Chapter 8

RAFAIL

While she sleeps, I make a few phone calls. My mind races. She’s curious and bright, and even though, so far, her memory is spotty, there’s no question with a mind as sharp as hers that it will come back.

And fuck me, she’s gorgeous . I wasn’t prepared for this. For her. Every inch of her challenges my self-control. Those wide, almost innocent eyes that glint with defiance, the gentle part of her full lips when she’s surprised, almost like she’s tempting without even trying. Her skin is pale and flawless, and when she shifts, the curve of her neck beckons to me. Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, as brilliant as a Snow Queen’s.

I clench my fists, willing myself to focus, to remember that she’s here because she ran from me, but every inch of her soft skin, every delectable curve, only makes it harder to concentrate. The sooner I truly claim her, the sooner I truly make her mine …

When I held her, the scent of her skin, soft and slightly sweet, hit me like a drug, raw and intoxicating, making my pulse race. When she looked up at me with wide eyes, her pretty lips just inches from my own, I could hardly keep myself from tracing the line of her jaw, from pressing my lips to the place where her pulse beats just beneath her delicate skin.

I want to bury my hands in her hair and my cock in her tight, hot pussy until she arches beneath me, helpless and mine. I’ve fought, controlled, dominated, and conquered so many before her, yet nothing prepared me for this. For her.

The woman who brought near devastation to everything I’ve ever built, who put my entire family at risk.

I’ll claim that sweet, hot cunt of hers until the memory of my touch is seared into her.

I look out the window at our estate. I poured blood, sweat, and tears into keeping this house in my family’s name. In my name. When I was still barely over the threshold of adulthood, it was a much harder task than I’d anticipated.

People have always called it “The Cottage,” but it’s anything but small and simple—more like a fortress. Our large, sprawling home just outside of Moscow blends with the old-fashioned style of old Russia with modern touches—tall stone walls, large windows, and intricate iron gates that almost make it feel like a citadel. Inside, I’ve kept it simple and functional—my office and command center on the first floor are the only places I’ve focused any of my attention. My sisters, however, have brought warmth and comfort.

Yana begged me to let her decorate, insisting that every room needed a touch of “her unique charm,” as she put it, her playful grin challenging anyone. I gave my sister what she wanted. I had to. It gave me no small pleasure to know my father would turn over in his grave in disapproval.

I look toward my bedroom.

When I’m confident Anissa’s resting, the medication keeping her in a light state of sedation for now, but the effort she expended exhausting her, I step into the hallway and meet up with my brothers, who hover nearby. They’re eager to back me up as always, but there’s a hint of fear in their eyes over what happens next. I peer in at her, the door slightly ajar.

No one’s come into this home since our parents’ death. My marriage—however unofficial it is—changes everything.

"How’d she take the news?" Rodion asks me.

I shrug and sigh. "She has a lot of questions, but so far, so good." I shake my head and keep my voice low, even though I know she can’t hear me. “I tried to tell her as much of the truth as I could."

"Now, brother, there's no need to lie," Rodion smirks, obviously delighting in my predicament. "You definitely didn’t tell her as much of the truth as you could. You may have told her as much of the truth as you could get away with." He snorts. “I ought to know. That’s my specialty.”

I grunt. He’s not lying.

“I believe what you meant to say is that creative truth-telling is my only tactic.” Semyon says, smacking Rodion’s shoulder.

I love these assholes, even if I want to throttle them sometimes.

"How much time do you have?" Semyon asks. "Like, what if she wakes up tomorrow and remembers who she is?"

"I don’t know how much time I have. I could have months, weeks, or days." I shove my hands in my pockets. “But it sounds like it’s very rare that one’s memory returns rapidly.”

"So, you must focus on making that woman of yours like you," Rodion says with a lopsided grin that makes him look like a cat with a mouse’s tail trapped under it’s paw.

I give him a withering look. "She doesn’t have to like me," I say with disgust. "I wouldn’t know the first thing about that anyway."

My brothers share a look.

“What?” Frustration mounts in my chest. I scowl. “What the hell are you looking at each other like that for?”

Semyon sighs. "He’s not wrong, brother. It might help, you know."

I think about this for a moment without responding. Help with what ?

