Chapter 24

“ANISSA”

I stare at the back of my… husband?

Is he? Or has this all been a lie?

My pussy still throbs in the aftermath of climax. I can still feel the ache on my scalp where he pulled my hair, the fullness of my lips where he bit me, the branding smack of his palm on my bare ass.

I still feel the remnants of our lovemaking slick between my thighs, a reminder that I’m no longer the girl I used to be. I’m someone else now—someone who craves him, who feels alive when held in his arms, even when everything around me feels like it’s crumbling.

What is going on here?

I remember vestiges of my past that don’t resonate with my present, but it’s like looking at a puzzle that’s only partially assembled—a few more pieces need to fall in place before I get the whole picture.

I’m scared I’m trapped in a relationship built on a house of cards. Deception. But even in the darkness, shrouded in fear and uncertainty, there’s one thing I can’t doubt: he loves me.

It’s written in his kiss, in the way his control slips when we’re together… like I’m the only one who has the key to his vulnerability. I’m the only one who can undo him. It’s not something he says, but something I feel in the way he touches me, the way he looks at me.

I see it in the way his brow furrows when he’s watching me as if I’m an enigma he needs to solve. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and, in his own way, has done his level best to carry mine. I feel it in the steady beat of his heart against mine, the grounding pressure of his palm on my back when I’m in trouble, a silent reminder that I’m not alone.

I feel it when he tucks my hair behind my ear and places a tender kiss on my forehead. The way he tucks the blanket around me in the middle of the night and wordlessly holds me when I wake, shaking and panting, from another dream.

He loves with the fierce protection of a warrior, and I’m his victory prize.

But is it… is it enough?

Can it be?

Can I love a man who thrives on control, who makes me feel like both a prisoner and a queen? Can I love a man whose every touch makes me feel owned, even if I don’t truly belong to him?

Can I love a man who’s lied to me?

Has he?

Rafail ends the call and shoves his phone in his pocket. I’ve been so wrapped up in my thoughts and fears that I didn’t hear a word of the call. I’m not sure it would’ve made much of a difference if I had.

I still have no idea what’s going on.

“And?” I ask, hoping for a shred of light on what’s happening, even though I know he probably won’t tell me anything.

He only shakes his head, his shoulders drooping. “We need to meet with my family. With everyone.”

“Um, about that…” I gesture to the bed. He looks over his shoulder at me and realizes with a grimace he’s destroyed my clothing.

“Fuck.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Popov had a fucking liquor cabinet, you think he has clothes here?”

I shrug, still wrapped in the sheets. “I have no idea.” I go to push myself out of bed to explore the room but Rafail shakes his head, his voice firm. “Stay there. I’ll look.”

I don’t protest. This is very much a pick-your-battles situation.

He rummages through the closet and dresser, muttering to himself and making a few low hums of approval.

“Good. Here we go,” he says, tossing a generic pair of gray sweats and a white tee at me. They’ll be too big, but they’ll do. When I pull them on, the clothes hang awkwardly on my frame, the waistband sliding down my hips, and the shirt wears like a sack. They’re not just too big, either, but scratchy and uncomfortable.

Rafail notices me tugging and fidgeting, his eyes narrowed on me as he watches me try to make it work. Stepping toward me, his gaze softens for a fraction of a second before he curses under his breath again.

“Those aren’t going to work,” he growls before he tugs his own black tee over his head. “Take those off.”

Before I can argue, he’s pulling his soft, worn, comfortable tee over my head. It falls past my hips but feels better. Familiar. I inhale deeply, enveloped in his rugged, masculine scent. He eyes me for a second, then tugs the other backup clothes on.

“There,” he says with a nod of satisfaction. “That’s better. Not that you’re going out there like that until I find something more suitable for you, but it’ll do for now.”

I sit up in bed and cross my arms on my chest. “You think I’m going to sit in this bed while you and the rest of your family have a meeting, or eat dinner, or whatever the hell you’re planning on doing?”

I glare at him, fully aware that my threatening look is about as effective as a miniature Chihuahua growling at a Great Dane. But still, I try.

