CLAIMED BY THE RUSSIAN TYRANT

13

Anastasia’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Wife?

No, it couldn’t be true. She watched Alexei’s face intently, waiting for him to break into that deep, barbarian laugh and tell her the vodka had gone to his head.

He didn’t.

“You’re married?” she fumed. “What happened to ‘Over my dead body will I ever marry you… or anyone, for that matter’?”

Alexei winced and looked away, his face throbbing under the fresh stitches.

Thankfully, Xander intervened. “My boss doesn’t owe you an explanation! Not after you tried to carve open his face.”

“And he killed an innocent boy!” Anastasia fired back, her eyes flashing. “He made you do it!”

“Silence, all of you!” Alexei said.

He finally met Anastasia’s searching gaze. There was something in her expression—hurt?

He didn't want to think too deeply of it. After all, the only reason she had demanded marriage before was to secure her own status, not because she actually wanted him.

“We’ll talk about this in Siberia,” he repeated. “Now, go down for dinner.”

“No.”

“No?”

Anastasia squared her shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

A flare of annoyance shot down Alexei’s spine. Just moments ago, they had been talking—really talking—without her flinching. She had actually smiled at him. The realization that they were back to square one was a low blow.

“Nobody says no to the boss, Miss Sokolov,” Xander interjected, his voice a low growl.

Anastasia turned on him, eyes raking over his broad frame with mocking disdain. “How much does he pay you to do his dirty work?”

“More than your father has to sustain his company.”

“Xander,” Alexei warned.

A silent look passed between the two men before shifting to Ambrose, who had seemingly become part of the furniture.

“If you don’t go down for dinner,” Alexei said, returning his attention to Anastasia, “you’ll be spending the night in the cellar.”

Anastasia couldn't believe her ears. This brute—beautiful as he was—had made her watch a man’s head roll off his shoulders less than three hours ago. He’d made her stitch his flesh. And now he expected her to eat?

A cold shiver ran down her spine. She couldn't stay in the dark, not after what she’d seen. Part of the reason she’d bolted out of her room was the lingering, icy feeling of eyes on her.

She gave the three men a look of pure disgust, her gaze lingering on Ambrose for being the catalyst of the phone incident. He didn't spare her a glance, his arms folded and eyes pinned to his shoes.

Finally, she looked at Alexei. Her stomach tightened, her anger almost melting at the sheer sight of him. He couldn’t be older than thirty.

He watched her, expression unreadable, jaw clenched. Perched slightly on the edge of the table. His eyes red-rimmed with something more than just the effect of the vodka.

Without a word, she looked down at the expensive carpet and spat on it.

Xander moved instinctively—but Alexei’s hand shot out, dragging him back.

Anastasia didn’t wait.

She bolted from the study toward the dining area, wishing she hadn’t held back.

She wished she had used those hunting lessons from her sister to drive that knife straight through Alexei’s throat.

A maid silently placed a plate piled with food in front of her. No words. Nothing.

Anastasia looked around in revulsion. How could these people live in a place where people were slaughtered and never call the police? Alexei must pay them a fortune to keep their mouths shut.

As she lifted a cup to her lips, her breath hitched.

Her thoughts going back to—Him.

Alexei looked breathtaking, yes, but that wasn't the only reason she had felt comfortable opening up to him earlier.

It was…familiarity.

That was it.

When she had stood so close to him, his deep blue eyes on her skin, his voice soothing her nerves, he had looked... safe.

Familiar.

Very familiar.

She winced as the hot tea scalded her tongue.

His words came back in a wave: Wife.

Siberia.