Rodion leans forward, holding my gaze. "You look genuinely perplexed. Do you mean to tell me that for once in my life, I actually have an opportunity to fill my big brother in on something? Imagine, after all these years, after everything you've taught me, I actually know something you don't?” He shakes his head and curses.

I grunt at him and look back through the open door to where my bride rests. She was pretty wrecked. And she was definitely concerned about what I did to the people who hit her.

That’s none of her concern. It won’t ever be. He was reckless, careless. He could've killed her. The asshole was playing on his phone instead of watching the road. And yes, she shouldn't have run into traffic the way she did, but if he had been paying attention, it would've been easy to swerve.

From here, I can see the gold-framed mirrors Yana put up, the soft silk curtains drawn tight, and the roses Zoya placed beside the bed. My bride rests in a room as finely appointed as a queen’s—but with every lock and guard in place to keep her mine.

What if she wakes up and she's disoriented? What if she wakes up and looks for me? Or worse, what if she wakes up and remembers who she is?

Will she try to run again? When I join her, the door to our bedroom will be locked, as is every other exit to the house, secured with my men. I would think that if she woke up and remembered who she was, she wouldn't make the mistake of running again, especially with her leg in a cast and her other injuries to account for.

Rodion leans in, clearly delighted that he gets to tell me what to do for once.

"You have two choices here, Rafail. The carrot or the stick. And trust me, when it comes to a beautiful woman like her, you want to at least start with the carrot.” His eyes gleam with a hint of challenge. Behind him, Semyon raises an eyebrow, silently daring me to show restraint.

I clench my fists and narrow my eyes at Rodion. "Don’t you ever fucking make a comment about my wife’s looks again.”

“Whoa, sorry," he says, holding his hands up. "I didn’t mean anything.” He looks at Semyon, who meets his gaze.

Yeah, I called her my wife. By all intents and purposes, that’s exactly who she is, whether that’s official on paper or not.

I growl at him but keep my eyes trained on him. Maybe he does have something to teach me.

"The stick worked fine for you .”

Semyon chuckles. “He’s got a point, brother."

My younger brother was a wild card, and some like to think he still is. He needed a firm hand. Discipline. He tried my patience like a motherfucker, but I stayed the course, and he finally grew the hell up.

Now, he's a dependable, full-fledged member of our Bratva, but I haven't forgotten who he was. Maybe all of us carry a thread of who we were, no matter how we evolve or age.

"You should at least consider what he says," Semyon suggests. "You don't know how long you have. What if she remembers within a week? If she still hates you, you're going to have a woman who knows she's not actually married to you," he says in a whisper, "who still hates you, who escaped you once and would no doubt try to escape you again."

"I have at least eight weeks," I respond, staring at her, prone in the bed. "She's wearing a cast."

Semyon’s brows shoot up, and he shakes his head. "You're telling me a woman bold enough to run away from the most powerful man in Zalivka is going to let a little thing like a cast hold her back?"

I grunt again. “You don’t have to fall in love with a woman to get her to respect and obey you. I have rules. She’ll follow them.” I give them both a meaningful look. They learned. Why complicate shit?

"Jesus," Semyon says, rolling his eyes. "I feel like the candlestick or the clock or whatever the fuck in Beauty and the Beast trying to tell the Beast to mind his fucking manners ."

Rodion snorts. "You are definitely the clock. He’s the high-strung one."

What the fuck are they talking about? I shake my head and text Vadka.

What have you found?

A lot. Briefing coming to your inbox in ten minutes. Look it over, then we'll chat.

I nod and shove my phone in my pocket, glance back at the room, and my heart leaps into my throat. The bed’s empty.

“What the fuck?”

Semyon places a hand on my arm. "She got out of bed two minutes ago when you were texting Vadka. She hobbled off to the bathroom. Relax.”

Relax. Jesus. I’ll relax when they lay my body in a grave. I have too much at stake to relax.

I knew I should've stayed right there. Jesus. What if she falls? She doesn't have any crutches.

“Dinner at six,” I snap. “Don’t be late.”

As I reach the door to our bedroom, I can still hear Semyon grumbling from down the hall. "Dinner at six, as if we haven't had it at six every single night for years. Does he think we'll forget?"

