chapter six
890 Words
The air smelled unfamiliar—clean, like pinewood and frost.
Anya’s lashes fluttered open against the sting of late sunlight filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. The mattress beneath her wasn’t the one she’d left behind in Konstantin’s gilded prison. It wasn’t lined in silk or heavy with excess. It was firm, cool, and smelled like smoke and soap.
She bolted upright, a wince twisting her face as pain stabbed along her ribs.
Her hands flew to her temple where dried blood crusted beneath her fingernails.
Where the hell was she?
The room was quiet, almost too quiet. No footsteps pacing outside the door. No drunk slurs. No Mila whispering through the cracks. Just... peace.
Her eyes swept the space. It was minimalist—almost stark. A charcoal wall, a leather chair angled toward the window, a glass of untouched scotch on the nearby table. No photos. No sentimental clutter. Whoever owned this place lived like a shadow.
She swallowed hard.
“Finally awake, zolotse?”
The voice sliced into the silence.
She turned sharply. Her breath caught.
Leaning against the doorway with one hand casually braced above his head stood Ivan Vetrov, cold, immovable, and dangerous in a way her husband could never pretend to be. His eyes were a dark storm—calm, calculating, and not a hint of pity within them. His shirt was black, sleeves rolled up to the forearm. Ink curled across one wrist. He was every whispered story the Bratva feared.
And he was real.
“Where—” her voice cracked. She cleared it. “Where am I?”
“You’re in my home. Obviously.” His lip lifted, just slightly, and it wasn’t a smile.
Anya pulled the blanket tighter around her frame. Her skin still felt exposed, her muscles screaming in protest. “Why did you bring me here?”
"And why are you just standing there like a storm in winter" she asked, eyebrows raised
"What?" He snapped
"You know, like frozen, unbothered, dangerous.that gives me an idea,maybe I should start calling you Morozka"
"Don't you dare!" He growled
"Too late,frost king"
Ivan stepped into the room. His presence made the walls feel smaller. He moved closer to where she was and bent down to her level,their faces almost touching.
“You passed out in my car. Blood, bruises, tears. Not the kind of thing a man ignores when it collapses at his feet.”
“I didn’t ask you to help me,” she said, voice tight.
“No,” he agreed, “but you needed help anyway. You looked like something the devil dragged up and left on my property.”
She flinched at the words but didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong.
He studied her—carefully, too carefully. “Your husband did that to you?”
Silence stretched between them.
“I’m not married,” she said flatly.
Ivan’s brow lifted. “That so?”
“I escaped,” she added after a beat. “I don’t belong to him anymore.”
He tilted his head as if observing a riddle rather than a woman. “You think leaving a man like Konstantin makes you unmarried?” His voice was low. “You have no idea how this world works, do you?”
“I know enough.”
“Clearly not.” He stepped closer, and her heart jumped. “If Konstantin finds you, he won’t file for divorce. He’ll slit your throat.”
Anya’s stomach turned, but she refused to look away. “Then don’t let him find me.”
His gaze held hers for one long, measured beat.
Then: “I don’t run a shelter, sweetheart. I don’t take in strays.”
“I didn’t ask for charity.”
“You’re bleeding into my sheets. That’s charity enough.”
Her fingers clenched the blanket. “Then tell me your rules,” she said, jaw tight.
Ivan blinked once. Then laughed, low and humorless.
“My rules?”
She nodded. “You said this is your home. Fine. I’m not going back there. I’ll stay out of your way, I’ll be useful. I just—” Her voice cracked. “I just need to be somewhere I won’t be dragged back.”
He walked to the table, picked up the scotch, and took a slow sip, watching her the entire time.
“Rule one,” he said finally, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “You don’t lie to me. Ever.”
“Okay.”
“Rule two. You speak when spoken to. I don’t need your opinions, just your honesty.”
She hesitated. “Fine.”
“Three. If I give you an order, you follow it. I don’t like repeating myself.”
She swallowed hard. “Understood.”
He set the glass down. “And four...” His voice dropped slightly as he walked closer, his shadow falling over her. “You don't run again. Not from me.”
Her breath caught. She didn’t answer.
His eyes lingered on her face, tracing the bruises with something that wasn’t quite softness.
“You’re safe here,” he added, quietly. “But safety has a price.”
Anya met his gaze. “What do you want from me?”
His expression darkened, unreadable.
“That,” he said, stepping back, “is what we’ll both find out.”
- Writer
