Chapter 11

“ANISSA”

I stir in my sleep, somewhere caught between reality and a drugged state of consciousness.

There's… a woman in my dreams. A woman with silvery gray hair and kind eyes, and my heart aches because I know her .

“Mom?” I want to say, but that doesn't seem right; something's wrong with it.

"Where are you, Polina?" She wrings her hands, and she's crying. There's a man—no, there are several men, faceless but not quite strangers, there with her, comforting her. They're familiar, but I couldn't name them. I couldn't place them.

My heart aches. I reach for her, and I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I try, desperate to communicate with her as she gets farther and farther away from me. I can’t see how she’s drifting away, so I’m helpless to get to her or bring her back to me until her back is to me. The farther she goes, the harder I try to get her attention.

"I'm here," I want to say, which makes no sense to me, even in my dream, because… my name is not Polina. My name is Anissa. I have no mother. And who are the strangers?

Half waking, I feel strong arms around me, warm, comforting. Restrictive. I scream and thrash, but it does no good. I open my eyes and sit up, gasping for air.

I turn toward Rafail… my husband. He holds me. "You're all right," he says, and even though it looks like he's trying to soothe me, concern is written across his features. "I've got you. It was just a dream. Just a dream."

It’s terrifying to wake from one dream only to realize that you’re living in a nightmare. "It's all right," he says, his voice softer this time.

I remind myself over and over… My husband. This is my husband. I married him and wear his ring. I still don’t remember.

There's some comfort in at least knowing who he is. This is my husband. I'm getting to know him, and I’m safe. I’m okay.

All right, I can do this . Just as a trial, I push one of his arms, which is wrapped around me, until he lets me go. He’s only trying to comfort me, not restrain me.

This time.

Still, my heart is beating so fast that I feel a little sick.

I sit up in bed and look around the room. "It was just a dream," I repeat.

We had sex the first night, the two of us, and it’s been a few days since then. He’s touched me, talked to me, but mostly worked hard at making sure no one bothered me so I could “rest” and “recover.”

I won't call it making love because I don't know him well enough to call this anything even close to that. There’s something about the way he touched me, the way he kissed me, that spoke more to me than his harsh words and angry glares.

This man, who is still a practical stranger to me, is a lover. He knows his way around my body, and I definitely enjoyed the novelty of being with him. It was nice to lose myself in him for a little while.

“What’s going on?” he asks in a low, husky murmur. "Do you want to talk about it? Was it a… bad dream or something?" he says. There's a little divot between his brows that tells how much effort it takes for him to be gentle. He’s worried about me. Give Rafail Kopolov a sword and tell him to slay your dragons, and he'll do it without hesitation. Ask him to talk about emotions, and he’s terribly out of his element.

I may not know who I am, but I'm starting to get to know who he is.

"It was," I say quietly, looking away because I'm still trying to sift through the memory of what happened. "There was a woman—an older woman, someone who could've been my mother. But you told me I don’t have a mother."

"You don't," he says quietly. There’s no sign of a lie.

“She called me Polina.” I look at his face for some sign of recognition, but either he's a very good liar, or the name is unfamiliar to him too.

"I've never heard that name before," he says. "I mean, I don’t know anyone who goes by that name.”

I open my mouth to tell him, but something holds me back. I look away.

I am vulnerable, split wide open, and completely at his mercy.

Who is Polina?

Maybe I need to keep a few things to myself. Maybe?—

His finger under my chin gets my attention. I swing my gaze to his as he cups my jaw. "You looked like you were going to speak and then stopped. What is it?"

"The name wasn't unfamiliar to me, Rafail. It felt… like it fit.”

He stares at me and nods, perplexed. “That isn’t your name. I know these types of medications can really wreck dreams. I'll ask the doctor to put you on something else tonight.” He frowns. “How's your pain level?" He’s eager to get answers, something tangible.

A dragon to slay.

"Manageable," I say softly because it is much better than it was. I sigh. I feel like one of those people in a movie, gifted with a vision and determined to get others to see what they can’t. Any moment, he’ll take my temperature to see if I’m delusional.

Quietly, thoughtfully, he pulls me over to him and holds me against his chest, then wraps one arm around me tentatively, as if he knows it's something he should do, but he doesn't quite know how.

I let him comfort me. It feels like a choice.

In the soft quiet of early morning, the memory of the dream fades until it's just that… a distant memory. A dream that I'll forget. I hope I do because it only makes me nervous, like a fear of forgetting something important on overdrive. I’ve forgotten everything important.

I try to go back to sleep, but after the shot of adrenaline and triggering memories, I am wide awake. I think with my eyes closed. Then I open them and stare at the ceiling. I enjoy the comforting heft of his arm strewn over me, but I can't tell if he's sleeping or not. I try to take a look—his eyes are closed, but he may be awake. I reach over, grab one of his small chest hairs, and give it a little tug. His eyes fly open.

"What the fuck?"

"Sorry," I say, trying to stifle a laugh. "I didn't know if you were sleeping or not."

"If I was, I'd be wide awake now," he says. His voice is still all sleepy-husky. It's sexy as hell.

"Sorry," I repeat. "Get some rest. I need to get up."

He grunts and closes his eyes.

An undeniable urge to run courses through me. I run early in the morning. I need that. I know that now. Impossible to do with this damn cast, but I’ll get there again. I’ve been cooped up in this room, in this bed, and I’m ready to get out of here.

Polina —it's the one thing from my memory I can't forget. A name. It’s mine. Somehow, the name Polina is more familiar to me than Anissa. It’s like solving a riddle, and the answer to it is just beyond my reach. Rafail seems as clueless as me, at least when it comes to my name. Every once in a while, I get a hint he’s hiding something from me, but right now, he seems genuinely confused.

