I stand. “They’re family now too. Mikhail’s pissed, but he wants her back same as me. We use that.”
The room quiets for a second. Then Lucky grins dark. “Moscow’s about to get messy.”
We head out to the charter. Plane’s fueled, passports clean, weapons crated for the other side. I settle into the seat, staring out at the tarmac while the engines whine up. Anya’s out there right now, probably fighting every second with whatever she’s got left, probably bleeding from the glass or the needle or whatever else they did to her, probably waiting for the door to crash open and someone to finally come through it. And I’m coming. No question. With Lucky and Blade at my six, ready to turn that city into a graveyard if that’s what it takes. With Mikhail and Dmitri waiting on the ground, armed and raging, guarding their sedated father in some fortified clinic while we close in on Konstantin. Papa’s alive but out of the fight for now. That just means more blood on the line.
Konstantin thinks he owns her, thinks he can chain her up again and force her into his perfect little legacy picture, but he’s about to learn exactly what happens when you take a woman who belongs to the Iron Reapers and the Dragunovs both. Because we’re not just getting her back. We’re ending him. Ending everysingle person who helped him put hands on her. One way or another. Slow or fast. Quiet or loud. Until there’s nothing left but ash and the message that she’s untouchable.
NINETEEN
ANYA
I wake up slow,head thick like it’s stuffed with wet cotton, body heavy under soft sheets that smell like clean linen and something faintly expensive, and for a second I think I’m back in Roman’s bed, safe, warm, his arm slung over my waist like always, but then my eyes open and the room isn’t familiar, high ceilings, heavy velvet curtains blocking out daylight, walls paneled in dark wood that screams old money and old power, and I’m wearing silk pajamas, pale blue, soft against my skin, no bra, no underwear, just the slippery fabric sliding over every bruise and cut from the fight at the hotel, but nothing feels wrong down there, no soreness, no sticky aftermath, no violation, just the dull ache in my back from the glass and the sting where the needle went in, so they didn’t touch me that way, not yet, and that small mercy makes my stomach roll because I know it’s only because he’s saving it for something worse.
I sit up fast, head spinning, and scan the room: big four-poster bed, antique dresser, door half-open to what looks like an en-suite bathroom, no windows I can reach without climbing furniture, no obvious cameras but I assume they’re thereanyway, hidden in the molding or the chandelier, and then I hear it, low laughter from the hallway, smooth and familiar and so fucking smug it makes my teeth grind together before I even see him.
Konstantin steps through the doorway, casual in a black cashmere sweater and trousers, bandage still taped to the side of his neck where my bullet grazed him, red seeping through the white gauze like a badge he’s proud of, and he leans against the frame, arms crossed, smiling like we’re old lovers catching up.
“?????? ????, ?????????,” he says in Russian, voice soft and mocking. “?? ?????? ??????”
I don’t answer, just glare, pulling the sheet up to my chest even though the pajamas cover everything, because I hate how exposed I feel under his eyes.
He switches to English, stepping closer, slow like he’s savoring every second. “You fought hard. I’ll give you that. The shot was impressive. Messy, but impressive. But here we are anyway.”
“Fuck you,” I spit, voice hoarse from whatever they pumped into me.
He laughs again, low and warm, like I said something cute. “Tonight, Anastasiya. When I finally have you, it will be tonight. After our wedding.”
My blood turns to ice. “What wedding?”
He tilts his head, smile widening. “Ours. People will be up shortly to get you ready. Hair, makeup, the dress I had made for you years ago. It still fits, I checked. White silk, fitted, modest neckline because your father will be watching the feed. Wemarry tonight. Quiet ceremony, just family and a few witnesses. You will finally be mine.”
I lunge off the bed, bare feet hitting cold hardwood, fists clenched. “I’m not marrying you. I’d rather die.”
He doesn’t flinch, just watches me with that patient, predatory calm. “You will marry me. Or I do something so terrible you will beg me to put the ring on your finger just to make it stop.”
