His Ruthless Embrace

CHAPTER 3: The Sirens' Call

Anya's pov

Unable to sleep, I lay awake, watching shadows dance across the white ceiling. My father's notebook rests on the nightstand, serving as a quiet reminder or accusation.

Tell the truth, Anya. Always tell the truth.

But the truth is complicated now. The truth is tangled up in dark eyes and cold smiles and fingers that brush my cheek like I'm something precious instead of something dangerous.

I hate him.

I hate him.

I hate him.

But the words feel hollow. They bounce off the walls of my mind and fall flat, empty of conviction.

Dawn creeps through the window, pale and gray. Veridian Bay never sees true sunlight—only this perpetual twilight, this bruised and weary sky. I watch the drones circle overhead, black specks against the clouds, and wonder if Dimitri is watching me through their mechanical eyes.

Probably.

I drag myself out of bed. My reflection in the vanity mirror is a mess—dark circles under my eyes, hair escaping its bun, lips pale and cracked. I look like I've been through a war.

I haven't. Not yet. But the war is coming.

I splash cold water on my face. I redo my bun with shaking fingers. I smooth my blazer and straighten my collar.

Professional. Bored. Unimpressed.

I open the door.

He's standing there.

---

Dimitri Volkov leans against the hallway wall, arms crossed, ankles crossed, looking like he's been waiting for hours. His dark suit is immaculate, not a single wrinkle. His hair is perfectly styled. His eyes are sharp and alert.

He looks like he slept like a baby.

I hate him even more.

"Good morning, Anya," he says, his voice warm and amused. "Did you sleep well?"

"Like a rock."

"Liar."

"You're one to talk."

He smiles. It's a dangerous smile, full of teeth and mischief. "I slept wonderfully. Knowing you were just down the hall, plotting my demise—it was very comforting."

"I wasn't plotting."

"No?"

"I was planning. There's a difference."

He laughs. The sound is low and rich, like dark chocolate. It curls around me, warm and dangerous.

"Come," he says, pushing off the wall. "Breakfast is ready. I want to show you something."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're always hungry. You pretend you're not because you think accepting food from me is a sign of weakness."

I stare at him. "How do you—"

"I pay attention, Anya. I told you that yesterday. Everything about you is relevant."

He offers me his arm. I don't take it.

He shrugs and starts walking. I follow. I don't know why I follow. Maybe because running feels pointless. Maybe because I'm curious. Maybe because something in me wants to see what he'll show me next.

We walk through the hallway, past closed doors and silent guards. The elevator takes us up, not down. The buttons light up one by one—seventh floor, eighth floor, ninth floor—

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

The elevator stops at the top floor. The doors slide open.

---

The roof is a garden.

I wasn't expecting that.

Green vines climb trellises. Flowers bloom in carefully tended beds—roses, lilies, something purple I can't name. A glass table sits in the center of the space, covered in dishes and silverware. Steam rises from a pot of coffee.

The city sprawls below us, gray and neon and humming with life. But up here, everything is quiet. Peaceful.

"I didn't think you liked gardens," I say.

"I don't." He walks to the table, pulling out a chair. "My mother did. She planted this garden when I was a boy. I keep it because it reminds me of her."

My throat tightens. "You told me about your mother."

"I told you she died. I didn't tell you how much I miss her." He gestures to the chair. "Sit, Anya. Eat. I promise I won't poison you."

"That's exactly what someone who poisons people would say."

"True." He smiles. "But if I wanted you dead, you'd already be dead. I don't need poison."

I sit. The chair is warm from the morning air. The coffee smells rich and dark.

Dimitri sits across from me, pouring us both cups. He doesn't add sugar or cream. He drinks it black, like he's punishing himself.

"You know," he says, "you're the first person I've brought up here in years."

"I'm honored."

"You should be."

"I'm not."

He laughs again. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

We eat in silence for a while. The food is perfect—fresh fruit, warm bread, fluffy eggs. I hate how good it tastes. I hate how my body relaxes against the chair, how the coffee warms my chest, how the garden smells like flowers, earth, and something almost like peace.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask finally.

"Doing what?"

"This." I gesture around us. "The garden. Breakfast. The—the kindness. You know I'm here to destroy you. Why are you being nice to me?"

"Who says I'm being nice?"

"You brought me to your mother's garden."

He doesn't answer. He stares into his coffee, his expression unreadable.

"You remind me of her," he says finally. "My mother. She was fierce too. She never backed down from anything. She taught me that strength isn't about being cruel—it's about being willing to fight for what you love."

"What do you love?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

He looks up. His eyes meet mine. Something flickers in their depths—something raw and wounded.

"Maybe," he says. "Maybe I love nothing. Maybe that's why I'm so good at this life."

"Or maybe you're lying to yourself."

"And what would you know about that?"

"Everything." I set down my fork. "I spent years telling myself I didn't care about my father's death. I told myself I was just angry, just bitter, just hungry for revenge. But the truth is—"

I stop. I can't say it. I can't admit it out loud.

"The truth is what?" he prompts.

"The truth is I miss him," I whisper. "I miss him so much it hurts. And I'm so afraid that if I stop hating the people who killed him, I'll forget him entirely."

He studies me for a long moment. His expression softens.

"You won't forget him," he says. "People like us—we don't forget. We carry our ghosts with us forever."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"No." He stands, walking to the edge of the roof. He looks out at the city. "It's supposed to be honest. That's the only thing I can offer you, Anya. Honesty. Even when it hurts."

I stand too. I walk to stand beside him.

The wind whips my hair across my face. The city hums below us, a living, breathing thing.

"Why do you trust me?" I ask. "I could be recording this. I could be sending everything to my editors right now."

"I know."

"And you don't care?"

"I didn't say that." He turns to face me. His eyes are burning. "I care more than I should. That's the problem."

He reaches out. His fingers brush my cheek again. I should pull away. I should slap his hand. I should run.

I don't.

"You're dangerous," he murmurs. "You're the most dangerous person I've ever met. And I can't stay away from you."

"Dimitri—"

"I know." He drops his hand. Steps back. "I know. This is wrong. You're my enemy. You're here to destroy me. But when I look at you, I don't see an enemy. I see—"

"What?"

"I don't know." He shakes his head. "I don't know what I see. And that terrifies me."

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