As I still against him, watching light filter through sheer curtains, my thoughts are jumbled and confused.

Polina .

The name sits in my mind, clinging with the memory of something I can't shake. The older woman… her tears, stricken face… she seemed familiar, like someone I would know. But who? Not old enough to be a grandmother, yet the desperate way she called my name… she didn’t feel like a stranger to me.

I push myself out of bed quietly, thankful I am not in as much pain as I was before. Maybe he was right about the medication. When I look over, one of his arms is across his brow, and he snores gently. I feel the urge to run again. I want to escape the confines of this room. The confusion. But I hesitate. I don't know who I am or even where I am, and it's dangerous out there.

Still, I need air and space to think. I tug on a loose pair of sweats with wide bottoms that fit over my cast and a T-shirt. I look around the room. Now that I’m dressed, I don't know what to do with myself. I need a damn pair of crutches.

"Where do you think you're going?"

I shouldn’t be surprised at how easily he wakes.

I turn to see Rafail sitting up, his gaze locked on mine and that perpetual scowl on his face. Though his voice is calm as usual, there's an unstable edge to it.

"I'm just going outside," I say, trying to sound casual like it's not a big deal and I'm not trying to escape the suffocation of this room. “I want fresh air.”

"How? You don't have any crutches."

“I can manage to hobble around outside.”

"You're not hobbling around outside," he says firmly, swinging his legs out of the bed before he stands. "No way."

I cross my arms, defiance bubbling up inside me. "Why not? I need some fresh air. I need to clear my brain."

Fortunately for him, he has use of both legs, so he makes short work of closing the distance between us. As my heart beats faster, I hold onto a chest of drawers to steady myself. "It's not safe out there."

Now it’s my turn to frown. "What am I, Rapunzel?"

He glares at me and doesn’t answer.

I throw up my hands. "Where is it safe, then?"

I watch as he stabs a finger at his chest. "With me ."

Sadness settles over me as I look around the room. It's a prison in here.

"What's so dangerous out there?" I ask, and I try to be brave, but my voice trembles a little. Outside the window, the sun has begun to rise, bright light tickling the edges of the estate. And what an estate it is, at least based on what I can see from here.

There's hope in the air, promise, and I know then why I like the early morning. I stare out the open window like a bird in a cage, peering out into freedom and possibility. I swallow hard, my emotions wobbly and unpredictable. It's hard enough not knowing who I am. Harder still not knowing when or how I’ll ever have freedom again.

"You’ll do what I say, Anissa.”

I sigh and don’t respond as he continues. “I have enemies, and so do you. For now, we're keeping our distance. You've got a lot to do around here. You don't know anybody in this house, and before the accident, you had work you were going to do for me."

I feel his heat behind me as he approaches, but he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. “What do you do for work?” I ask. “You said you’re Bratva.”

I see them then. Familiar faces swimming in my mind’s eye. One with tattooed markings along his inner arm, another man so big he fills a doorway. I screw up my face, try to conjure up more vivid details, but it’s gone as fast as it came. A flicker of memory, then.

I want to cry.

“Yeah,” he says behind me. I hear the telltale squeaky sound of drawers opening. “My operations span a lot. Black market shit. Drugs. We own a few clubs and lots of real estate throughout all of Russia, not just Moscow.”

“And Zalivka?”

“In our pockets.”

I nod. “And America?”

“We have property in America, as well, yes, but I prefer staying here in Russia.”

Right. I nod. He manages properties, clubs, and illegal activities that pad his family’s pockets.

I take a deep breath. The scent of cinnamon and coffee lingers in the air, and my stomach rumbles. Someone’s up.

I swallow, staring out the window from my gilded cage. Inside this well-appointed room, I have everything I could desire. It’s a suite fit for a queen. I almost feel selfish asking for more, but it’s normal and natural to want freedom, friends… family.

I let my gaze wander outside. A wall of tall, sturdy pines, as dependable and impenetrable as he is, line the estate.

I hold my head up high and stand to my full height, bracing myself on the windowsill. “You said I’m your wife. Then maybe it’s time you treat me like that.” I turn to face him. “I want out of this room. Crutches. An appointment with the doctor so I can ask my questions.” I swallow hard. “I want to meet your family.”

A shadow crosses his features before he answers.

“There's always a threat, Anissa," he says. "I'm not letting you walk right into danger. You don’t have to work, but I’ve already accepted that you’d want to.”

He’s bare-chested and sexy as fuck, as he prowls over to me.

I turn away from him, purse my mouth, and gaze out at the evergreens. “Very generous of you,” I mutter. “For fuck’s sake. I’m so over—” I gasp when his palm slams against my ass. I turn around, my cheeks flaming.

“Hey! You can’t do that!”

“I just did. Don’t sass me, and I won’t.”

“Oh, is that all?” I ask as his eyes flash at me.

“No. Definitely not.”

I scowl at him and open my mouth to argue—to tell him he has no right to tell me what to do, but something in his expression stops me.

This… bossiness… I’ve encountered it before. This feeling of imprisonment… it isn’t foreign either.

Who else made me feel this way? Was it him? Or someone else? I don’t know.

I cross my arms on my chest, even as heat rises in my belly, and I feel a strange, albeit maddening, attraction to his dominance. "Just so you know, when I get stronger? I am not helpless."

"I know," he says, his tone softer but still rigid. "But until we know more, you're staying here where I can keep you safe."

This feels familiar… the same story, just a different day. Every response, every feeling… I’ve felt it all before.

