Chapter 9

“ANISSA”

I glance at the large bed in the center of the room. Questions swirl in my mind, but the most pressing one is—how do I share a bed with a stranger?

And how am I supposed to accept this man as my husband ? There’s an implied intimacy that makes no sense to me. How can I be close with a man I hardly know… a man who honestly scares me?

"I'd like to talk to the doctor tomorrow," I say thoughtfully. "I want to know more about this amnesia. About how I can bring my memory back."

Frowning before he answers, he finally nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Wordlessly, I watch him walk over to the chest of drawers made of dark maple, worn but obviously well-made. It matches the bed and the bedside table, all of it solid wood.

I wonder if this was his parents' room.

"You said your brothers are adults?"

Something flickers across his face before he answers without looking at me. "Only Zoya’s still a minor.”

I watch him, trying to stay focused but unable to hide my unbridled curiosity. He is my husband, after all. Those muscles? That tanned skin? Those corded forearms with visible veins, a smattering of dark, coarse hair, and strong, powerful hands I can almost feel all over my body— mine .

I swallow hard. Opening the top drawer, he pulls out a white T-shirt and a pair of boxers. But then, his hands shift to an ivory tank top and matching shorts—women’s clothes. I don’t recognize them, but I wonder if they’re mine.

“Are those… mine?”

Not bothering to turn, he throws them aside. “No. My sisters thought you’d need those.” I see a corner of his lips quirk up when he gives me a sidelong look, his eyes burning a hole straight through me. “Cute.”

I stare, my mouth open. “What do you mean?” I finally manage to ask.

“You’re my wife, Anissa.” His tone is tight, clipped, and laced with authority. “I’ll give you leeway, knowing you can’t remember many things, so allow me to remind you.” When he turns fully to look at me, I nearly swallow my tongue. Sweet Jesus , it’s like looking at the body of a vengeful god—beautiful and terrible, capable of utter destruction and relentless protection. When he continues, there isn’t a hint of hesitation.

He studies me and steps closer. I feel the weight of his glare, the heat of his gaze, his masculine scent overwhelming me as he draws near. His fingers trail down my neck, lingering with a possessive, almost punishing slowness that makes my pulse race.

“You’ll obey me, Anissa,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “And in turn, I’ll give you everything. Safety. Devotion. A life where no harm will ever come to you. All you have to do is submit to me. Learn your place as my wife.”

That’s it, eh?

Still, a thrill—unsettling yet undeniable—weaves through me, wrapping around me like a spell, an unbreakable vow, something ancient and powerful binding us together. I feel half hypnotized in his presence. I open my mouth to protest, to resist, to claim a part of my identity, but my resistance falters when his thumb sweeps against my jaw, tipping my face up to meet his dark, stern gaze.

“You’re asking me to surrender to a man I don’t remember,” I whisper, my voice shaky, even as a part of me knows, somehow, that this was always my destiny. Somehow, I can’t remember my own name, but I know the law of the Bratva.

“I’m not asking, Anissa,” he corrects, his grip both firm and reverent. “I’m demanding it. In return, I vow my utter protection. I’ll shield you from anything that tries to hurt you. But I am not a man who shares or who gives up an ounce of control.”

Something inside me stirs like a forgotten memory, a whisper that somehow, this is a familiar dance—a test of wills, an exchange of power I both hate and somehow crave.

“Do you understand me, beautiful?”

I nod. “I do,” I whisper, unable to fight the need to say yes, to see him actually make good on his promises. “Yes.”

Bending toward me, he claims my mouth in a punishing kiss, his fingers anchored in my hair. His tongue licks mine, and my insides melt into liquid fire before he pulls away.

Our foreheads meet. “That’s my girl,” he says in a heated whisper. “Good girl.” His hand strokes down my back in a gentle, possessive sweep, and I shiver under his touch.

Then his voice drops, a rough edge slipping into his tone as he whispers, “ Moya dyevochka… moya kharoshaya dyevochka .”

My girl… my good girl.

My heart skips at the words—low and intimate. I close my eyes as his praise washes over me, threading through me, bringing life to my tired body and awakening a primal need as he traces the outline of my jaw. His gaze darkens. “ Ty prinadlezhish mnyeh. ”

You belong to me.

His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to hold his gaze. “And that means no one gets a piece of you. Not your heart. Not your loyalty.”

I can barely breathe, caught in the intensity of his stare and the raw promise of his words.

I nod, the barest hint of agreeing, but it’s enough. His thumb brushes my cheek, and I see the satisfaction flicker in his eyes as he repeats, softer this time, “ Moya kharoshaya dyevochka .”

I watch, almost hypnotized, as he removes his shirt. His arms lift, the fabric sliding up to reveal his bare back, every bit as powerful as I’d imagined. My first impression was spot on. He’s built like a warrior, with silver scars crisscrossing dark ink on his shoulders, back, and torso—his past etched onto his skin. My heart aches.

Those marks. I know them. Every muscle, every scar, tells a story of battles fought and won, of violence barely kept in check. And I realize with brutal, heart-stopping clarity—that I’m his next challenge.

The sign of Bratva… like mine.

