Page 16

ANISSA

I take my time making sure I look perfect. This is what I’m good at—an impeccable physical appearance that masks everything else. But we don’t need to dwell on that right now .

My hair, my natural color now, hangs down well past my shoulders in thick blonde waves. I miss my wigs. The long, white-blonde feels unnatural now. My eyes are cornflower blue, so I wear thick black mascara to bring them out, but I opt for a sheer pink gloss and a spritz of my favorite body spray. Thanks to our little shopping spree, I am pretty well decked out with clothes.

“I’m guessing business casual?” I yell through the door toward Matvei, who is lumbering on the other side, opening drawers, likely getting changed. He’s a big guy. He does nothing quietly or gently.

“What the fuck is business casual?” he says.

“I don’t know, skirts, dresses, something like that? Something you’d wear to, like, a business meeting.”

Of course, he has no idea what business casual is. He’s Bratva. Why would he?

“No, probably just casual-casual. We’re not going to a restaurant; we’re just going to the family home.”

Then something occurs to me. Oh fuck.

“Are your parents coming?”

“No, not today. My mom has some kind of book club or something.”

Can’t think of anything less fun than reading a book with his mother.

“Alright, okay. Just need to grab clothes.” I cinch my robe around myself and open the door, finding him standing on the other side, looking like sin in a pair of denim jeans and boots.

My god , Matvei.

My ovaries practically self-combust just staring at him. His black hair slicked back, his eyes piercing. The gold hoops in his ears glint under the overhead light—subtle. Badass . My eyes roll down to the ink creeping up his neck, disappearing into a fitted black Henley. Heavy black boots.

“You look good enough to eat.” I swallow hard. I’m not joking.

The corner of his lip quirks up. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time. But I’ll take a rain check.”

Oh, hell yes, you will. I imagine myself getting down on my knees in front of him, unbuttoning his jeans, pulling out his thick, veined cock, sliding it into my mouth—fuck. I’m wet. And he’s right, we don’t have time.

“Yes, sir. Rain check it is.” I frown at my options. “I’ll pick out something for you to wear.”

I give him a curious look. Interesting. Alright then. “Go ahead.”

I know he wasn’t asking my permission, but it’s fun to play. He settles on the most modest garment I own—a three-quarter-length sleeve black, fitted top and a pair of dark-colored flared jeans.

“You want us to match, Matvei?”

He looks at what he’s wearing, then back at what he picked for me. “That wasn’t on purpose, but I think I did it subconsciously. My friend told me that it’s a good idea to match your woman.”

Your woman.

“Maybe your subconscious was agreeing with him. Which friend was that?”

“Vadka.”

I try to remember him. I know he and Rafail are tight. He’s married with a kid. His wife Mariah is separate from the Bratva, and even though some of the Kopolov women are active participants, she wants no part of it.

And now I know that her husband likes to match her. Well, that’s kind of adorable.

Maybe they aren’t all monsters.

Then I remember the stories I’ve heard of Rafail, the very reason why I ran from this type of captivity to begin with. And my heart is all a flutter. Shit, I’m nervous as fuck.

Nah, not just nervous. Terrified. Because Rafail Kopolov isn’t just some name whispered in the dark but a legend. I’ve spent years building my life as a ghost, and this is the very man I ran from. Now I’m walking straight into his den.

I don’t know what to expect from them. What if they all hate me? What if the women all gang up on me? I’d rather face a firing squad than a coven of women who actively hate me. Been there, done that.

With the Irish, they kept me intentionally apart from their women. Not sure why. Maybe they were afraid I’d corrupt them. Ha.

Matvei is close. Too close. His hand presses against the small of my back, and he leans in and wordlessly kisses my shoulder. Heat skates down my skin, and I wrap my hands around his waist. The corner of his Henley lifts, and I find my hand on the bare skin of his back.

There. That’s where he was branded.

“Let me see.”

He turns and quietly lifts his shirt to bare his beautiful, muscled back, and right in the lower center part of his back—the Kopolov family brand.

I can imagine it—the pain and raw red flesh when they gave it to him, the way the skin scabbed over and flaked. I shiver. The way the new, tender layer beneath it shone when light hit it, marking him. This is a man who literally let himself be wounded to show his allegiance.

He brought me back as a trophy, the spoils of war. And I know what he’s said, what he’s planning. Children. A shared bond that will solidify his allegiance to the family. With me.

A shiver of fear slides through me when I think about what I can give him… and what I can’t.

How will he react?

I brush my thumb lightly over the scar. I don’t want to hurt him. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he tells me, reading my mind.

“But it hurt like a motherfucker when you got it.”I flinch at the idea of hot metal searing my flesh.

“Was the second most painful thing I’ve ever experienced.”

I swallow hard. “And the first?”

I’m glad his back’s to me when he answers because his voice is choked, and I don’t want to see the expression he makes. It might break me. “Killing my brother.”