The delectable smells wafting from the kitchen make my mouth water. My belly flips. I'm hungry. “Do I get to eat breakfast, or should I wait until you spoon-feed me?”

Why does that narrow-eyed look make me shiver?

“Watch it, beautiful,” he says, shaking his head. “You know what I said about disrespect.” I toss my head to cover up the feeling of the blood rushing in my ears.

"Yeah, we'll go downstairs and eat breakfast. I'll help you with the stairs and get you a pair of crutches. It's something."

I jump at the sound of a knock at the door. My frustration flares as he turns toward it.

"Come in," Rafail barks in a tone that would make anyone cower. The door opens, and one of his brothers—Semyon?—stands awkwardly in the hallway. He's tall and lean, looks a lot like Rafail, but slightly younger, his beard a bit more scant. I don't think he's much older than I am.

"I need to talk to you," he begins, but Rafail cuts him off.

"Not now." He runs a hand through his hair, his patience frayed. "I'm busy."

His brother frowns, his eyes flickering to me, then back to his brother. "It's about the shipments. You told me to keep track of them?—"

"I said not now," Rafail snaps, his voice sharp like a whip. His brother visibly flinches. "Stop asking questions and leave us. I’ll talk to you over breakfast." He gestures angrily at the door.

The harshness in his tone catches me off guard, but his brother doesn’t seem surprised. His mouth opens and closes like he's trying to find the right words but knows better than to cross the beast.

"Rafail," I venture. "We're just going down to breakfast. You probably have to put a T-shirt on or something," I add, glancing at his bare chest. "Maybe you should let him speak."

Rafail narrows his eyes at me, jaw clenched, but after a moment, he steps back and looks to his brother. Turning his back to him, he opens a drawer and grabs a white tee. “Fine. Make it quick."

His brother stares at me, his jaw unhinged. I smile at him. "What do you need help with?"

He speaks in a rush of words, making sure he can get it all out before Rafail cuts him off impatiently. “We were supposed to receive thirty crates. Usual supplier. But only twenty showed up, and there’s something off about what came. The stamps on the crates don’t match the manifesto, and half of the supplies are from another manufacturer.”

“Motherfucker,” Rafail mutters, tugging his shirt on. His gaze darkens as he thinks this over.

“What do you think I—” his brother begins, but I cut him off with a sharp shake of my head.

“I got you a chance to talk to him. Don’t push your luck. Sounds like a good catch, but I’m sure your brother can handle it from here.”

Semyon blinks in surprise. I gesture toward the door, a silent command for him to leave the way he came. What does he think this is, a democracy? I’m still getting to know Rafail, but even I can see the fire building in his eyes, coiling like a dragon ready to snap its jaws and burn him to bits with his fiery breath.

“My wife is right,” he says in a very dragon-like voice. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

"But—" his brother continues. I actually flinch. There’s only so much I can protect him from.

"I said I'll handle it," Rafail barks, and finally, thank god, Semyon bolts when Rafail takes a step toward him, his body tense with barely controlled energy.

“Keep up the good work!" I yell after Semyon because I feel as if I need to protect him or something.

I turn back to Rafail, who is staring at me with a mixture of frustration and something else on his face. "What? Do you always talk to them like that?"

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel like it’s familiar… having siblings. Siblings … sometimes harsh to each other but loyal to the core. It’s all familiar too—a dance that I’ve danced once before and maybe still know the steps—as if from another life.

His low growl of a voice doesn’t surprise me but catches my attention. “Don’t do that again.”

"Now, listen," I say, meeting his gaze head-on. "I'm not going to stand by and just let you bully everybody into submission. That’s not how this works, not if you want me to actually like you."

"Bully everybody?" he says, as if shocked I accused him of such a thing.

I catch a flicker in his eyes, but there’s something beneath the surface that tells me I hit a nerve, that I’m standing on quicksand, and one step further, I may not be able to yank myself out.

Oh well.

"Yeah,” I continue. I can feel my eyes dancing at him. “Bullying. You’ve tried it with me, but luckily, I… kinda like when you get all bossy. Sometimes .”

What ? Why did I turn this into flirtation?

He gets in my face, his breath hot on my chin. I can almost see fire dancing in his eyes. I reach my hand to his face, loving the way the rough stubble’s grown a little thicker. I shiver. Yum.

"I detailed what punishment looks like, Anissa. Maybe I’ve changed my mind about going down to breakfast." He takes me by the hand and then, in one swift motion, lifts me into his arms, marches to the bed, and tosses me down.

"Rafail—" I go to protest, but in the next minute, my wrists are bound in front of me with white satin. Jesus . “What are you doing?”

“Teaching you your place,” he snaps, rolling me over to give me a sharp slap to my ass before he's gone in a flurry of temper and heat. The door slams shut behind him.

"Very charming!" I yell after him before I let out a scream of frustration. God, just when I think I'm starting to see a little side of his humanity, that there's maybe hope for the two of us? He pulls this shit.

Voices rise and fall in the hallway. Well, fine. He can tie me to the bed, therefore I can eavesdrop, dammit.

I recognize his voice, engaging with a female one, but I can’t tell if it’s Zoya—the one who’s quickly become my favorite. He’s protesting something, and from the sharpness in his tone, I can tell he’s telling someone off again. I haven’t even met his second sister yet. Yana?

The other night, in the bath, for a moment, I thought that there was hope. I thought that maybe there was a chance that my brutal husband… maybe wasn't so brutal.

Perhaps I was wrong.

Or maybe we need sex to bring out the humanity in him.

