“Good night,” I say quietly then turn down the hallway and go back to the guest room Roman showed me earlier. I close the door gently behind me and lean against it for a second.
In the bag of clothes he brought me in the hospital, I remember seeing a pair of soft cotton pajamas. I grab them and change slowly, every movement reminding me of bruises I would rather not think about.
The mattress dips under my weight. The sheets are cool against my skin. I pull the covers up to my chin and stare at the ceiling.
I’m not sure why, but being in Roman’s home makes my shoulders loosen in a way they haven’t in weeks. There’s something about him. Something steady. He does not hover or crowd me. He simply stands there like a wall you can lean against without asking permission. It is a strange comfort.
I think back to the phone call with my father. The way his voice broke when he said my name, then hardened when he spoke of Volkov. He has given me anything and everything I could ever want, for that I should be grateful.I love my father. That has never been the question. But I wish he wasn’t coming. My life before this was never my own. Every decision was made for me. All appearances were strategic. Every friendship was watched and commented on. I was raised to understand alliances, not freedom. And now, for the first time, I am in a place where no one is telling me where to sit or who to marry or how to move. The thought terrifies me almost as much as it steadies me.
I roll onto my side and close my eyes because I’m too tired to untangle any of this tonight and too tired to decide what it all means. Tomorrow will come soon enough, and when it does, this fragile sliver of space I’m standing in, this brief illusion of choice, will disappear because my father will arrive and the plane will land and his men will move. Decisions will be made around me instead of with me, and I will step back into the world I was raised for, back under his protection and back under his control. So I let the quiet of this house wrap around me while it still can, and I breathe it in like it might be the last time I’m allowed to.
I don’t knowhow long I sleep, but I wake up screaming with tears streaming down my face. The room is dark. For a split second, I am back in that concrete room in the warehouse. The air is damp. The lightbulb is swinging overhead. I jerk upright, heart hammering, my breathing coming too fast. Someone grabs my wrist and I swing at them. My fist connects with solid muscle. “Anastasiya.” It’s him, Roman, my savior.
I blink, and the room slowly comes back into focus. The dim outline of the dresser takes shape against the far wall, and the faint shadow of the window stretches across the floor in silver-blue light. Roman is sitting on the edge of the bed staring at me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper automatically.
“For what?”
“I thought…” My breath stutters. “I thought I was still there. In the chains.”
“You’re not,” he says quietly.
My hands are shaking and I hate that he can see it.
He shifts slightly closer, but doesn’t touch me again. “Do you want space,” he asks, “or do you want me here?”
The question surprises me. Not, do you need me, or, I’m staying. He’s giving me a choice. “I don’t want to be alone,” I admit.
He nods once and shifts back against the headboard. Without saying a word, he reaches for me and draws me toward him. He’s in black sweats and nothing else, bare chest warm and solid in the dim light. His arm settles around my shoulders and his other hand slides to the back of my head, fingers threading gently into my hair as if anchoring me to him. I go still for a second, unsure what to do with the closeness. Then my cheek presses against his chest and I feel it, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear. Slow and even. Unhurried. He smells like soap and something darker underneath, something that feels like safety and him. But my lungs haven’t caught up yet. My breathing is still too fast, still trapped somewhere between memory and now.
“Match me,” he murmurs.
“What?” I gasp, trying to catch enough air.
“Breathe when I breathe.” He says, and I listen. I inhale with him then exhale with him. His chest rises under my cheek and my pulse begins to slow. “You’re safe,” he says quietly.
I close my eyes. The nightmare tries to drag me back under, but his arm tightens just slightly, anchoring me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper again.
“For surviving?” he asks. The question is so simple it makes my throat ache.
“For putting you in this position.”
His hand stills in my hair. “You didn’t put me anywhere, moya ptichka,” he says. “I walked into it knowing what it means.” His words settle deep. His thumb brushes once over my temple.
Outside, the house is silent. Across an ocean, my father is mobilizing men. But here, in the dark, Roman’s breathing stays steady. And slowly, against his chest, I fall back asleep.
FOUR
RIOT
I knew Volkov.Knew his routes. His patterns. His suppliers. I knew enough to understand he was pushing into places he shouldn’t be. When I dug deeper, I found the Dragunov name attached to old partnerships, old rivalries, and old blood. That’s when I learned who Viktor Dragunov was.
He’s not some street thug with delusions of an empire. Not a reckless kingpin flashing money and muscle. He built his power the way old-world men do. Quietly. Strategically. Brick by brick. He controls shipping lanes through Eastern Europe, has influence threaded through ports, energy contracts, politicians who pretend not to know him. The kind of man governments shake hands with publicly and fear privately.
I wasn’t worried about him when I read his file. He’s disciplined. Structured. He doesn’t lash out without cause. A man like that doesn’t cross oceans over ego, but he does for his ‘Printsessa.’
Viktor has two sons. Mikhail Dragunov is the eldest. The one who sits at the table and makes agreements that last decades. He’s the kind of man who smiles while calculating profit margins in human loyalty.
