“Sure,” she says. Her eyes are bright now. “You didn’t drag me out of my apartment yourself. You didn’t hold the gun. You just bought the result. You’re not different from those men, Roman. You’re just better dressed.”
The words cut.
I walk toward her slowly. Her bravado flickers, but she doesn’t move. Her hands slide into her coat pockets again. Her shoulders rise.
“What did you just say?”
“I—”
“Na koleni.” Kneel.
The air tightens in the room.
She stares at me. “You can’t be serious.”
“Try me.”
I take another step. She takes an involuntary one back, and her shoulders meet the bookshelf with a soft thud. Her scent—peppermint, fear, something warmer underneath—hits me stronger here.
“I honored your win,” I say. “I gave you time. I offered you a lab, a path to something that looks almost like the life they ripped you out of. And you repay that by comparing me to the mutts who fetch and carry for my uncle.”
Her breath comes faster now. Her chest lifts and falls. The coat strains over her breasts again.
“Kneel,” I say. I hate repeating myself.
She shakes her head once. “Roman, don’t—”
“Kneel, Anya.”
There’s a long, thick moment where she thinks.
Then she slides one knee down onto the polished floor, then the other. Her hands hover uselessly for a second before she brace them lightly on her knees.
She looks up at me.
Andfuck.
On her knees, looking up through dark lashes, mascara smeared, lips parted, chest rising fast—I think about it. About what it would feel like to wrap a hand in her hair, guide her head forward, watch her lips open around my cock, feel the heat and the wetness and the tremble of her throat while she tries to keep her composure. I’m no priest. The thought hits and doesn’t let go.
I slide one hand into her hair, gripping. Her head tilts back slightly. Her throat stretches out in a pale, vulnerable line. Her pulse hammers under the skin.
“Look at me,” I say.
She does. Immediately. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, fear and humiliation and something hotter all tangled together.
“When I show mercy,” I say, my thumb brushing along the edge of her lip, “you don’t throw it back in my face. Mercy cost me,solnyshko. I don’t pay it twice.”
Her lips part on a shaky exhale. “Fuc-”
“You want to curse me?” I cut her off. “Save it for the bedroom. Save it for when you’re on this floor for a different reason, and you’re begging me for things you swore you’d never want from me. Everywhere else, you’re Anya Volkova. My wife. Act like it.”
A small sound escapes—half swallow, half protest. She doesn’t say the words, but I see the moment she understands that resistance has limits here.
I let go of her hair. My fingers don’t want to. I force them to unclench.
She stays there on her knees for a beat too long. Then she pushes herself up, legs unsteady, eyes skittering away from my face.
I turn my back on her because if I keep looking, I’m going to wreck everything I just promised. I walk to the sideboard, pour myself another whiskey, and focus on the sound of the liquid hitting glass instead of the memory of how she looked, kneeling at my feet.