I stare up at the ceiling and assess my pain level. My leg does hurt, and so do the lacerations on my arm, but the medication he gave me is starting to kick in. The lingering memory of the dream I had last night is only that now—a memory. I can't remember the details, and I'm not sure I want to. There's something about it that was unsettling, something about it I can't quite shake, though I'd be hard-pressed to even tell the details now. My stomach churns with hunger, and I definitely need some food. I need to settle my stomach, though, so I'm not sure food is what's going to do it for me.

I close my eyes. I’m still tired. Always tired. Maybe I can get some rest.

I need a purpose here, eventually. Obeying my bear of a husband or whatever it is he demands is hardly enough. I roll my eyes to no one.

When the door opens, Rafail stands in the doorway, glaring at me. “Fine,” he growls. “You can come to breakfast, but you’d better behave yourself.”

If by behaving myself, he thinks I need to keep my mouth shut, then I believe there are a few things my new husband needs to learn about me.

"Did somebody out there remind you to be human again? The full moon’s gone, and you can put away your werewolf?” I jerk my chin into the air.

His response is a low growl I feel in my bones. “Watch it. I came to bring you a present, and I’ll take it back if you sass me.”

Even when I’m mad at him, I love the sound of his voice. That's when I realize he has a pair of crutches with him. Whoever he saw in the hallway had these for me. My heart soars.

“You're sure you're alright with giving me some mobility? Thought you'd have me depending on you for life. Thought you'd be my crutch."

He smirks at me, and my belly swoops. I swallow hard, pretending he doesn’t have this hold on me. “No, baby," he says, leaning close to put his mouth to my ear. "I'm your husband. And when you realize what that means, you’ll see it’s all I need to be."

I forget his domineering tone as he unties me and helps me to my feet, then hands me the pair of crutches. I'm clumsy at first, and it's awkward with them under my arms, but I quickly make my way to the door. Yes . I can move, and faster than wobbling and feeling like I'm going to tumble over.

"Also, don’t forget you said I can talk to the doctor.”

“Yes,” he says distractedly but doesn't offer any details. “How are you going to manage the stairs?" he asks with another frown, holding back.

He holds the door wide open, and my heart soars. I was so tired when I first came to this room that I barely paid attention to the details of his home. Now I’m struck with its beauty—high, vaulted ceilings, marble floors, and large windows that flood the space with light.

“This home is gorgeous ,” I breathe, looking around like a kid in a candy shop.

He gets a sheepish smile and puts his hands in his pockets. “Thank you. They call it The Cottage.”

I snort. “The Cottage? I love how Russians have a dry sense of humor. This place isn’t quaint or small but enormous. At least it looks that way.”

I make my way toward the top of the stairs. He reaches for me and then holds himself back as if reminding himself to let me go.

“I’ve made sure it was safe and secure. My sisters are the ones who keep it… homey.”

I breathe and soak in every detail. Beyond the large windows are stone walls and intricately carved iron gates, lush gardens outside with greens and blooming flowers. The sprawling mansion seems to balance old-world elegance with modern charm.

“You alright?”

“I’ve got it.” I put both crutches in one hand and hop one step at a time. My husband stands just in front of me, clearly using all his self-control not to help. Resisting the urge doesn’t come naturally to him. I can tell by the tension in his jaw and shoulders he's not too crazy about this plan, but it's working. He grits his teeth, standing just in front of me and takes a step forward just before I do.

"Are you standing there so that if I fall, you'll catch me?" I ask, huffing and puffing and sweating from the exertion.

He shrugs, his eyes meeting mine only briefly before he takes another step back. "Yeah, baby. That's a husband's job."

Something like pleasure weaves its way across my chest, and I swallow a lump in my throat. So damn emotional on these meds. I want to get off them soon.

"What did you give me for pain meds?"

He lists off a bunch of names, things I've never heard of before.

"I want something over the counter. Please," I tack on as an afterthought. "Something tamer."

Step. Hop. Brace.

"They won't work as well,” he mutters, still frowning.

"I know, but that’s a risk I'm willing to take."

I don't want another dream like the one I had last night. Something tells me it may have been the pain meds.

Finally, we reach the bottom of the stairs. “I can’t believe I was a runner, and I can hardly handle a flight of stairs without being winded.” It’s frustrating as hell. I place the crutches back under my arms and glide my way next to him.

“You’ll get back there. Patience.”

“Ah, something else you’ll teach me?” I ask with a playful smile.

Rafail grunts in response as he walks, and I hobble across a formal dining room. The polished table is covered in textbooks at one end, with coloring pencils and doodled-on papers scattered around them. It’s clear this room sees more homework and art projects than actual dinners. To the right of the table stands a sideboard with a few cases of sports drinks and soda.

“Careful,” Rafail says with a frown. “I told Rodion to put those away.” Shaking his head, he lifts a notebook. “And Zoya was supposed to get this project in yesterday. She’s been distracted.”

“How old is Zoya?”

“Seventeen.”

He’s been her guardian since she was only a small child. No wonder he has a soft spot for her.

No wonder she’s as timid as a little mouse, poor girl.

“Are those her schoolbooks?”

“Yes. She’s got a big exam coming up.”

Just then, voices ring out from the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sound of a scuffle—thumps, grunts, and a clatter that makes my heart skip.

“Jesus,” Rafail mutters, striding toward the commotion.

As soon as we round the corner, we find two of his brothers locked in a wrestling match, grappling and shoving each other dangerously close to the counter where a bowl of dough sits, perfectly risen and ready to bake. Zoya’s precious bread.

Without a word, Rafail steps in and grabs them each by the collar, yanking them apart as if they weigh nothing. He gives them both a quick, firm shake, his glare cutting through their adrenaline-fueled grins.

“Alright,” he growls. “Which one of you needs to get your ass kicked first?”

