Page 19

ANISSA

I sleep in his bed that night.

And the next.

And the next.

Matvei’s hunger for me is endless, a craving that seems to border on madness. He doesn’t ask but takes, rolling over in the dead of night, his body heavy on mine, possessive, claiming. A hand on my hip, a rough, sleep-sexy murmur, and then he’s inside me, stretching me open, filling me like I was made for this.

I am.

I mold around him, slick and ready at a moment’s notice, like a fucking law of nature.

I love it. The way he touches me when the world is silent… when it’s just us. The way his cock slides in me, thick, deep, owning me. The way we move together.

He's insatiable, and I am not complaining.

He’s mentioned a baby, and if that is his plan, he wins a gold medal for effort.

We fuck in the shower, in bed, cowgirl style, missionary. I sit on his face. He goes down on me until I'm so wet, then glides into me with perfection. We fuck in every room in his house—the guest rooms, every shower, the dining room table, the kitchen.

He fucks me like I'm his full-time job, and the man is looking for overtime.

I've never been with anyone who could meet my needs the way he does. He takes immense pleasure in watching me come. I didn’t know giving a woman an orgasm could be a kink, but it is for him. The way his eyes light up when I moan, the way he groans every time I come, the way he won’t come when he’s inside me until I do.

We’re messy and loud and unabashed in our lovemaking, and every single time, I swear I let a little bit of my guard down.

But… my period is a few days late. And I know it's not for the reason he suspects or hopes for.

One night, we share a joint together. I sit in his lap, and he blows smoke in my mouth. I take the joint from his fingers and take a tentative hit. I love the way I get lightheaded, and the pressure on my chest loosens.

But that night, I fall asleep high. I dream. I dream so hard. I’m pinned down and screaming for mercy, but no one comes.

I wake up in a sweat.

I should know it was just a dream. I try to tell myself that it is, that I'm not awake, that I'm with Matvei now, not in my father's house, which isn’t even there anymore. But it's so vivid, so real. Especially the fear.

It claws at my chest like a parasite, as if trying to get out of my skin. It shakes me to my core. I can still see my abuser—his thick face and jowls, his oily hair and thick fingers. The way he glared at me when I wouldn't submit. I can still feel the pain.

The kicks to my rib cage. A kick to my stomach. The way he ordered his men to beat me and watched, the fucking bastard. The pain. The helplessness. The blood.

I roll over to find Matvei hard and ready for me. I don’t want to tell him no.

I want to forget. He slides into me mirthlessly, fucks me until I scream his name, and falls asleep, still inside me.

But I don’t forget.

I remember lying in my room, eating saltine crackers and hot tea, the only thing I could keep down in the aftermath of that brutal beating. My father, not to my surprise, took his friend's side.

"You should've gone with him," he said. "How could you do this to me?"

He looked at the broken, beaten body of his daughter and actually said to me, "You should've thanked me for this. He would've taken care of you.”

As if he knew anything about taking care of me.

"He won't take you now," he said, but he never mentioned what happened to me when he arranged my marriage to Rafail. I decided then that I would not be used as their property. I wouldn't be taken.

And a part of me, even now, feels that.

I fall back asleep, almost instantly back in the room at my father’s house. I want to wake up again. I know this isn’t real—I know this is the past, and I have to wake up.

I thrash in the sheets. They're tangled around my legs, and the pain is too much. I'm still half in the dream, still clutched in his grip, the pain of that night etched in my memory as if carved into stone.

I've never felt so helpless in my life, and I told myself then it was the last time.

No one can hurt you if they can't find you.

There's a wetness between my legs. Strong arms wrap around me.

I scream, thrashing, biting at air.

"Anissa, Jesus, it's me."

I'm pinned to the bed, and Matvei's eyes are above mine, boring into me with concern.

"You're dreaming. You're just dreaming. Are you okay?"

I blink, and his face is in front of me. But I can still see my abuser. I can still hear his oily voice, see the yellow of his eyes, and still feel his grip on my arms as he held me and assaulted me.

It flashes in my mind like a bad movie.

I close my eyes, and this time, the memories don't go away like I've trained them to.

I clear my throat.

I try to speak, but I'm in actual pain. It takes a minute to realize it's not just from the memory.

I shake my head.

"I'm okay," I rasp.

But I'm not.

I'm fucking not.

I want him to toss me in that cage, lock me in, and throw away the key.

Because when I'm behind those metal bars, no one can get me.

And I can't run anymore.