I flip him off without turning around, catching Rodion muttering something I don’t quite hear. So what if I like routine? Structure. So what if I feel like everything is slipping through my fingers, and I’m holding on to whatever scraps of control I have left?

I stop just outside the door, taking a moment to steady myself. The late afternoon sun filters through the hallway windows, casting long shadows. Outside, the landscapers finish the lawn, and from downstairs, the quiet clink of dishes tells me Zoya’s busy in the kitchen. She begged to cook, and it keeps her busy. I’d hire someone in a heartbeat, but knowing Zoya’s occupied calms me.

Inside, my bride waits.

My bride.

The woman who betrayed me. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t recall what she did—her choices put my family and my family’s legacy at risk, and for that, she’ll pay. Semyon can say whatever the hell he wants about how I handle this. But I know exactly what I’m going to do. She’ll know who I am and who she’s married to. That’s all that matters.

I glance at the two guards stationed outside her door. They straighten immediately as I approach.

"How is she?" I ask, my voice colder than I intended. I don’t want them to see the instinct of panic when I saw she was out of bed.

"She's awake, sir," one of them answers.

I square my shoulders, pushing the door open, my mind filled with the warnings of my brothers. I won’t fall into the trap they think I will. This woman may be my wife, but she must understand what happens if she crosses me. When she remembers what she did—when she recalls running from me—will she realize the damage she caused?

Will it matter if she does?

Before I step inside, I catch sight of Zoya at the end of the hallway. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, when she meets my gaze, she flinches and backs away.

She knew how I handled the others—harsh when necessary. I had to, there was too much at stake, too much at risk. I’ve never laid a hand on her, yet she still shrinks from me like a frightened kitten—and I fucking hate it.

I’ve always held this family together, with no choice but to control the chaos, especially with my brothers. The girls were easier, but all of them needed me. I had my grandfather as my guiding light and, to a lesser extent, my uncle. Vadka was my sounding board and my backup. There were hard lessons. I had to be the bad guy. I wouldn’t say I ever liked it, but if I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

We’re here. Safe. Together. And I’ll do damn near anything to keep it that way.

“What is it?” I bite out, watching her wring her hands, patience hanging by a thread. I try to keep my temper back, but I want to see my wife.

"Why are you angry, Rafail?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. Even the way she says my name feels like a gentle reproach.

"I’m not angry." But it’s a lie, and I never lie to Zoya. So I blow out a breath and shake my head. "Maybe I am. I just don’t like these circumstances."

She swallows and absentmindedly tugs on the hem of her top, a habit she’s had since she was a child. It makes her look younger. Vulnerable. "I don’t either. How long do you think this will last?"

What does she mean by “this”?

I look over my shoulder to see that Anissa is still in the bathroom. Still, I don’t want her to hear any of our conversation.

“I don’t know,” I tell her, trying to answer all the questions at once and answering none. I exhale in frustration.

I don’t like the way she flinches when I scowl. My anger isn’t directed at her. I would do anything for my brothers and sisters. Anything.

Including playing the role of husband to an absolute stranger.

"You came here to talk to me. Was that your question?"

Zoya shakes her head and stutters, "No, no, I-I made some food. I cooked a bunch of different things because I don’t know what she likes.” Her brow furrows adorably. “Do you?"

Of course I don’t. I know hardly anything about the woman on the other side of that door who shares my future.

"No." I don’t even know if she knows what she likes. This is frustrating. "Thank you," I grind out. Forcing my voice soft feels like pulling teeth—unnatural, like a rottweiler rolling over to show his belly. I draw in a breath. "Thank you for that. I’m not going to make her come downstairs. She’s in too much pain."

"No, no, of course not," Zoya says. "I’ll bring up a tray."

I shake my head. "No, Zoya," I reply firmly. "Prepare it, and I’ll bring it up."

"All right," she says softly. "Thank you."

She does a clumsy little head nod before she flees, and it makes me feel like a dick. She’s my sister, not my servant. Jesus . I turn back and face the room. And she’s my prisoner, not my wife.

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Right now, all of Zalivka is talking about my bride. Everyone knows that I’m married. And everyone knows there was an accident, but nobody knows what happened. I aim to keep it that way.

