CLAIMED BY THE RUSSIAN TYRANT

16

Anastasia was in disbelief. Her father was many things — controlling, cold, obsessed with the Sokolov name above every one of his children — but not a murderer. Not someone who would torture his own daughter, however disobedient she'd been.

Alexei leaned closer, close enough that his mouth nearly grazed hers. She jerked back, and his lips caught her cheek instead.

Heat rushed through her that had no business being there. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to warn her of something she didn't want to hear.

A startled gasp tore out of her as his hands cupped her ass, and he exhaled into her hair, his groan low and rough and entirely too confusing.

“Anastasia.” His voice dropped, rough at the edges. “You were almost bearable in that car. Let's not ruin it.”

His fingers tightened, and for some odd reason, Anastasia trembled. He was looking down at her now, eyes hooded with lust and something dangerous.

No. She needed to think straight.

She shoved him, hard enough that he actually stumbled, and put the width of the cluttered desk between them.

“If you didn't kidnap my sister,” she said, palming her neck, fighting to keep her voice level, “then why did you keep her here? Why not send her back—to my grandparents, at least? They were alive seven years ago. If they'd known what my father did—what you say he did—they'd have done something.”

Alexei exhaled slowly. His jaw clenched, and for a second, Anastasia wondered if he would go back on his word and actually force himself on her. He certainly looked like he wanted to eat her whole.

She swallowed, watching the frustration in his eyes. But thankfully, he didn't close the distance again.

“And what difference would it have made?” he said slowly. “With your sister's memory gone, do you think anyone would believe she simply stumbled onto my land? Knowing how conniving Maximo is, he'll use this as leverage over me. A story to sell all of Russia — that Alexei Morozov assaulted his enemy's daughter.”

Anastasia let out a dry laugh.

“You find that funny.”

“No. What I find funny—”She faced him fully. “What I find funny is you talking about not assaulting my sister when you took advantage of her the moment she couldn't remember her own name.”

His brows drew together, and it only enraged her further.

Her hand found a chessboard on the table, and she flung it with everything she had.

“You impregnated my sister! How can you stand there looking clueless? How does a man take advantage of a woman who's lost her mind?”

The board landed on the wall with a loud crash.

Alexei froze. “You think I impregnated your—”

An urgent knock sounded on the door, cutting him off. Anastasia straightened.

“Kegan? Is that crashing I hear?”

“Everything is all right, Yelena—” Alexei said, voice slipping into that composed drawl. “You can't come in right now.”

The voice continued nonetheless.

“I heard from Paval and Mikhail that you came home with a red-haired vixen who plucked your entire beard, but Maria and the other staff are saying a different thing — that you came home bleeding, with half of your face almost shredded, and you expect me to sit with my arms folded while you get an infection? Open this door.”

Alexei let out a sound of pure frustration. Whoever Yelena was, she clearly held the keys to his temper, Anastasia realized.

A couple of seconds later, the door flung open.

A woman's salt-and-pepper hair appeared, followed by blue eyes in wide-rimmed glasses sweeping over Alexei from head to toe like a mother checking a child for broken bones.

Those eyes sharpened into ice the moment they landed on Anastasia. “Oh! You have company.”

“This is Anastasia Sokolov,” Alexei said, cutting the tense silence. “She'll be staying with us until I've finished business here.”

A heavy pause stretched between them.

“Sokolova, is it? So she's Russian.” Yelena glanced at her. “Good day, child. I hope Xander's driving didn't rattle your bones too badly.”

Anastasia said nothing, locking her jaw.

Yelena's brow creased. “Does she not speak Russian?”

“Well—”

“Oh, good heavens!” Yelena gasped, adjusting her glasses and sweeping past Anastasia entirely to descend on Alexei. “Your face! Who did these crude stitches?”

“It's not a big deal, Yelena—”

“Your face is not a big deal?” Yelena snapped.

Alexei caught Yelena by the shoulder, his voice dropping low. “Enough fussing. I'm a grown man. Besides…” He glanced sideways. “You're embarrassing me in front of my guest.”

“A guest who came in here acting like a wild rabbit, slapping your injury open and screaming at the staff?” Yelena said, not bothering to lower her voice or look away from Alexei's cheek. “She should learn some manners! And what a shame her family never bothered to teach her her own language. How will she survive on her own?”

Anastasia couldn't stop the hot flush spreading across her cheeks. Alexei shot her a quick, unreadable glance before pushing Yelena toward the door.

“Let's talk outside,” he said.

His tone was almost… bashful?

No. Impossible.

Before she could make sense of the flush creeping up his ear, the door swung shut.

It didn't latch fully. Low, clipped Russian bled through the crack — the sharp, fast cadence of a heated argument. Anastasia crept toward the door to hear better, but it swung open again before she reached it.

Alexei was gone.

Yelena stood in the doorway, studying her with a look of stunned pity.

Anastasia bristled. She hated that look — it was a mirror reflecting just how helpless her situation really was.

“Come, child. I've been assigned to see you settled,” Yelena said in heavy, broken English, her accent thick and clumsy. Anastasia didn't bother correcting her.

She let the older woman take her hand like she was made of glass and lead her down the grand hallway.

All the while, her mind wandered to Marina. Was Alexei with her right now, playing the dutiful husband? What was he telling her that Anastasia came to do here? Would he tell her that they were sisters? She clenched her fist, nails biting into her palm as her sister's pregnant belly flashed in her eyes.

Of course he wouldn't. God, he was despicable. She needed to leave this place, with Marina alongside her.

But how?

“You need proper clothes,” came Yelena's voice, interrupting Anastasia's thoughts. “I see you didn't bring anything with you — that outfit won't survive an hour out here. You'll catch your death.”

They were passing through a long corridor lined with dark wood and heavy, antique portraits, their footsteps swallowed by thick rugs.

“It's not as if I'm going anywhere,” Anastasia said, speaking English for the first time.

“Kegan wants you dressed warm regardless. Says you're a New York girl, not built for Yakutsk.” Yelena kept walking. “He also wants you to know that you're free to move around as you like. Just don't step outside without alerting the guards.”

“Typical. I’m his property and prisoner.”

Yelena stopped short, turning to fix Anastasia with a stern look. “Oh, not at all, child. I shouldn't be the one telling you this, but it's been dangerous around here lately. Miners going missing, others killed in the mines by enemy forces… It's only natural Kegan wants you protected. Despite how wild you can be.”

A chill ran straight down Anastasia's spine. Miners getting killed?

“Enemy forces? Who are they?”

Yelena tsked, turning away and quickening her pace. “You don't need to concern yourself with that. Just do as you're told and don't try to harm our young master again.”

Anastasia clenched her jaw. “I had my reasons.”

“And what are these reasons?”

“I hardly think they're any of your business,” Anastasia snapped in fluent Russian. “You're just Alexei's employee.”

God, the woman didn't know when to mind her business. For a housekeeper, she certainly carried herself like she owned the place.

Yelena didn't even flinch at the sudden outburst in Russian.

“I know you're Svetlana's daughter.”

Her mother's name struck Anastasia like a physical blow. She froze, or tried to. Yelena kept walking, dragging her along, eyes fixed straight ahead as if she hadn't just dropped a bomb.

“What did you say?”

“You have her face. Same figure, same coloring, same temper. And that straight nose that always look down on people.” The old woman paused, finally turning around. Her blue eyes locked onto Anastasia's, sharp and devoid of pity, as she delivered the final blow in effortless, biting Russian.

“I may be old, my dear, but I will never forget the face of a whore.”