The pain radiates across my back and spasms in my abdomen. It feels as if someone's wrapped a vise around it and is pulling.

I try to curl my legs up to my chest, but Matvei is on me.

"Get off," I croak.

Reluctantly, he slides off me as if he somehow wanted to make sure I stayed.

Maybe he did.

"What's going on?" he asks. "Are you sick?"

I lift my knees to my chest and rock, and it does a little bit to ease the discomfort.

"I have my period."

He blinks, and something like pain flashes across his face.

"Your period," he repeats, staring at me.

I nod.

"They're really bad when I get them. I have a… condition."

I shake my head.

It hurts too much to explain about scar tissue, illness, and the fucking plague of my life.

Now I know why I’m wet between my legs. And I want to get to the bathroom to clean myself off, but I’m in so much pain. I don’t trust myself to move. The doctor I saw in Paris told me the pain level mimics active labor.

I’ll never know.

"You’re in pain because of your period?" he asks. Is it my imagination, or is his voice wobbling? This big, strong, fearless psychopath. Why does he sound unsteady?

I nod and squeeze my eyes shut as a spasm of pain takes over again.

There are meds that I can take, but I don’t have them. I’ve tried a few different things, but I’ve been on the run for too long to gather an arsenal of necessities—things like hot water bottles and the right supplements. Those are the types of things you have when you have a… home.

I haven’t had a home in over a decade.

I squeeze my eyes shut when the pain wraps around my midsection, stabbing between my legs, my back aching like it’s being pulled apart. I try to breathe through it, pressing my lips together and inhaling through my nose, but this is the worst I’ve ever experienced. I whimper, hot tears splashing onto my cheeks.

He’s standing, wringing his hands, looking at me in helpless confusion.

"What can I do?"

I kick off the blanket when the pain hits me again. To my shame and embarrassment, blood smears my legs.

"Oh god," he says, shaking his head as if reliving his own trauma. Maybe he is.

"I don’t know." It hurts too much to think right now. "Give me something to clean myself up. Please," I tack on like an afterthought. It’s hard to talk.

One spasm builds on another, then another. I hear his heavy footsteps retreat, then return. The bed sinks down when he sits next to me.

"Let me," he says softly.

I shake my head and reach for the washcloth in his hand while he stands there helplessly.

"Leave me alone," I tell him, riddled with shame and pain.

"This doesn’t bother me," he starts.

"It bothers me ! Leave me alone, please."

I get a momentary break from the pain. I breathe through my nose, clumsily clean the blood, dab my wet legs with the towel, and toss everything in the general direction of the laundry hamper.

I curl up on the bed, and I hear him talking on the phone.

I’m afraid he’s going to call an ambulance and have me taken to the hospital, but when I breathe hard and try to listen, I’m hit with another spasm of brutal, blinding pain. And I can’t think anymore.

The memory of the night of my assault flashes in front of me every time I close my eyes, but when I open them, the pain seems even harder to bear.

I try everything.

I roll onto my side and bring my knees to my chest, a move that sometimes brings temporary comfort. It doesn’t.

I get on my hands and knees and rock back and forth—a move an OB in London once taught me—and it has worked before.

Not this time.

I stretch my arms and legs on the bed like a starfish, and it hurts so badly I immediately crawl back into a fetal position, grit my teeth, and bear it.

Just like I did that night. When fighting didn’t work, and I couldn’t escape, I bore it and reminded myself that I wasn’t going to die, that this wasn’t the end, and that, eventually, I would get my vengeance.

But there is no getting vengeance when my own body is assaulting me.

God.

I’ve ruined his sheets.

I bleed heavily because of scar tissue, and I’ve never found anything that helped with that either.

I need feminine supplies. Privacy. A shower.

But I can’t.

I’ll get new sheets. I just don’t want him near me right now.

There’s silence.

Just me.

And my pain.

My memories.

My shame.

And then I hear two voices. A female one and a male one, followed by another male one. But then one leaves, and it’s only Matvei and a woman.

And the voice, it… sounds just like my own.

No —

The door opens, and Polina comes in.

She’s wearing slouchy sweats, her hair in a haphazard bun, and thin little glasses on the tip of her nose as if she’s just woken from sleep and hasn’t put her contacts in yet.

"Anissa, tell me what’s going on."

She sits on the edge of the bed next to me and reaches for me, then stops herself midair and places her small hand on the bed beside me instead.

My cheeks flame with embarrassment.