Certain the guards are in place, I decide to go downstairs now and get the food myself. If Zoya decides to disobey me and carry the damn thing, I’ll have to scold her, and I fucking hate doing that. So I go downstairs and try the food as she plates it.

"Delicious." I don’t even taste it, but I’m trying. Goddamn, I’m trying.

"Just a few simple things," she says quietly. "I really hope she likes them. And you, too, of course," she stammers, shaking her head. "But you like everything I make, Rafail." She gives me a shy smile. On impulse, I reach for her and give her a quick hug. No matter how much I scold her to eat, she only pecks at her food like a little bird, small and fragile.

"I do love everything you make. Thank you for this. She’s going to be very glad to have you as a sister, Zoya."

I take the platter, turn, and head upstairs. The smell of roasted potatoes and savory meat pie makes my mouth water and my stomach growl. I like a good meal, but I don’t remember the last time I ate one. It’s been a bullshit couple of days with one thing after another.

But now I need to slow down, something I don’t do very well. I need to get to know my new wife. How the fuck do I do that?

I’ve never had to make small talk or be personable. God .

The idea makes me sick.

I don’t know what the fuck those guys were talking about with the “beast,” but I feel for the guy if this is what he had to go through.

I take the stairs two at a time, and when I step into the room, she startles awake. I didn’t realize she’d fallen back asleep.

Her wide eyes dart to me, and she shrinks into the couch like prey sensing the predator’s approach. When I see the bruise on her cheek and the cast on her leg, the rage surfaces again. She ran from me. She ran from all of us. The car, her pain—it’s all part of a game she tried to play. In the life I lead, you either run toward danger, or it finds you.

I haven’t forgotten that I was the one she was running away from. I was the one she was trying to escape. It’s my fault she was hit by a car.

And for the first time, I wonder, why did she run from me to begin with? We hadn’t even met. What drove her to do that?

"I brought you some food." She jumps at the sound of my voice. I guess it’s louder than I expected. It booms in the interior of the room. Terrifying everyone around me seems like the order of the fucking day. Why does that not bring the satisfaction it once did?

"Thanks," she says in a quiet voice. "Do you know if I’m due for pain meds? I’m in a lot of pain."

I lay the tray down. “Let me check." It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have to keep my voice quiet and gentle. Between her and Zoya, I practically have to reinvent myself ever time I turn around.

I glance at the little timetable to see when she’s due for meds next. It’s just about time, but she isn’t due yet. She still needs a heavy dose, then.

"Yeah," I say, looking at the orange bottles in front of us. "You could definitely use some more." I shake some into my palm and hand her a glass of water. She picks it up without a word, and it hits me hard. She has no choice but to take what I hand her—the meds, the food… the truth. What I hand to her is all she knows, all she can swallow. Having someone’s life in your hands is heavy enough. But this? This is something else.

I drag a hand through my hair, surprised to find it damp. It isn’t even warm in here—what the hell is this? Nerves? I don’t get nervous. I sit down beside her.

“That was a pretty deep sigh,” she murmurs, shifting as she tries to push herself up. I hadn’t even realized I sighed. Leaning forward, I take her by the elbows, lifting her so I can adjust the pillows behind her back.

“Better?"

"Much. That smells so good. I didn’t realize how starving I was.”

"Me neither. My sister is quite a cook."

She frowns, looking down at the food. “Zoya?”

I nod. "You don’t like it?"

Zoya has given us such a variety that I’d be surprised if there wasn’t something here she liked. There’s a generous bowl of borscht with sour cream drizzled on top, golden pelmeni stuffed with savory meat, and a platter of pirozhki, the smell of freshly baked dough making my mouth water. Even blini, thin and delicate, with bowls of honey, sit beside the plates. In the corner sits a small crock filled with cookies Zoya’s recently baked. A carafe of wine completes the ensemble.

"No, sorry," she says softly. "This looks amazing. I was just trying to remember if I know how to cook. Do you know? Can I?"

I try to answer as many things honestly as I can. "I don’t. Remember, we haven’t gotten along before."

"Yes, that's right,” she says.