Shaking his head, he levels me with a look, reminding me that he isn’t just my husband. He’s the head of the Kopolov family dynasty and very likely one of Moscow’s most feared. I should hate how naturally he takes control. But even as the weight of his power bears down on me, a part of me craves it. Craves him. I should be running from him, not aching for him.

“Do you think I’m allowing my cousins, brothers, and uncle to see my wife’s body, barely covered by my tee?”

Yeah, so I’m not going to win this one.

I sigh.

Cupping my jaw, his troubled eyes grow gentle. “I promise I’ll find something more suitable,” he says.

I know I’m not the only one deeply conflicted, but I can almost see it in his eyes—the moment he pulls away.

We haven’t resolved anything .

I draw my knees to my chest and nod at him, not even entirely sure what I’m agreeing with. I have no choice but to retreat, as he has. When all else fails, self-preservation seems my only option.

When he leaves the room, I can see the shadows of others outside. I want to be with them. I want to check on Zoya and see if Yana’s okay. I want to make sure Rodion hasn’t done something reckless and crazy, and Semyon hasn’t buckled under a torrent of whatever Rafail throws at him.

I want to make sure Irma isn’t bullying the girls, and Eduard isn’t taking advantage of the boys. I want to get to know the cousins and see what makes them tick. Matvei seems fine enough, but I don’t trust Gleb. The fact that these two are Irma and Eduard’s sons is not a point in their favor.

And I want… I want my husband. I don’t like the distance between us… emotional or otherwise. But the space between us isn’t just physical—there’s a chasm that grows with every secret, and I don’t know how to cross it.

It’s hard to table my need for answers, but there’s no use screaming at the universe to tell me anything when we have more pressing needs to tend to and no answers are coming just yet.

So I wait.

I scroll through my phone and look up Polina Romanova, but it’s just what I suspect—if she has any social media, they’re well hidden. None of the Kopolovs have social media accounts either. Rafail would have a conniption because privacy is their greatest ally when it comes to cyber protection.

But then, as I scroll through seemingly irrelevant links and pictures, something catches my attention. An old photo, grainy and poorly lit, surfaces on an obscure blog site. It’s a group picture but obviously from a while ago, at a—charity gala?

I know that blonde hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes. They’re definitely… mine. That’s me.

I close my eyes when I’m assaulted by memories.

My mother and me, planning our yearly gala, the one time of year my brothers played nice for everyone because it was in their best interest to gain alliances and the good graces of their community. Art auctions… We did an art auction every year. I can even remember when I bought the dress I wore in that photo because I wanted the one that showed my cleavage, and my father forbade it.

That was a few years before he died.

I blink back tears. Would I remember them if I saw them?

Are they looking for me?

Out there, somewhere, is there a family desperate to find me? Or is my home here with the Kopolovs for now? Will I ever know?

Will the truth be enough?

I stare back at the photo, my memories coming back now the way fire licks at wood. Slowly at first, but as it builds… all-consuming.

There’s Viktor, my enormous brute of a brother, beside Aleks, the thinner, muscled one with piercing blue eyes people used to say mirrored my own. We were all adopted—I remember that now, a collection of family members pieced together over the years.

I see Lev, my younger brother, the fierce look in his eyes so familiar to me, and Ollie, loyal to the core but dangerous as hell. Mikhail, the eldest, in some ways not unlike my husband—protective and stern and utterly devoted to the safety of his family.

And my mother. My beautiful, elegant mother, with her mane of silver hair and dancing eyes.

But who’s the other person standing beside us? He isn’t in the pictures, but the blogger managed to capture him in the same shot. I blink, staring, because he’s familiar.

My breath catches in my throat, but what makes a chill snake down my spine is when I recognize him… because today I ate lunch with someone with that exact sharp jawline and cold, calculating eyes.

Gleb.

Why is Rafail’s cousin in my family photo?

My breath catches in my throat, and my heart pounds. How did I get here? Did Gleb orchestrate all of this? The walls feel like they’re closing in as I try to make sense of it all. Was it all a lie from the beginning?

I try to swallow the lump in my throat, to no avail.

How did I get here, and what did he have to do with it?