I close my eyes when the memory of the most painful night of my life flashes before me.

No. That’s a closely guarded secret no one will ever know. The shame still burns my cheeks, even as I try to push the memory back down.

I was sixteen. Still under my father’s control when he finalized the deal to sell me. I didn’t know the full details at the time—only that the man who came to inspect his “purchase” was twenty years my senior, his face etched with the kind of raw cruelty that made my skin crawl. I tried to fight him when he put his hands on me. He laughed and told me I’d be broken in soon enough…

I circle the brand with my thumb.

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because my family’s been absolute shit toward the Kopolovs. I wanted to prove my allegiance.”

“Do they all have this?” He shakes his head. “No, it’s more of an old-fashioned tradition. I was the one who, you might say, brought it back.”

I want one.

I blink. What the actual fuck?

I kiss his brand. The mutilated flesh is softer than I expected. Turning, he cradles me in his arms and kisses me. The memory of the night I was attacked fades to white.

His phone buzzes.

"I have to take that."

He steps out of the closet, already answering the call, his voice dropping into something lower, more clipped. I don’t hear the words, but I hear the rise and fall of his tone. The sharp curse.

When he comes back, his face is a mask. I wonder if this is what it will always be like with him—these moments of intensity, interrupted by things I’ll never be privy to.

"If you decide to run the moment we step foot out of this house…"

I smirk. "I know, I know. You’ll come and catch me."

But for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to run. Not from him, anyway. From the Kopolovs? That’s another story.

The Cottage is quaint in name but not in reality. It’s ostentatious in the way that only men with something to prove build their homes. Old money—cold, quiet, powerful—but beautiful. So beautiful. It stands against the darkening sky like a beacon, flanked by sprawling grounds, roses still in bloom.

I wonder, for the briefest moment, what it would have been like if I had lived here.

I almost did.

I would’ve been the new matriarch of the family.

That’s why I ran, of course.

O’Rourke was the one who warned me. Told me what the Kopolovs were really like and what to expect. What Rafail was like—cold, merciless, commanding, the undeniable patriarch.

Argh.

The late afternoon air is cool on my skin as I step out of the car, but it does nothing to ease the nerves curling low in my belly. I am not the kind of woman who gets nervous. I’ve been in rooms with killers before, in spaces where every breath was measured, every word weighted.

But this?

The knowledge that I was supposed to marry this man—the knowledge that he replaced me with my own sister—makes me uneasy in a way I can’t shake.

Matvei parks. We are the only ones outside.

He walks over to open my door, takes my hand, and meets my eyes.

"You don’t belong to Rafail," he says, and I don’t know if he’s convincing me or himself.

"I don’t belong to anyone ," I counter.

Hello.

When he leans in, his eyes locked on mine, he gives me a wicked grin.

"We’ll discuss that later, won’t we?” He shakes his head at me. “My little witch, always casting spells."

I step out of the car. He’s close. Too close. His hand presses against the small of my back, the warmth bleeding through my top like the brand on his own skin. I tense, and he feels it—his fingers flex slightly. Not reassurance—a warning.

"Tell me again, who’s here today?"

"Rafail, obviously. And his wife, Polina, who I’m sure you’re eager to meet."

I’m not sure eager is the right word. I’m nervous as fuck.

"My cousin Semyon, second oldest and second-in-command. His wife, Anya. Her brothers are here often, but they’re not here today.”

Anya. Pretty name.

I nod, trying to keep track as he goes on. "That’s all?"

"It’s an intimate gathering," he says quietly. "Vadka will be here as well. He’s one of the family’s enforcers, not related by blood."

I know the name. I know all their names.

Still, I want his reassurance.

"And Grandfather will be here, as always.”

Oh. As always.

Thank god his parents aren’t coming.

"No Rodion?" I ask. I was kind of looking forward to watching Matvei with his best friend.

He shakes his head. "Not today."

The door is opened before we reach it, a uniformed attendant nodding and smiling graciously before she looks at me. "Welcome."

Her smile falters, her eyes widening.

"My god," she whispers. "The resemblance is uncanny."

"I know," Matvei says quietly. Me. They’re talking about me. I swallow hard.

With a sharp tilt of his chin, he dismisses her.

"Why are they staring?" I whisper, uncomfortably aware of everyone’s eyes on me.

"You’ll understand in a minute," he murmurs back.

His hand finds the small of my back again. This time, I don’t mind.

I’m breathing rapidly, my pulse fluttering. He turns and looks at me, almost curious.

"You ran—repeatedly—from one of the Kopolov family’s most dangerous men," he muses. "And you expect me to believe you’re afraid of a little dinner?"

We both know it’s more than that. I’m about to face the man that has every right, in the eyes of the Bratva, to slit my throat and bury my body. I’m about to face the sister I never knew I had, the one who ended up married to the man I ran from.

I’ve never wanted to run so badly in my life.

But I smile at him anyway.

"I’m not afraid," I lie.

* * *