SHATTERED VOWS

Chapter five

The night air burned against her cheeks like ice-tipped fingers.

Anya staggered forward, one arm wrapped around her ribs, the other gripping the hood Mila had shoved into her hands minutes before the escape. Every part of her throbbed—her knees, her face, the place where Konstantin’s fist had split her lip, and her soul, which felt scraped raw.

But she kept moving.

She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t even know what part of Moscow this was. Just that she was out. That for the first time in months, there were no locked doors or eyes watching her. Only wind, shadows, and the brutal silence of winter.

Each step was a small rebellion.

Each breath, a defiance.

She ducked into an alleyway between two forgotten buildings, her breath puffing out in sharp white clouds. Her lungs screamed. Her heart wouldn’t slow down. And then her knees gave out.

She slid to the ground behind a stack of crates, letting the darkness swallow her. Her fingers shook as she pressed them to her split lip. Blood. Again. Her body had become too familiar with it.

She thought of her mother.

Of her once-proud eyes, now cold with disappointment.

“I gave you a future, Anya. You shamed us the day you ran your mouth.”

No. She couldn’t go back there. Not now. Not ever.

And Konstantin… if he found her...

She gagged on the thought. Her wrists trembled as she curled them close, burying her face into her arms. She wasn’t ready to die, but running felt like a slow suicide. There were no safe places left. Only bad men in darker corners.

And then… headlights.

A car. Sleek. Black. Slowing down.

Anya froze.

She tried to rise, but her legs were numb, her breath too loud in her ears. A door slammed shut. Heavy footsteps followed, deliberate and measured.

Then a voice.

Cold. Low. Dangerous.

“You're bleeding on my territory, devushka.”

She looked up.

He stood like a ghost pulled from legend—long black coat flaring, dark eyes shadowed by the low brim of night. He was tall. Ridiculously so. Built like a man who didn’t just command rooms—he silenced them. The wind shifted around him, as if the city itself knew better than to cross his path.

Ivan Vetrov.

She didn’t know how she knew. Maybe it was the stories whispered behind vodka glasses. Maybe it was instinct. But she did. She knew.

“I.....” Her throat cracked. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean.....”

“You think I care what you meant?”

"Well....next time ,I'll ask for directions before bleeding on your territory" she said defiantly not knowing where it even came from.

He chuckled,"for someone in a bad shape,you do have a mouth on you"

He crouched in front of her, a hand wrapping around her jaw—not gently. His thumb brushed across the bruises Konstantin left like he was reading them.

“Your husband did this?”

Anya blinked. “You know who I am?”

He smiled. Or something like it. A cruel tug at one corner of his mouth.

“You wear your fear like perfume, Anya Baranova. It lingers long after you walk into a room.”

"Michailova, I go by that not Baranova and yeah, he's done more than this to me" she said as she flinched, shame coloring her face. She should’ve run the other way.

“Please,” she whispered, “don’t take me back.”

For a long second, nothing.

Then Ivan’s gaze shifted, sharp and calculating. “He’ll want you dead now. You know that.”

“I know.”

He tilted his head. “And yet here you are. Running with broken ribs and blood in your mouth. You must be very stupid... or very desperate.”

Anya didn’t answer. There was no point. She took a step back, her bare feet sinking into the snow, but Ivan’s hand shot out, catching her wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop her. His touch was warm, a stark contrast to the ice around them, and it sent a jolt through her. “Don’t,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost a warning. “You’ll freeze before you make it a kilometer.”

“Let me go,” she whispered, hating the tremble in her voice. Her face throbbed, her body screaming for rest, but she couldn’t trust him. Not him, not anyone.

Ivan straightened and looked down at her. Then he reached into his coat and tossed something at her feet. A burner phone.

“You have five minutes. Make a call. Choose your death.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You can call your mother. Your uncle. Maybe even the police. But they’ll all take you back to him.”

Her fingers hovered over the phone. “And if I don’t call anyone?”

Ivan leaned closer, his voice a whisper made of blades.

“Then you get in the car. And your life stops being yours… but at least it’s not his anymore.”

Anya looked at him—really looked.

This wasn’t a savior.

This wasn’t a hero.

This was a darker monster offering her shelter in exchange for the pieces of herself she hadn’t already lost.

But it was still better than Konstantin.

She stood up on shaking legs. Let the burner drop without touching it. And walked toward the car.

Ivan opened the door without another word.

As she climbed in, the warmth of the leather hit her skin like a brand. It smelled like smoke, steel, and danger. The door slammed shut behind her, the sound final, like a coffin lid being nailed closed.

Ivan got in beside her. One glance at her bloodied lip, her bruised wrist.

“You’re lucky I don’t like returning damaged things.”

And with that, the engine roared to life.

Anya didn't know what tomorrow would bring.

But as they drove off into the ink-black Moscow night, she knew one thing for certain

She was free of Konstantin Baranov.

And she had just traded one devil… for another.