The brothers exchange glances, their faces suddenly sheepish. From behind him, someone I haven’t yet met peeks out, barely containing a snicker.

“Well, Yana?” Rafail prompts, raising an eyebrow at her. “Who’s getting it first?”

Yana crosses her arms, smirking. “I’d start with the one who nearly knocked over the bread.”

Both brothers freeze, eyes darting to the delicate bowl of dough. They gulp in unison, and Rafail gives them one last shake before finally letting go.

“I brought my wife down to breakfast,” he warns, “behave yourselves.”

They’re hardly children, but the brothers quickly back away from each other, Semyon’s cold gaze still fixed on Rodion, Rodion’s jaw clenched. Rafail just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he straightens his shirt.

Yikes. He had his work cut out for him with this crew.

“Sit down,” he barks before he turns to Zoya. “Did you forget to hand in your assignment?”

Zoya flits around the kitchen, straightening things out, and doesn’t meet his eyes. “About that,” she says as she places a crock of butter on the table and a loaf of bread. “I’ve been meaning to ask you to help me with it. There’s all these questions about… well, family history and stuff.”

Rafail stands taller and crosses his arms on his chest. “What do they want to know?”

As they talk over past history, someone clears their throat. Yana stands in front of me. A young woman a few years older than Zoya but younger than Rafail, she smiles softly. Her presence has a calm, almost regal quality, with a confidence that’s both subtle and undeniable. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, framing her face. I notice the faintest trace of makeup—a flick of mascara, magnifying her electric-blue eyes, and a hint of pink lip gloss—matching her understated elegance.

Her eyes meet mine with an openness that catches me off guard. There’s a quiet strength in her gaze like she’s weathered storms that only she fully understands. When she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a glint of gold on her finger catches my attention.

Is that a wedding ring?

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she says, her voice gentle yet unwavering. I’m struck by the warmth and steadiness in her tone, and there’s something about her that feels both grounded and fiercely resilient. “My brothers have told me all about you, but Rafail’s been possessive, hasn’t he?”

My brothers. For some reason, it makes my heart ache. He says I don’t have siblings, but I know that to be… a lie.

I did. I do. And I’ll find them.

“I don’t remember who you’ve met or who you remember,” Rafail says.

I shake my head. I had too many meds and was confused and disoriented.

“A proper introduction would probably be a good idea,” I tell him with a shrug.

“Right. This is Semyon,” Rafail says, gesturing toward the man I encountered upstairs. He stands just a step back, arms crossed, his gaze dissecting me with unnerving precision.

Semyon has the sharp, chiseled features of Rafail but wears them with a colder detachment. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his expression clinical as if he’s calculating exactly who I am and what I might mean to his brother. His eyes are ice-blue, unblinking and methodical, and he gives off an aura that’s almost surgical—analyzing, cataloging, already figuring out the quickest way to manipulate or dismantle me if it ever came to that.

“Hello again,” he says, his voice low, each word deliberate. There’s no warmth there, only a distant courtesy. “Welcome.”

I manage a nod. “Hello.”

For a moment, his gaze flickers past me, locking briefly with Rafail’s in what seems to be a silent exchange. I can’t quite read it, but the corner of Semyon’s mouth quirks, almost as if in approval, before he turns his attention back to me with that same unnervingly calculated stare.

He’s less angry than Rafail. Hell, they all are. Maybe they haven’t had to face what he has. Anger radiates off Rafail in waves—it's in the tone of his voice, the cut of his eyes, the familiar downturn of his lips. Even without my memories, I’m sure I’ve never known anyone as angry as him. And, yeah, there’s a part of me that can’t help but want to fix him. Not my job, I know, but… it’s only instinct, really.

Rafail pulls out a chair for me, his grip steady and commanding as he helps me sit. His voice is calm but carries an edge as he continues the introductions. “This is Rodion,” he says, gesturing to the man standing just behind him.

Rodion’s stance is deceptively relaxed, but there’s a tautness in his movements like he’s ready to strike at the slightest provocation. His scant beard shadows a face that holds a mix of mischief and menace, his sharp eyes flashing with a dangerous gleam. For an instant, a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a look that seems both appraising and faintly amused as if he’s already one step ahead of everyone in the room.

He gives me a single nod. “Hey,” he says, his voice low and casual, but there’s a note beneath it that’s almost predatory, and I don’t trust the way his gaze shifts away from me as though he’s afraid I’ll see who he really is—or Rafail will.

“Hey,” I reply, my voice softer than I intended, the intensity in his gaze unsettling.

I glance back at Rafail, catching a flicker of something sharp in Rodion’s eyes when he looks at his brother. Respect, perhaps, but tinged with something darker—a wary kind of fear or maybe an unspoken rivalry.

“You met Yana?” She nods and gives me a small smile. There’s a reserved pain behind her eyes, the kind that only comes from experience. I get the distinct feeling she keeps her life close to the vest and only trusts a select few. I want to be one who she trusts.

“And you know Zoya,” Rafail adds. The sweet girl, wearing jeans and a modest tee, her hair in a ponytail, smiles softly at me. You wouldn’t know who she was—or, more accurately, who her brothers were.

“How’s your pain level, Anissa?” Zoya’s voice is soft, full of concern—always the caretaker, always the one trying to mend what’s broken. Her wide, watchful eyes track my movements as if she’s afraid I’m going to fall apart.

I smile, trying to ignore the throbbing in my temples. “Better with the meds.” I glance down at the table, at the plate of slightly overdone eggs and dark-brown toast that’s barely edible spread with butter that’s still lumpy. “Did you… cook breakfast?” I’m trying not to be insulting, but it’s hard to imagine the feast of the other night was prepared by the same hands.