I’ve only just met my sister.

I don’t know her at all.

And yet—here I am.

Bleeding through sheets. Crying from pain.

Holding onto the memory of a past I wish I could carve out of my brain forever.

I don’t want to see her right now.

Matvei is behind her, pacing on the phone.

She gentles her voice.

"I went to midwifery school," she says softly. "I know a little bit about these things. I’m not an expert, but I might be able to help. At the very least, I might know people who can."

And right in that moment, I look into the eyes of a woman I just met but have somehow known forever .

And now, I’m crying for an entirely different reason.

I swipe at my eyes and nod.

"He needs to leave," I whisper.

She looks over her shoulder and holds her head high like the queen that she is, then jerks her chin toward the door.

"Leave us alone."

"I’m not?—"

"Go," she snaps at him.

Even from here, in my daze of confusion, I see the way his eyes narrow, his shoulders snap straight, and then he turns and walks away.

She’s the wife of the pakhan .

He can’t disobey her.

"There," she says with a smile that somehow makes the pain seem a little more bearable.

And then she says something else, but I don’t hear her.

The roaring in my ears drowns out everything as another spasm of pain hits.

I rock. I cry out. I grip the sheets so hard my knuckles turn white.

And it doesn’t stop.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

"Is it endometriosis?" she asks, running through a few other conditions I’ve heard mentioned before, but I don’t know for sure.

Because then, I don’t hear her voice anymore.

The wave of pain assaults me like the lash of a whip on flesh.

Raw.

Brutal.

Unforgiving.

My breath catches, and I try to hold onto the sheets, move into a fetal position, and rock back and forth, but it doesn’t work.

Polina climbs onto the bed next to me, places both hands on the small of my back, and puts firm, steady pressure.

"My god, you poor girl. I can feel the spasms in your back. Breathe, Anissa. In through your nose, out through your mouth," she says, adjusting her hands on my back in just the right way, and then she presses.

Relief .

Blissful, glorious relief.

Like my body was caught in a vise, and she just pulled the release button.

"Oh my god," I gasp. "Whatever you’re doing, that feels better. It feels so much better."

My voice is wobbly and shaky, and I’m still blinking back tears.

But at least now, I can breathe.

"Good," she says in a gentle voice that makes me want to weep.

I’m a fucking mess.

Then she raises her voice. “Matvei!”

The door immediately opens, and he stares, his eyes wide, as she rattles off a list of things that he needs to fetch for her. She tells him exactly where to get them.

"Make it fast! If I think of anything else, I’ll call you!" she yells, applying pressure to the spasm in my back.

She presses her thumbs in circular motions—one clockwise, one counterclockwise.

It feels so good.

I breathe, clutching the pillow as another spasm comes. My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I need to get cleaned up.

"We’ll get you what you need," Polina says quietly. "Let your body do what it’s meant to. This will bring relief from the pain. Just let yourself go through it. We’ll draw a bath when this subsides. I promise, it will get better. You’ll be okay. I’m so sorry."

She says it so softly.

She doesn’t ask questions.

She doesn’t pry.

And in that moment, she’s doing something that brings tears to my eyes for an entirely different reason.

She’s humming something—soft and pretty and soothing—in Russian.

Something I’ve never heard before.

Between the waves of pain, she runs her fingers through my hair, smoothing the damp strands from my forehead. She rubs my back, brings ice water to my lips, and every time the spasms start up again, she does that miraculous pressure-point massage that makes it bearable.

And she’s right.

I’m a mess, but the pain is gradually easing.

"Have you always had this intensity around your cycles?" she asks.

I shake my head. “Only recent years.” And I know exactly why but don’t want to tell her. If I tell her, and she tells Matvei…

"It’s often genetic," she says.

And before I can stop myself, I shake my head again.

No.

That’s not why.

“Surgery?”

I shake my head again. Too late, I realize I may have told her more than I meant to by default.

She’s quiet for long minutes, massaging my tense muscles.

"Someone did this to you," she says in a low voice.

And I realize, when I shake my head to deny it, it’s too late.

She knows.

When I don’t deny it, maybe it’s confirmation.

But thankfully, Polina doesn’t ask any more questions.

A heavy knock sounds on the door.

"My god," she says with a laugh. "Matvei does nothing half-assed, huh? He’s always been that way, from what I’ve heard."

"Open up!”

“You can come in."

Matvei walks in, carrying so many bags it looks like it’s Christmas morning.

I smile, shaking my head.