I reach to take a napkin off one of the dishes, and she flinches back—something I should be used to by now. Everyone I know fears me, even Zoya and Yana, my own flesh and blood. But when Anissa shrinks back, it’s different.

But maybe this time, it has to be different.

"You should eat food with that medication. You should not take it on an empty stomach." She nods wordlessly. Reaching for a fork, she takes the food I give her.

"Think of it this way," I tell her with a pretty lame attempt at humor. " Everything is a new experience."

She doesn't smile. My god, but she's beautiful. Porcelain skin, wide blue eyes framed with thick, blonde lashes, her hair so light it's almost white, cascading down the side of her shoulder, hiding the lacerations on her arm.

"That is one way I could look at it," she says with a little smile. "I don't know much about what happened to me, but it doesn't make sense that I have no memory at all, Rafail. I shouldn't say that," she says, shaking her head. "I remember a few faces. And I know some of them are familiar." Frowning, she looks down at her tray. "But you are wholly unfamiliar to me. So is this room. Your sisters, your brothers… I feel as if I've never met any of you before."

I ignore the wave of guilt that twists in my gut.

"You would think that I would remember some of you. Why don't I remember you?"

"I don't know," I lie. She eats rapidly as if she just wants to give herself something to do. Goddamn, I don't blame her. I’m glad to see her packing it away, though, one bite after the other. Zoya will be pleased.

I live for control. I would absolutely hate being in her position, not knowing who I am, and having to rely on other people to tell me.

"I don't know exactly how amnesia works, but I do know the doctor said not to tax your memory. Just take things as they come," I say, "and I know that's a lot easier said than done." I shake my head. "I would hate being in this position.” I frown and admit, “I don't think I would handle it very well."

Her beautiful face breaks into a little bit of a smile. "I feel like I've just met you, and I can already say with certainty that you absolutely would not handle a loss of control very well.”

I grunt in reply, which seems to amuse her.

"Well, I can say one thing,” she says, changing the subject. “This food’s delicious. Pelmeni. Incredible. I can’t say I’ve never had better, but it seems like the truth. And I definitely enjoy sweets.” She eyes me as she takes a mini chocolate cookie in her hand and bites into it as if I’m going to scold her for eating her dessert before finishing her meal. I just care that she’s eating.

When she reaches for another cookie, her sleeve shifts, and I see it—a faint, dark mark on her wrist. A tattoo. Curled lines form an intricate symbol, almost like a chain, no… a snake twisted around a flower? It’s delicate, nearly hidden.

Why was this not in my notes?

"I know what this is," she says, her face breaking out in a smile. "And I know it has something to do with my family." She smiles, pleased with herself. "There. It will come back. I just have to be patient."

She pops another cookie in her mouth. "I like chocolate."

Why didn’t I know about the tattoo?

"Is there anything else you can remember about me, Rafail?”

Time stands still for a fraction of a second. Fuck, but I love when she says my name. Just hearing it in her pretty, musical voice makes my dick hard. I shift uncomfortably. I want this woman… broken stranger that she is. “Anything at all?"

"You were brave," I say, surprising even myself.

"Brave?" She tips her head to the side.

"Yes, you did what I've never been capable of doing." I look away. I didn’t mean to say that. Something about being in the presence of this woman who’s supposedly my wife does strange, unexpected things to me.

She swallows, absentmindedly running her finger over her tattoo. "And what's that?"

I hold her gaze and take a sip of wine before I continue. "Surrendering control to somebody else."

"Well,” she says thoughtfully, her gaze fixed on my wine. “You haven't given me much of a choice.”

"Not much of a choice, no. But it was a choice."

She stares at my wine. “Can I have some of that?”

“Just a minute.” I pull out my phone and type in the names of the meds she’s taking. I read the contraindications and shake my head. “No, not with those medications you’re on.” I put my own glass down. “I won’t have any if you can’t.”

She gives me a thoughtful look but doesn’t respond. We eat in an almost amiable silence for long minutes until she pushes the tray away and leans back against her pillows, spent. I glance down at the tray. She’s only really nibbled.

"You said I was a runner, but I have a hard time believing that. How is it that I was a runner and actually tried to outrun the likes of you , but I’ve exhausted myself by eating only enough food for a child?" She frowns as if disgusted with her lack of energy and stamina.