“Oh, um, no,” Zoya stammers, shifting nervously, her hands clasped together as if she’s trying to hide something. “It was Rodi’s turn today. I like when it’s my job, but we take turns. Rafail’s rules.”

“She’s being modest,” Rodion mutters from across the table, leaning in with a crooked smile. “We all prefer when it’s her turn.”

Rafail smacks Rodion’s arm. Rodion snorts and buries his face into a cup of coffee, but the smirk remains. He fears his older brother, but not so much that he doesn’t speak his mind or forget his sense of humor.

Semyon, the family observer, it seems, chuckles. “You can thank him for this.” He nods toward Rafail. “He decided learning how to cook was a life skill we all needed. Said something about not being reliant on others. And some of us are… well, better than others.”

“I can grill steak,” Rodion offers with a shrug. “That’s all I can cook, but it’s a good one.”

“I’d… eat steak for breakfast,” I say helpfully.

The others snicker, except Rafail, who blows out an impatient breath. It feels like a normal family for a brief moment—if not for the dark undercurrent that flows through the room. They hold secrets and fears they haven’t yet revealed to me. Rafail’s face is unreadable as he fills a plate and pushes it in front of me. He pours himself a cup of coffee, then turns to me. “Do you like coffee?” His voice is low and controlled as usual, his dark gaze flickering to me before he amends his question with an almost uncharacteristic stammer. “I mean… today. Sometimes you drink it, and sometimes you don’t.”

Awkward silence hangs in the air between us before I nod. I’m not used to him being unsure, much less deferring to me. Silence stretches before I shrug. “I think so. It depends.”

His brow furrows. “On what?”

“Um, who made it?”

Laughter erupts around us, and something loosens in my chest. Zoya’s eyes dance at me. “I made the coffee.”

I nod seriously. “Then yes, please.”

I take a sip of the coffee. It’s black and bitter, and I wince at the taste. Rafail slides a carton of cream toward me without meeting my eyes. “You like it with cream,” he says, his voice low. I pour it in and give the cup a stir, finding the taste much more bearable now. “Yes, I like it.”

"You don’t remember what you like or who you are?" Zoya asks gently.

"Yes, and it’s unsettling," I admit. "I had a dream last night that felt so real before I woke up and realized that waking up feels like a dream too."

Zoya gives me a sympathetic look, but Rafail cuts in, shifting the conversation. “Let’s go over the plans for the day.” He turns to me. “Today, you’ll have that appointment with the doctor. Yana, make the appointment.” He goes off on a litany of tasks for all of them. Some make sense to me, and some don’t.

“Zoya, reach out to the Popovs today. I want them to know we still honor our agreements despite everything going on.”

She nods and says something quietly with her back to us. “On it.”

“Semyon, circle back and make sure that shipment arrives tonight without a hitch.” His voice lowers. “ No mistakes this time.”

Semyon nods but sits straighter, clearing his throat. I can tell he’s the type who rarely makes mistakes, and definitely not the same one twice. He takes pride in perfection and doing his job. “Of course.”

“Rodion, I want you to meet with Vory and let them know we’re watching.” He holds his youngest brother’s gaze. “Make it clear I don’t trust them, but remember you’re the messenger.”

Rodion blows out a breath, his shoulders slumping as he opens his mouth to protest, but Rafail cuts him off, sharp and direct. “Don’t fuck this up, Rodion. I’m not saying it again.” He leans in closer, his eyes narrowing, his voice low and dangerous. “You remember what happened last time, right? If I have to leave Anissa to drag your ass out of another mess, you’re gonna wish you’d never left the house.”

His glare is so intense that even I shrink back in my chair, a little voice in my head already whispering, Whatever you do, just don’t get on his bad side.

Rodion lets out a long, dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes but eventually nodding. “Alright, alright. Got it.” He glances at me, giving a half smirk. “See what I have to put up with?”

Rafail ignores him and goes back to issuing orders. “Yana.” She’s on her phone, presumably pulling out the number he asked her for. “Check on the financials for the front companies. Make sure everything looks clean as hell. I heard rumors of auditors breathing heavily down the neck of a few friends. We’re squeaky clean.”

She nods and crosses her legs gracefully. “Obviously.”

“And I need to talk with Danila. He reached Bangkok this morning, yes?”

Her eyes meet his warily. “About what? You promised me he wouldn’t get involved in family business.” Her wedding band glints in the overhead lighting. I’m gonna guess Danila is her husband.

“And I’ll keep my promise. That doesn’t mean I don’t get to talk to him about you. ” He holds her gaze. “You’re my sister. I don’t care if you’re married. You’re part of this family, and I want to make sure you’re safe, especially when your husband is traveling.”

My heart melts a little.

The rest of them begin clearing the table, but Zoya stays near me, always eager to help. "I'll help in the kitchen," she says, but Rafail snaps again. “No. Sit.”

She quickly takes her place and sits.

I turn to him with a raised brow. "Do you always tell them what to do like this?” I bite back a sarcastic reply that I don’t think he’d appreciate and remember his admonition. “Rafail… relax.”

“Listen,” he says, leaning forward, his eyes dark and unflinching. The blunt tips of his rough fingertips press together. “This isn’t a request, Anissa. It’s a partnership, one my siblings will be as familiar with as you. You’ll learn how things work around here and fast.” His voice drops, cold and sharp. Poor Zoya flinches. “I always take care of what’s my responsibility—but you give me everything in return. No questions.”

“Zoya, help me with the dishes?” Rodion asks. She scurries out of the room before Rafail can stop her.