"Did you buy out the store?"

He scowls. "It’s Sunday. They weren’t open. Stupid fucking laws."

I bite back a smile, even as the pain lingers.

"Do I want to ask how you got everything?" Polina asks, her eyes twinkling.

He smirks at her. "You told me to get this shit, and I got it. So, no."

"Come here, Matvei. Your hands are bigger than mine, so you’ll probably do a better job than I will. When the contractions happen, you need to put counterpressure right here."

She takes his hands, placing his fingers exactly where they need to go.

"Pressing here will help alleviate some of the pain while I get what she needs, okay?"

When his large hands take the place of hers, she’s right.

His hands are stronger.

At first, he’s tentative, as if he doesn’t want to hurt me.

"It’s okay," I whisper. "You can press harder. It feels good."

Polina is rifling through the bags, making sounds of approval.

"Oh my god. You even got the prescription meds already. Did you wake the doctor for this?"

He scowls at her. "Of course I did."

I almost smile even through my pain. I can imagine his heavy fist pounding on a door, a gun at a hapless doctor’s head.

"Of course you did," she repeats. "Just like any of you guys would have."

"You bought steak and chocolate? How many places did you go?"

"As many as I had to."

"All the years that I’ve known you, I never actually thought I’d say this—but you’re sweet. This is sweet."

I smile when he grunts.

They keep talking, but I don’t hear because the pain is rising again. I try to stifle a whimper.

It starts slow, creeping over me in waves, then?—

The band around my middle tightens.

Harder.

Excruciating.

My back spasms.

I clench my teeth together.

"Breathe," Polina says, her hand in mine. " Matvei ."

His huge hands span my back, pressing against the spasms.

Relief.

Blessed relief.

Polina tears through the bags, shakes pills into her hand, and presses them to my lips.

There are more than I expected.

At least four. Maybe six. I lose track.

She presses a straw to my mouth.

"Swallow. This will help."

Then something large and warm presses across my back, replacing his hands.

I miss his hands. They’re comforting.

I shiver as he lays his hands on top of it, his fingers wrapping around where the material ends and my bare skin begins.

That’s better.

"This is a heating pad. It’s going to help. Just let the heat do its magic. This will make you feel a lot better soon."

"Physical touch helps. It soothes," she says softly.

At first, he touches me as if I’m about to break—as if even the slightest contact will send me spiraling into more pain.

But it doesn’t.

It feels good.

The way he’s touching me now…

His hand on my neck, soothing, his rough fingers grazing over tender skin. He pushes damp hair off my forehead, off my neck, the same way Polina did.

But gentler.

Because it’s him .

His hands move lower, massaging the tight knots in my shoulders, the tension in my back, my arms, and the tops of my legs.

I’m no longer embarrassed by the mess I’ve made now.

The relief feels too good, and neither of them cares. So I don’t either.

"Good. Doing so good. Just like that. Just like that."

She’s talking to me in that soft, soothing voice, the kind that makes me want to weep.

She tells me about the medicine she gave me—something over the counter that actually helps staunch the flow of blood. Pain relievers.

"Water therapy will help too," she says. "Let’s get you through this next spasm. By then, the meds should start to kick in, and you’ll want to take a bath. I’ll start it."

Matvei sits with me, and we don’t speak.

I’m glad.

He wouldn’t know the questions to ask me like she does, but I’m afraid that if I speak right now, I’ll say too much.

And not just about my past.

It feels good.

I feel safe.

I love you.

No.

I can’t talk right now.

There’s something about being vulnerable—compromised—about bearing the weight of something all on your own for so long and then having someone else come in and take the other end of the yoke from your shoulders that makes a person feel even more exposed.

And I don’t do vulnerable.

"How are you doing?" Polina asks. “Scale of one to ten, where’s the pain at now?"

"Seven," I whisper.

"Good. That’s good. We’ll get you down to at least a two or three by the end of the afternoon."

"Two or three?" Matvei growls as if personally offended. "How about zero?"

"I’m not a magician," she says with a smirk. "Just a dropout midwifery student."

I smile. "You did good for a dropout."

"Thanks, sis," she says, smiling back at me. “Don’t ask me to deliver your baby.”

I look away. I’m crying over everything these days.

"Okay, let’s get you to the bath," Polina says.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment.

I’m a sticky mess, but Matvei doesn’t care.

He bends down, lifts me into his arms, sheets tangled all around me, and carries me to the bathroom.