I step closer, close enough to smell his cologne, close enough to see the stitches holding the graze together. “Try it. See what happens.”
His eyes flick over me, slow, lingering. “Roman Kovacs is alive right now because I allow it. Your little biker club is still breathing because I haven’t made the call yet. But if you refuse me tonight, I start with him. I have people in Jackson already. One word and they put a bullet through his skull while he’s sitting in that office you love so much. Then I move to his brothers. Lucky first, maybe. Blade next. One by one until the Iron Reapers are nothing but a memory. And you will watch every second of it on a screen I set up right here, in this room, while you wear my ring and carry my name.”
My knees want to buckle but I lock them, force air into my lungs. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” He pulls his phone from his pocket, taps the screen, turns it so I can see the live feed: Roman’s clubhouse gate, the Iron Reapers sign clear, a black sedan parked across the street with tinted windows, a man inside smoking, waiting. “They’ve been there since yesterday. Waiting for my signal. Say no to me tonight, Anastasiya, and I give it.”
The room tilts. I grab the bedpost to stay upright, rage and fear twisting together so tight I can’t breathe right. Roman’s face flashes in my head, the way he looks when he’s sleeping, soft for once, the way he says my name when he’s inside me, rough and reverent, the way he promised he’d come for me if I ever needed him. I can’t let them touch him. I can’t let them touch any of them.
Konstantin pockets the phone, steps closer until he’s inches away. “You marry me tonight. You smile for the camera. You tell the world it was all a misunderstanding, that you came back willingly. You give me what I’ve waited years for. And Roman lives. His club lives. Your father keeps his alliances. Everyone wins.”
I stare at him, chest heaving. “You’re a monster.”
“I’m a man who gets what he wants.” He brushes a strand of hair off my face, fingers lingering too long. “And tonight, I want you.”
He turns and walks out, door clicking shut behind him, lock turning from the outside.
I stand there shaking, fists clenched so hard my nails dig into my palms and draw little half-moons of blood, because I won’t marry him, I can’t, the thought alone makes bile rise in my throat, but I can’t let him kill Roman either, can’t let him pick off Lucky or Blade or any of the brothers one by one just to prove a point, so I drop to my knees beside the bed, press my forehead hard against the cool wood floor until it grounds me, and start thinking fast, really fast, because the women coming to dress me will be here any minute with their pins and powders and that white silk dress he’s been keeping like a trophy, and I’ve got hours, maybe less, to figure out how to turn this prettycage into a weapon, something sharp, something deadly, anything I can use to rip this nightmare apart before Konstantin gets what he thinks he’s owed tonight, before I lose the only man who ever let me choose my own path instead of forcing me down his, before I have to sit there in white silk watching Roman die on a screen while I choke out “I do” to a monster. No. Fuck that. I’m not done fighting. Not even close.
The women come in pairs,silent at first, like they’ve been coached not to look me in the eye, and then they start moving me around the room like I’m furniture that needs polishing. They lead me to the en-suite bathroom without a word, strip the silk pajamas off me like it’s routine, and guide me under the shower spray that’s already hot and scented with something floral and expensive. Hands scrub my back, careful around the fresh scabs from the glass, rinse my hair with shampoo that smells like jasmine and costs more than most people’s rent, condition it until it’s heavy and shining. No one asks if the water’s too hot or if the loofah hurts the cuts. They just work, efficient and detached, like I’m a job.
After the shower they wrap me in a thick robe, sit me at the vanity, and start the real production. One woman blows my hair out straight and sleek, another sections it for hot rollers that make perfect waves, pinning them with practiced snaps while she hums under her breath. A third starts on my face, foundation first, then concealer over the faint bruise on my cheekbone from the crash into the coffee table, blending until it disappears. Concealer for the dark circles under my eyes too, because apparently brides aren’t allowed to look like they’ve been drugged and kidnapped. They talk over my head the wholetime, voices light and cheerful, like we’re all friends getting ready for a party.