I find myself asking, “You don’t have staff that work for you? With a house this size, I would've thought you’d have people to cook and clean.”

“We do,” Rafail admits. “But my parents taught us the value of hard work. Independence is important.”

I nod, digesting this. "Interesting, Mr. Self-Sufficient. And yet, we seem to be getting along quite well."

Rafail smirks but offers no more details. I feel more awake now, the effects of the medication wearing off, and I’m starting to orient myself. The memory of who I was still escapes me, but I can feel bits and pieces slowly resurfacing.

I sit quietly. My job for today is observation, and one thing I note with certainty is that while everybody jokes and laughs with a camaraderie that is fitting for siblings, there's an underlying tone of respect they all have for Rafail. He's definitely more father figure than brother.

Even though we haven't been at this very long, the exhaustion from having to keep up with everything is starting to wear on me. I know he notices this when he places his hand on the small of my back. I don't even know if he realizes what he's doing as he draws small circles with his thumb, soothing, and I wonder which one of us he is trying to calm.

"Get the doctor on the line," he snaps to Semyon.

"About that… Yana said he’s, um, traveling," Semyon says with a cringe that tells me he is very well aware of the fact that his brother is definitely the one who will murder the messenger, regardless of the message.

"Have you asked how long? How far?"

"Not sure."

Rafail blows out a breath. "Find out."

I bite my tongue, just about to tell him that maybe he should say "please" once in a while, but I remember that he tied me to his bed stand for giving him shit earlier, and I'm not quite sure I want to test him already.

"It doesn't have to be your doctor," I tell him with a shrug. "I just want to talk to a doctor about what I can expect and what's happened."

"I want someone to understand the history and who they're dealing with," my new husband says, his eyes locking onto mine.

Semyon talks on his phone while Zoya and Rodion do the dishes. Glad to know that Rafail is an equal-opportunity employer, and that the men do shit right along with the women. But I guess that makes sense when you had to be both mother and father for many years.

A sharp knock at the door catches our attention. I stiffen when I realize that everyone—and I do mean everyone, even little Zoya—snaps to attention. Rodion’s hand is at his waist as if ready to pull a gun, and Semyon’s knees are slightly bent. Rafail has gone as still as a statue and already holds a gun in his hand.

Where did that even come from? Jesus .

Once again, that flicker of familiarity ignites in me. Déjà vu, you could even call it. They've been here before, and so have I. Then why are none of them familiar?

I glance down at my hands, the sensation of cold, hard steel lingering as I remember… I know how to hold a gun. My fingers twitch involuntarily, and the question rises in my mind: Do I know how to use it?

Before I even realize what I’m doing, my mind is already running through a series of instinctive motions as if coldly calculating how to survive.

I belong here. I’m not a fish out of water like I thought. I’m missing parts of the puzzle, but this life—this life is not unfamiliar to me.

My gaze flicks to the wooden rolling pin hanging on the metal rack by the wall. It’ll do. I could grip it tightly, let its weight settle in my hand, then swing it hard—I’d aim for the head or temple, and if they got too close, I could drive the handle into a pair of ribs and feel the crack of bone. If that didn’t drop them, I’d use my good knee—hard and fast—to the groin. That would give me an opening. Then, a swift elbow to the jaw, a strike at the part of the throat, and find a way out.

Flashes of muscle memory flood my mind. My pulse races. Twisting, countering, neutralizing. The shadow of a figure in my mind was my trainer, but I can’t see her face. A woman’s voice, sharp and commanding. Her name is out of reach, but her lessons remain. She taught me how to fight. How to survive. Her voice, strong and distinctive but feminine, guides my instincts even now.

Was she a sister?

Always go for the joints. Knees can buckle. Elbows can be broken. Eyes can be blinded.

This all flashes in seconds before someone shouts, "Don't shoot," an older male voice says. "It's just me."

Rafail growls and puts his gun away but still looks wary. The rest of them don't look so eager to do so. Two steps, and Rafail’s at the doorknob, turning it.

"How many times have I told you to use the front door like civilized people?" Rafail growls. He blocks the door so I don’t see who it is until he steps aside.

An older man, with the slightest resemblance to Rafail, stands in the doorway. He has salt and pepper in his hair, slicked back from his forehead, revealing tanned, well-worn skin that's cracked like leather, calculating eyes, and a cruel mouth that tells me he is very familiar with what these men do. Next to him stands a blonde woman with bright-red lipstick and false eyelashes that border on wings, wearing a red cardigan cinched at the waist with a gold belt, paired with dark-blue jeans and a pair of heels.

She stares at me, her eyes sweeping over me in a slow, deliberate, uncomfortable once-over, scrutiny the other two women spared me from. The frown that follows is unmistakable when she takes in my rumpled clothing and bare face—disapproval, maybe even something stronger. Like I don’t measure up. I feel smaller under her perusal. Exposed.

I stand taller and meet her gaze. I may not remember who I was, but I know who I am now, and I will not wilt under the scrutiny of anyone.

"Is this the new bride?" she asks, snapping her gum.

Rafail’s jaw clenches. "Yes. This is Anissa. Anissa, meet my Uncle Eduard and his wife, Irma.” He turns to Eduard before I can respond. "Listen, I need a lead on a doctor.”

Eduard nods, helping himself to a cup of coffee. "I've got you one, but you'll have to go there in person. He doesn't do house calls."

"Did you make these?" Their aunt pokes at a container of last night’s cookies.

"Zoya did, but easy, they’re loaded with sugar and fat,” Yana says, her eyes thin slits, hands on her narrow hips.

They don't like this blonde. I'm not surprised.

"That's fine," I say to the uncle just as Rafail shakes his head and says, "No way."