He jerks his head at the door, and Polina leaves.

"I can stay a little longer if you need me," she says.

"Thank you."

He stands me in front of the tub, and the sheets fall to the floor. I’m naked beneath it.

Wordlessly, he lifts me, gently settling me into the warm water.

It feels good.

I lay my head back and close my eyes.

A few seconds later, there’s the sound of a splash.

I look up and see him, naked, climbing into the tub with me.

I open my mouth, but before I can speak…

"Little witch, for fuck’s sake, let me take care of you."

He holds me in his arms, on his lap.

And for some reason, it’s okay.

I’m still bleeding, but if he doesn’t care, neither do I.

He grins at me, his eyes warm and affectionate. "Listen," he murmurs, "if you think a man like me is afraid of a little blood, it’s like you don’t know me at all."

My cheeks flush in embarrassment.

I note the way he tips a cup of warm water over my head, little droplets trickling down my face.

I sigh contentedly, and when I do, he keeps going.

"Feels good," I whisper.

He runs a soft washcloth over my shoulders, my neck, and under the water, over the curves of my body.

Between my legs.

Over my tender breasts.

Across my back and up again.

He rinses and repeats.

Rinses and repeats.

And when the waves of pain come again, he shifts me, turning me over so I’m held in his left arm, resting across his shoulder.

His other hand spans my back again, pressing steady and firm until the pain passes.

And I think I might love this man.

We stay in the tub until the water grows cold.

I shiver.

"Do you want more hot water?" he asks quietly.

I shake my head. "No. I wanna go back to bed. Please."

"You don’t have to be polite," he says with a smirk. "Just bark out orders. This is the one time you’re the one in charge."

"You might regret that," I say teasingly.

I earn a rare smile and flash of white teeth. "That’s my girl," he says quietly. "There she is. You must be feeling better."

That’s my girl.

I never knew how much those words could mean to me.

He pulls the plug on the drain, and I watch the water swirl down, shivering.

Then he wraps a towel around his waist, then one around me, and carries me to the bedroom.

The bed is freshly made.

Polina sits in a chair by the little desk in the corner, tapping something out on her phone.

"Better? The meds should’ve kicked in by now."

I nod. "Thank you so much."

"Of course," she says, getting to her feet. "We’re sisters. I do have to go, but I’m going to leave very specific instructions for him."

My heart sinks.

I don’t want her to go.

I like her here.

She sees the look on my face and smiles.

"I promise you, he’s got this. And I’m giving you my phone number so you can text me. I happen to have an in with his boss."

She’s teasing, but there’s a serious edge to it, I know.

"Thank you."

It seems like too little, and yet something passes between us.

“And you owe me nothing. Just keep coming to the family dinners. As I keep telling the other girls, we need more women in this family."

She pauses, tilting her head. "Oh, and don’t be afraid of my husband." She stands and smiles. "He really is a bit of a softy."

She leaves, and as the door clicks shut behind her, Matvei looks at me. "That’s actually not true."

That makes me smile.

"I’ll be right back. I have to talk to her. Here. “I downloaded some games and shows for you. You’re staying in bed today. Polina says it’ll help. And there’s a book too."

He hands me a ridiculously large tablet and a book.

I stare. It’s The Best of Poe.

My throat tightens.

I raise an eyebrow. "I don’t stay in bed all day."

A look crosses his face, and his voice drops. "You do if I tell you that you are."

I smirk. "If you start bossing me around, I’m gonna text Polina. She said she has an in with your boss."

His eyes darken, amused. "Go ahead. Text her. And if you get out of this bed, I’ll spank your ass. Not now. But I have an excellent memory."

I stick my tongue out at him like a child.

He smiles, shaking his head. “That’s one. Keep it up.”

The door shuts behind him.

It still hurts, but not as much.

It’s better than it has been in a long time.

I wonder what medicine she gave me.

I hear them talking on the other side of the door, and a part of me wonders—if I hadn’t run… none of this would’ve happened. I would’ve been forced to marry Rafail.

I can’t imagine being with anyone but… Matvei.

And I know I’m not feeling well, that I’m compromised, and I… He’s the one who gets me. There’s something about his irreverence and hard edges that makes me crave more of him.

No, this isn’t how I planned anything .

And I do worry about what he’ll do when he finds out the truth about me.

Especially because I know what he wants from me.

But right now, I’m doing what I always do.

Get through today.

Survive.

I’ve never thought about a future.

And I can’t think about one now.

* * *