How was Dmitri ever going to find her now? And who was this wife of his that apparently, nobody talked about?

~~~

(Next Day)

“What is this outfit?”

“What? Don’t I look presentable enough as your w***e?” Anastasia twirled in front of Alexei. She was wearing a tight pink dress shirt, and a mini black tie with a skirt so short that if she even thought about bending over, she’d be on full display.

Alexei frowned.

The cut on his face pulled tight and red against his skin, already shadowed by a day’s growth of stubble. His blue eyes raked over her, stopping at her chest.

“I don’t mind you dressing like my w***e if that’s what you want,” he says, voice dark. “But I don’t like my workers having a view of what’s mine.”

Before she could protest, he stepped forward, draping his heavy white fur coat over her shoulders. He didn’t pull away; instead, he leaned in until his breath fanned her neck. “I know you’re doing this to spite me, but right now is not the time. Do you really want to role-play the sexy teacher in pink?”

“I—”

A sharp smack landed on Anastasia’s bum. She gasped, trying to bolt, but he gripped her waist tightly.

“I promise I’ll explain everything once we get to Siberia. So stop trying to tempt me. I would hate to take you right here on this rug.”

Anastasia flushed a deep crimson.

She looked away, a traitorous, slight smile tugging at her lips as she pulled the coat around herself like a shield.

Alexei smiled back, the expression exposing a single dimple on the left side of his face.

In truth, she hadn't dressed like this for a "role-play." She’d done it to anger him, hoping to delay their departure just long enough to speak with Ambrose privately. She wanted to deliver a letter to Dmitri about her whereabouts.

But the delay never happened.

She followed Alexei out to the parking lot, and somehow, they fell into a conversation about ballet and the specific feel of New York snow.

Something tightened in her gut.

She was getting comfortable with this man—this uncultured brute who was currently dressed in a black shirt and dress pants, seemingly unbothered by the chill. She shook her head, shame creeping up her spine.

“So, would you dance for me if I built you a grand stage?” Alexei’s deep voice floated over, pulling her back to the moment.

They reached a black Maybach where Xander and Ambrose stood waiting like fire and ice. Both refuing took at one another.

“I don’t know,” she answered, dismissing the conversation and sliding into the car without waiting for help.

Alexei watched her go, his throat dry.

Maximo truly was the bane of his existence. The things he wanted to do to that man... but then he thought of what that would do to the beautiful creature in the backseat.

The drive to Siberia was tense.

Xander offered light remarks on the weather, with Ambrose providing the usual clipped, professional answers.

Beside Alexei, Anastasia leaned against the window, her gaze pinned on the passing sheets of ice.

“Have you ever been to Siberia?” Alexei asked, startling her.

She jumped, hand over her heart. “My goodness, you scared me.”

He smirked. “I do that a lot, little girl. I’m a monster, remember?”

Her face fell. “I... I’m not apologizing for calling you a monster. You acted like one.”

“And I still am,” Alexei added, leaning back.

He was glad they were talking again; the silence had been stifling.

She shrugged and looked back at the window, but her mind was clearly elsewhere.

Finally, her voice came back—small, almost a whisper. “I’ve never been here. To Siberia.”

“Your father has a mine here. You never thought to visit as a kid?”

“My father didn’t think it was something a girl should see,” Anastasia said. “He said the men around the Maximovich mine were thieves and rapists who’d do anything to hurt me, especially if they knew I was his daughter.”

“Well... he isn’t wrong about that.”Alexei mused.

She turned suddenly. “Tell me something. Were you born here? In Siberia?”

Silence.

“I mean,” she continued, “I don’t know anything about you. My father told me you came out of nowhere. One day you just appeared and became the Siberian Wolf.”

That made him chuckle. “Well, let’s take it one at a time. Yes, I was born here. In Siberia.”

“And your family?”

He was tempted to tell the truth, but lying was muscle memory. He swallowed, glancing at the back of Xander’s head. “My mother died giving birth to me. I was raised by my stepfather, Sergei Morozov. He owned the mines here... I inherited them after he passed.”

Silence stretched, heavy and stiff.

Then—

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The words were so soft he almost didn't hear them. He turned, and his heart skipped. Anastasia was watching him, her eyes shimmering with tears.

sympathy.

“I know how it feels to lose loved ones. My grandparents passed when I was very young, too,” she sniffed.

Alexei stared at her, paralyzed.

Just then, a loud knock sounded on the glass as the car hit a rocky stretch of road.

They had arrived.

Anastasia wiped her eyes, looking out the window. Her breath caught. Before them stood a sprawling mansion of old, tasteful brick and grand architecture.

Two older men, dressed in clothes that looked like they’d been dipped in charcoal water, stood by the drive, grinning.

Xander slowed to a stop.

The men began shouting in fast, joyful Russian. “Kegan! Welcome home! We’ve missed you!”

Alexei opened the door and, to Anastasia’s shock, embraced the soot-stained men. They patted him down and touched his head fondly, despite him towering over them.

“You shaved your beard?” one exclaimed. “Why would you do such a nasty thing, Kegan?”

“And look, he’s got a cut, too,” the other added.

Alexei actually laughed. A real, warm sound.

“Knowing Kegan, the person who dared to destroy your face is six feet under, I presume?”

Alexei turned to the car, the men’s gaze followed his. “Would it shock you to know that the innocent-looking vixen in the back did this to me?”

They gasped. “No! It’s not possible!”

Anastasia blushed intensely as she stepped out.

“Is that why she’s bundled up in that coat? So she doesn’t get the opportunity to harm you again?”

Alexei opened his mouth to answer, but a high-pitched voice cut through the air like a whip.

“Kegan!”

Heads turned.

A woman came running out of the house. Heavily pregnant, black hair flying around her like a dark mist. Anastasia watched, a sick feeling descending on her, as the woman threw herself against Alexei.

She sobbed and cooed against his neck.

Alexei wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close in a gesture that was far too intimate.

That’s his wife, Anastasia thought bitterly.

The woman pulled back, her face tear-streaked as her gaze snapped to Anastasia.

She held Alexei's arm possessively. “Honey, who is that woman?”

Silence fell over the yard. Anastasia felt like she was going to retch. Her eyes filled with fresh tears as she shrugged off the white fur coat, letting it drop to the stones.

“Marina?” Anastasia’s voice shook.

The pregnant woman’s frown deepened. Beside her, Alexei remained frozen, refusing to turn.

“Yes, I’m Marina,” the woman snapped. “Who are you, and what are you doing with my husband? Are you some hooker?”

A pained, broken laugh escaped Anastasia. “Marina... I’m your sister. Anastasia. Don’t you recognize me?”