His Ruthless Embrace

CHAPTER TWO — THE GAME BEGINS

Anya

I could run. I could make up another lie. I could—

"I'm a journalist," I hear myself say.

The words hang in the air betSirens' Callve just given him a weapon. I've just handed him my throat.

"A journalist," he repeats. His smile widens. "Finally. The truth."

"I'm here to expose you," I say. My voice is steady. My hands are shaking. "I'm here to bring down your empire. I'm here to show the world what you really are."

"And what am I?"

"A monster."

He laughs. It's a low, dark sound that echoes off the glass walls. "You think I don't know that? You think I haven't heard that word a thousand times?"

"Then why are you still standing?"

"Because I don't care." He leans forward. His eyes are burning. "I don't care what you call me. I don't care what you write about me. I don't care if the whole world knows my name and hates it. They're all still going to bow to me."

"Not me."

"No," he agrees. "Not you. You're different. That's why I'm letting you live."

My heart stutters. "You're letting me live?"

"For now." He stands, circling the desk. He's too close again. I can feel the heat of him. "You're going to stay here, Anya. You're going to eat my food, sleep in my building, and try to gather evidence against me. And I'm going to watch you. Every second. Every minute. I'm going to watch you until I figure out exactly what you're made of."

"You can't keep me here."

"I own this city. I own the building you're standing in. I own the air you're breathing." He leans down, his lips close to my ear. "I can do whatever I want."

I shiver. I hate myself for shivering.

"You're insane," I whisper.

"Maybe." He pulls back, his eyes dark with something I can't name. "But I'm also very, very patient. And I have nothing but time."

He walks to a door in the corner of the room. It slides open, revealing a hallway lined with doors.

"Your room is at the end of the hall," he says. "Your things have already been moved. You'll find everything you need."

"You went through my things?"

"I went through everything. Including your father's notebook."

I stop breathing.

"It's a beautiful notebook," he continues. "Full of passion. Full of pain. Full of hatred. I can see why you keep it close. It's a reminder of why you're here."

"You had no right—"

"I have every right." He cuts me off, his voice cold. "This is my kingdom. You are a guest here. And guests don't make demands."

I stand. My hands are clenched into fists. My vision is blurring with rage.

"You're a monster," I repeat. "You're a monster and I'm going to destroy you."

"I know." He smiles. "I'm counting on it."

---

I walk down the hallway in a daze. My room is at the end, just like he said. A white door. Gold numbers. "6B."

I push it open.

The room is beautiful. A canopy bed draped in silk. A vanity with a mirror. A window overlooking the city. Everything is clean, expensive, perfect.

I hate it.

I hate him.

I sink onto the bed, my legs finally giving out. My breath comes in ragged gasps. I can't think. I can't breathe.

"Get it together," I whisper to myself. "Get it together. You've faced worse. You've—"

I haven't faced worse. I've never faced anything like him.

He knew. He knew everything. And he still let me stay. He wants to watch me. He wants to play with me.

But I can still win. I can still expose him. I just have to be smarter. Meaner. More ruthless.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my father's notebook. It's a small, leather-bound thing. The pages are yellowed with age. The handwriting is cramped and desperate.

"Tell the truth, Anya," the pages whisper. "Always tell the truth."

But the truth won't save me now. The truth is what got my father killed.

I close my eyes. I think about Dimitri's dark gaze, his cold smile, his gentle fingers on my collar.

I hate him.

I hate him.

I hate him.

And I'm going to destroy him.

---

A knock at the door makes me jolt upright.

"Come in," I say, my voice rough.

The door opens. A young woman in a crisp uniform enters, pushing a cart laden with food. Steam rises from covered dishes. The smell makes my stomach growl despite everything.

"Mr. Volkov sent dinner," she says, her eyes downcast. "He said to make sure you eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"He said you would say that." She sets the dishes on the small table by the window. "He said to tell you that you'll need your strength. The game has only just begun."

My jaw tightens. "Tell him I don't play games."

"I don't think that's true," she says softly. "I think you've been playing games your whole life. Survival is a game. Revenge is a game. And you, Ms. Petrova, are very, very good at it."

I stare at her. "Who are you?"

"I'm no one." She smiles—a small, sad smile. "Just a servant. But I've been here long enough to recognize a fighter when I see one. You'll need allies in this place. Not everyone wants to help the boss."

"You're offering to help me?"

"I'm offering to bring you food and keep my mouth shut." She backs toward the door. "That's all I can offer. For now."

The door closes. I'm alone again.

I stare at the food. It's too beautiful to touch. Filet mignon. Roasted vegetables. A glass of red wine that probably costs more than my rent.

I want to throw it against the wall.

Instead, I picked up the fork. I take a bite. The meat melts on my tongue.

I hate him.

I hate him.

I hate him.

But I'm not going to die on an empty stomach.

---

I eat slowly, savoring every bite. The wine is rich and dark, warming my chest. I feel my body relaxing against my will.

"You're going to eat my food, sleep in my building, and try to gather evidence against me."

The words echo in my mind. He knows. He knows everything. He knows what I'm doing, and he's still letting me stay.

Why?

Why would a man like Dimitri Volkov let a journalist live?

I think about his eyes. Dark. Depthless. Burning with something I can't name.

He wants something from me. Something beyond entertainment. Something beyond revenge.

But what?

I finished my meal. I set the dishes aside. I walk to the window and look out at the city.

Veridian Bay sprawls below me, a glittering web of lies and secrets. Somewhere out there, my father's ghost is watching. Waiting. Hoping I finish what he started.

"I will," I whisper. "I will finish it."

But the words feel hollow. Because somewhere deep down, I know the truth.

Dimitri isn't just playing a game.

He's rewriting the rules.

And I'm terrified I might not be the only one writing the ending.

---

The door opens again.

I spin around, my heart in my throat.

Dimitri stands in the doorway, his silhouette dark against the hallway light.

"Sleep well, Anya."

My breath catches. "What are you doing here?"

"Checking on my guest." He steps into the room. I scramble off the bed, my back against the wall. "I wanted to make sure you were comfortable."

"Get out."

"This is my building."

"Get out."

He walks toward me, slow and deliberate. I can't move. I'm frozen.

"You're scared," he says. "Good. Fear keeps you sharp. Fear keeps you alive."

"I'm not scared of you."

"Yes, you are." He reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek. "And you should be. I'm a dangerous man, Anya. I've done terrible things. I'll do terrible things again."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to know exactly what you're up against." He tilts my face up, his eyes burning into mine. "I want you to know that I will win. In the end, I always win. And when I do, you're going to have to make a choice."

"What choice?"

"Who you really are." He releases me, stepping back. "A journalist fighting for a dead man's cause. Or a woman fighting for her own survival."

He walks to the door. Pauses.

"Goodnight, Anya. I'll see you in the morning."

The door closes.

I slide down the wall, my heart racing. My hands are shaking. My breath is ragged.

I should run. I should leave. I should—

I think about my father's notebook. I think about his desperate handwriting. I think about the truth that got him killed.

I can't run. I can't leave. I have to finish what he started.

I press my hand to my chest. My heartbeat is a wild drum against my ribs.

"I will not break," I whisper. "I will not bend. I will not fall."

But even as I say it, I feel something shift inside me. Something dangerous. Something that has nothing to do with revenge.

And I'm terrified of what it might mean.