I stifle a growl. "You're correct. You barely ate a child’s portion of food. Eat more, Anissa. You have to get your energy up." I push the tray back over to her.

She folds her arms across her chest and frowns at me. "I’m not hungry," she says with a note of defiance in her tone.

"You haven’t eaten enough to gain any strength," I insist.

"Fine," she snaps at me, reaching for a second cookie. "Another cookie. How is that? You’ll have a nice, sedentary, fat wife with a big butt.”

I frown at her. “Keep it up, and you’ll be a wife with a sore butt.”

She opens her mouth to protest before she slams it shut again. With flushed cheeks, she pops another cookie in her mouth, another blini, and a few more bites of soup.

“Good girl.” The words feel natural, right. She pleases me when she does what I tell her.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks away from me. "Now are you going to be satisfied?" She sighs. "Other than that, I think all I've done is behave myself. Jesus."

Her gaze lingers on the large bed, sitting flanked against the wall. Housekeeping has tucked in every corner of the duvet and sheets, the bed impeccably smooth. I imagine her hand fisted in the sheets, the way I’ll wrap them around her body. I can see myself kneeling on the floor and her legs wrapped around my neck…

"Well, at least that’s big enough," she says as if she doesn’t know what to say.

I almost laugh. "I’m a big man."

She gives me a slow, lazy once-over that makes my cock stir. "I’ve noticed."

I swallow hard and push the tray away before she frowns and turns her head away from me. "Um. So. Question. Have we…? You know."

Fuck. This is where shit gets complicated. I haven’t thought this through. If I tell her no, that I haven’t taken her yet, she’ll wonder why we’ve been together a week without me claiming what’s mine and consummating our marriage. Any man in my position would make damn sure his wife knew who she belonged to.

She better be a fucking virgin. The very idea of another man’s hands on her drives a dark fury through me. I’d hunt down any bastard who touched her. She’s mine, whether she remembers it or not.

I decide to take a risk. “You disappoint me, Anissa. I didn’t expect that type of blow to my pride. I would’ve thought at least our wedding night was memorable."

She’s achingly beautiful when she smiles at me. Her voice drops, and she gives me a sheepish little smile. "Well, maybe when I’m better… you’ll have to refresh my memory."

My pulse races. I want this woman. All of her. I hate that she ran from me, but goddamn, I’ll make it my mission to make sure she never does—never wants to—again.

She’s mine.

"Count on it. But for now, let’s get you situated. You still have a ways to go." I stand and gather up the tray of food. As I turn to place it on my desk, she asks me another question.

"Do I have a job? How am I supposed to entertain myself? I don’t know who I am, what my role is here… what do I do?"

This isn’t too complicated. "I made you leave your job when you got married to me."

I turn to see a shadow cross her features as she narrows her gaze on me. "What did I do?"

"Lots of things, nothing of consequence." Jesus, I’m a dick, but based on what I read about her, she didn’t have a career but dabbled in a few tame areas of the family business her father probably thought wouldn’t put her at risk.

"We’ll find something for you to do. Maybe for now, since we don’t want to tax your brain, you can watch a TV show or read books."

She frowns and looks perplexed. “May I have a cell phone?"

Shit. If she gets her hands on a cell phone, she’ll start looking shit up. Asking questions. Maybe she’ll trigger a memory… I have to think fast.

"The doctor said not to tax your brain, and staring at a screen will definitely do that. Of course you can have a phone," I bluff, "just not right this minute. Let’s wait until your healing’s coming along.”

Frowning, she nods. "I want to look up my name. I want to remember who I was."

At least she isn’t lying.

I sit up straighter, my gaze sharp. “That doesn’t matter anymore. You’re mine now. Your name is Anissa Kopolova, and you’re married to me. Whatever we were before the accident, it’s done. We’re starting fresh.” I lean in, my voice low and unyielding. “On my terms. Your memory will come back in time, but until then, all you need to know is that you belong to me. And from this point on, you do what I say.”

She stares at me and purses her lips but doesn’t respond.

Maybe my brothers were right.

I make it sound as if we have all the time in the world when, in reality, every second we’re together is a ticking time bomb.