My body remembers how it felt to be claimed by him.
Ownedby him.
I hate that I miss him.
God, I hate it.
It makes no sense to miss a man like him. Not after what I saw. Not after what I was forced to be a part of.
Maksim Antonov isn’t some dark, brooding stranger you meet out at a bar and take back to your place for a wild night of inhibited fun. He isn’t a mistake you stumble into, someone you can chalk up to bad judgment and too much booze.
He’s aPakhan. A Bratva boss to a ruthless organization. A man who can make entire groups disappear in a day if it suits him. A man whose name alone carries enough weight to crush someone like me.
And still, when I close my eyes, it isn’t Moscow I see.
It’s him.
It’s better this way, being separated. I repeat that to myself like a mantra, even when the words taste like ash on my tongue.
I know in my heart despite the loud, persistent voice in the back of my head telling me otherwise that escaping with my life is worth this heartache. Whatever ache lingers in my chest is a small price compared to what could’ve happened if I’d stayed.
His decision to send me home should be seen as a miracle. I should fall to my knees in gratitude that he let me go at all, that he didn’t fold me into that violent world of his and make me a part of it. Being set free is a gift I never thought I’d get. A gift I need to cherish, hold tightly to, and never question.
And yet…
The thought of never seeing him again feels like losing a piece of myself. Like someone carved out something vital from inside me and left behind a hollow hole. I catch myself turning at the sound of a low voice in the crowd, expecting it to be his. I wake in the night reaching for a warmth that isn’t there.
Sometimes, it’s torture.
But the idea of going back there? Of willingly stepping into that storm again? That terrifies me more than anything.
I’ve seen the kind of world he lives in firsthand. I’ve been held in it, threatened, and nearly broken by it. That world doesn’t forgive weakness. It doesn’t allow softness of any kind.
I don’t belong in it, no matter how much my heart stumbles at the memory of him, no matter how much my body betrays me with its longing. I am not made for the blood and violence and power games that is a Russian Bratva.
Alia noticeshow pale I look one morning while we’re sitting down for coffee in my new apartment. The steam from my untouched cappuccino curls between us, but she isn’t distracted by the cozy warmth or the noise around us. Her sharp eyes are fixed entirely on me.
They sweep over my face, my shoulders, my frame in my loose sweater, and I know what she sees.
By the time she corners me in my kitchen when I get up to grab her another snack, I don’t even bother pretending I didn’t expect it. She blocks the door with her body like she’s afraid I’ll bolt if she leaves me an exit.
“You’re wasting away, Ivy,” she says firmly, pressing her still steaming mug of chamomile into my hands like it’s medicine, like it might cure everything inside me that’s broken. “I can tell you’re barely eating. And don’t even try to tell me it’s nothing. Your cheekbones could cut glass right now. It’s scaring the hell out of me. What did Russia do to you?”
I flinch. “Nothing.”
“We need to bring you to the doctors.”
I force a laugh. “I’m fine, Alia. You’re overreacting. There’s nothing wrong, I promise. I’m still recovering from the time difference, that’s all.”
“Ivy…” Her voice trembles at the edges, no matter how steady she tries to sound. She’s scared for me. That should mean something to me, but all it really does is pile guilt onto the heap already crushing my chest.
“Nothing happened.” It’s the excuse I’ve been feeding her since the day I landed back here, and she still doesn’t buy it. I see it in her eyes, the way they flicker with doubt. But she’s too kind to press harder, at least for now.
She’ll never know the whole truth.
She’ll never know about the days I spent locked down in that interrogation room with men circling me like vultures. She’ll never know how close I came to begging them to do it just to end the waiting. She’ll never know about Maksim. About how he burned the impression of his touch into my body.
She won’t know that I was foolish enough to let myself fall into orbit around a man like him and that it’s now slowly destroying me.
