like this.

My muscles tense.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. I saw something that unnerved me, but I couldn’t tell you what."

His voice is low, unreadable. "Try."

His grip tightens just enough to ground me. Just enough to force me back to the present.

Swallowing hard, I glance back to where the figure had been. But there’s nothing.

Maybe it’s just paranoia catching up to me.

I shake my head. "I’m okay."

He doesn’t press, just nods. Then he takes my hand, leading me forward, on the outside of the road, as always. Close enough that our arms brush—a silent shield between me and the rest of the world.

And then, I continue to shop.

I love it. I come to life when I shop—the fabrics, the scents, the colors. Something new and shiny.

"Can I help you?" a woman asks, looking down her nose at me.

But before I can respond, Matvei’s voice cuts through.

"Scratch that."

I blink at him.

"We’re done here," he says. "Let’s go home."

And for the first time, I like hearing him say the word home .

It’s not home.

But why does it feel that way?

Why do I like the way his fingers tighten around mine?

Why does it send a thrill through me when he leans in and smells me?

Why do I love the way he opens the door for me and gestures for me to go in first?

I love all of it.

But my mind is back on my past, the rejection from the Irish, the pain that took away my choices.

I stare out the window, fingering the edge of the bag in my lap.

"You spoiled me today," I say.

"If buying you what you need is spoiling, then you and I have different definitions of the word."

"Really? What does it mean to you?"

"Letting you get away with everything."

I smirk. "Then I’m definitely not spoiled."

Matvei doesn’t let me get away with anything. Not even the things I should.

By the time we reach his house, the unease I felt in the square hasn’t left me. If anything, it’s worse.

I’m breathing hard when we make it to the front door.

He stands behind me, watching. "You’re shaking." His voice is steady. Controlled. "Why are you shaking?"

"I told you?—"

"I don’t care what you told me."

That’s the worst part. He doesn’t lose control, and somehow, that makes him terrifying.

He leans in. "What did you see back there?"

"Nothing."

I snap away from him, wrapping my arms around myself, shielding. Grounding. "Just let me go in. I want space."

Silence.

I don’t expect him to listen.

But then, the door opens, and I step inside when he gestures for me to go first.

It’s warm in here. Bright. Clean. And I immediately feel my pulse begin to slow.

I wasn’t prepared for the way the word home would hit me.

But I’ve been living a nomadic existence for so fucking long.

And I’m angry with myself for even wanting this.

What I love about being able to change my appearance and slip from place to place is that I don’t have to put down roots.

I’ve spent my life running—from control, from the identity forced upon me by my father before he died.

It’s made me put my guard up. Made me use my skills in deception and forgery to craft my ultimate escape plans.

It’s forced me to trust no one.

Maybe… maybe I’m tired of running.

Maybe I don’t want to anymore.

Does that mean I’m giving up?

I won’t give up. I can’t.

I need to stay until an opportunity comes. Until I can run again.

Matvei doesn’t love me.

I’m only a tool to him.

A prize.

I need to remember that.

Then why do I watch him when I think he isn’t looking?

Why can’t I help but notice the nervous energy he hides by tapping his foot or checking his phone?

Why does it feel so dark and absolutely thrilling … when he calls me his?

* * *