We glare at each other. In the presence of witnesses, maybe I can push my luck.

"I'd like to go, please," I say, more friendly this time.

"No. Not if it involves leaving the house.” He looks at his uncle. “Give me his number. I’ll convince him to come.”

Something tells me he definitely could.

“This particular doctor takes a neutral position on all things related to…” he glances at me, “our world. It’s likely in our best interest to keep it that way.”

Rafail scowls before he turns to Semyon. “Find the doctor on vacation.”

“Tried, brother. He has no reception. Can’t reach him.” Rafail’s eyes darken, and his lips thin. Oh, for the love of?—

I throw my hands up in the air. "Rafail, you told me I would get some answers. You promised ."

Narrowing his eyes at me, he gives me a silent warning. I know what he said, and I heard him, but dammit, I want answers.

And how bad can disobeying him really be?

"I promised to get answers, but I never said that doing so would actually be an opportunity for you to get injured again.”

“You know,” Semyon says. "Might be a good idea for you to go there." He thoughtfully strokes his chin. "You'd be right in the vicinity of the docks, where the shipment’s set to arrive tonight. Not to mention, where Popov’s men were last seen snooping around. You could kill two birds with one stone.”

Rafail draws a breath through his nose and clenches his teeth as he exhales. He absolutely doesn't like the position he's in.

"You're not well enough to travel," he snaps, but I know this is just a sham. He doesn't want me to leave the gilded cage.

"I'm fine," I say, pushing myself to stand. “Stronger now that I’ve had an excellent breakfast.”

Rodion snorts but quickly shuts up at Rafail’s murderous gaze.

"Fine," Rafail finally says through gritted teeth, obviously outnumbered. "I want to go now. You're going to need to rest later. Give me the number.”

He hasn't even called to see if the doctor would have time for him, but apparently, he doesn’t need to, not with that much power.

I watch as his aunt traipses across the kitchen, high heels clicking. She sniffs at the carton of cream. "Don't you have any low-fat creamer? Skim milk?"

"Eh, drink it black like a real man," Rodion says, his eyes challenging her, and his uncle snorts.

"Let's go," Rafail says as he wraps an arm around my shoulders and helps me to my feet. “Now.”

I reach for my crutches, and he lets me, even though I feel the tension in his hands as he loosens his grip, reluctant to let go. I hobble toward the door, but just as we’re almost there, my ankle wobbles. Shit. His arm wraps around my waist in an instant, steadying me as a low curse slips from his lips, warm against my ear.

"You okay?" he murmurs, his voice rough but laced with concern. A shiver runs down my spine, instant heat coloring my cheeks.

I swallow, feeling the heat of him close. “Yeah,” I say softly, trying to smile. “I just need a little practice.”

Rafail opens the door, scowling at the darkness in front of us. A car already waits right at the edge, only a few feet from our home.

Am I already thinking of it as "our" home?

So now I know what the phone call was. I'm starting to get the hang of these crutches—they aren't as bad as they seem. I place them under my armpits and swing my legs out, one after the other. After he opens the door for me, I slide into the passenger seat.

But as soon as the door shuts and we’re alone, he yanks me onto his lap, careful not to jostle my leg, and turns me to face him. His grip on my jaw is painful as he locks eyes with me.

“Do not ever, ever do that again. The only reason why you’re not over my lap with your pants around your ankles learning your place is because I’m giving you this one warning.”

My heart thuds in my chest as I stare at him. “What?” I swallow hard, trying to muster my courage.

His voice drops to a low, dangerous register, cutting through the air like a blade. “I’ve given you fair warning, and I do not repeat myself.” He drags me closer, his fingers tightening, just harsh enough to remind me who’s in charge. “I expect your obedience, just like I expect theirs. I’ll risk fucking everything to keep you safe. But if you think talking back to me in front of my family is how you’ll help me do that, you’re dead wrong.”

Leaning in, his breath is hot against my ear, the menace in his voice sending an undeniable shiver down my spine. There’s a fine, fine line between fear and excitement, and every second I’m with him reinforces that. “You don’t contradict me. You don’t talk back to me. You do what I say, the way they’ve learned to, and I promise, you’ll never have to worry about a damn thing again.”

His grip tightens, his fingers digging in deeper, the pressure almost painful. “Is that clear?” His eyes bore into mine. “You’ve pushed, Anissa. You’ve tested how far you can go, and right here is the edge of where your boundaries end.”

I swallow hard.

“Tell me you understand.”

I nod, my heart pounding, the thought of softening this beast of a man a distant memory.

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice shaking as I ask myself what the hell I’ve gotten into.

He leans in, his devastatingly handsome face mere inches from mine. He lowers his hand to the small of my back, drawing me close. Almost caressing me. A reward for obeying.

“Yes, what?” he demands.

I swallow and give him the only possible response. He doesn’t need to ask me twice, as the vision of what he threatened plays itself out in my mind. “Yes, sir.”

The approval in his eyes warms me as his hand dips low to the small of my back and flexes. “That’s my good girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough. And then his lips are on mine, and I’m melting, lost in the raw, intoxicating scent of him, the rugged yet somehow tender strength of his hold. Heat pulses through me, responding to the possessive way he claims me with a promise of protection and so much more. My mind wavers, torn by the intensity of his demands, but my body yields, melting into him like wax to an open flame.

I’m a stranger in a foreign land who’s starting to feel as if she might belong, even as the questions of my past remain unanswered. Something in me warns me to resist, but I’m realizing with every passing day… I’m not sure I want to.

He touches his forehead to mine and pushes a button beside us. “Pull this fucking car over and put up the privacy screen.”