He’s honed his body to perfection, unsurprisingly. He’s a man who values firm authority—over his environment, and over those under his care. It shouldn’t surprise me, then, that he exercises rigid control over his own body.

I am not complaining. If I have to share a bed and take vows with a man I hardly know, it might as well be a man who looks like that . Va voom.

He tosses his shirt toward the bathroom, and it lands in the wicker hamper.

I swallow and lick my lips. I had the distinct impression under those clothes of his, he hid a powerful, sexy body, and I am not disappointed.

Next, he unfastens his jeans. The moment feels too intimate, too private for two strangers. Yes, on paper, we’re married. At least that gold ring on my finger says so, and so does he, but it feels like just today, I learned his name.

We need weeks, maybe months, before we can even begin to understand what it means to get to know each other, but my thoughts quickly jumble together like soup when he steps out of his faded jeans.

Oh. My .

I stare, unashamed, at how his broad shoulders taper into defined abs, accentuated with a smattering of coarse, dark hair and powerful hips that—okay, alright .

Phew. I swallow and lick my lips again. His legs are thick, muscular, solid, and so utterly masculine my breath catches. I glance down at my own body—trim and pale in comparison. Fit, yes, but much smaller. Daintier. We couldn’t be more different physically.

My body reacts instinctively, drawn to the sight of him. I wait for him to pull on pajamas, but instead, he walks over to me, nearly naked, except for that tiny strip of fabric he calls boxers. It seems wildly inappropriate, but logic tells me it really isn't.

"You don’t need to wear anything to bed.” Is it my imagination, or has his voice gotten deeper? Huskier? More masculine?

Oh god. There is no damn way I'm letting this stranger undress me. "I'm fine," I say, panicking. "I'll just sleep in this." We both look down at my running shorts and rumpled tee.

His scowl sends a jolt through me, hardening my nipples under his intense gaze.

So maybe we don’t need weeks or months. My body already knows what to do.

"The hell you are. I'm your husband, Anissa. You’ll do what I say. And I’ve explained disobedience will earn consequences.”

I open my mouth to protest, but no words come out.

"I'm losing patience," he says in a low growl. A small part of me is curious what happens when he loses his patience, but the logical part of me realizes that wouldn't be very fun. “You don’t want that to happen.”

Or would I?

"I don't remember you. I don't even remember me . I feel strange being undressed by you."

His voice is low, raspy, commanding. "I don't give a fuck if it's strange. I gave you an order, and I expect to be obeyed."

Again, my jaw drops in shock, unable to respond. What the hell am I going to do about it?

My libido gives me a hint of false bravado. "What if I don't want to obey you?" I can tell by the sharp set of his jaw and the cut of his eyes that he doesn’t like my response. He opens his mouth as if to snap at me and then thinks twice about it.

"So you want to undress yourself," he says quietly. His jaw firms as his gaze meets mine. I want to take a step back; I want to turn away, but I make myself meet his stare.

I try to hold my ground. "I need time to feel comfortable getting naked in front of you."

His eyes flash. "I’m your husband." The words hang in the air between us as if he's staking his claim.

"Exactly. I'm not one of your siblings that you’re in charge of. I'm your wife ."

His brows rise in mild surprise. Surprise at my words or my pushing back at his commands? Maybe both.

Strong, large, very capable hands anchor on his hips as he continues. "I respect that you don't have a recollection of our world, but let me remind you," he says in a low, measured tone, "I do not tolerate disobedience. Yes, from the people under my command, including my siblings. But most especially my wife. It's my job to protect you, and if you defy me, you make that job difficult or damn near impossible. I don't take kindly to defiance, Anissa."

So maybe I don't want to find out what he'll do.

"I don't think it's very good for you to control my life," I say defensively, but I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a tide that’s sweeping sand from beneath my feet with every tug of the undertow.

He leans forward, his presence suffocating, and brushes a strand of hair from my face, almost— almost— tenderly. "This is me being patient, little Anissa.” He shakes his head. “My little swan. I'm not threatening you. I'm giving you grace."

He leans forward, his breath warm against my skin. "Going forward, there will be no second chances. If you’d remembered your place, you’d already be over my knee.”

My pulse races.

"You’ll allow me to undress you, and that isn’t a question. You’re exhausted. Now come here ."

My heart beats madly in my chest. I can’t blame the medication, not this time. Being in the presence of a man like him is terrifying. Exhilarating. It’s the top of a roller coaster before plummeting to near death. It’s staring at a deathly predator eyeball to eyeball. It’s the flicker of flame that could warm or cause utter destruction.

Of course I want someone to take care of me—I’m only human—but I want it to be someone I actually trust. This man is still a stranger.

"When you disagree with me, maybe you should pick your battles," he says, his voice low and firm. He told me he wouldn’t warn me again, and even though he’s a stranger, I’ve started to compile a small list of things I know about him.

Top of that list? He is a man of his word.

"I’m going to run you a bath. You have a waterproof cast. You can take a bath with the cast on, and I’ll even allow you to wash yourself."

I swallow hard. "Very generous of you."

“I take very good care of what’s mine.”

Definitely true. I look at the ancient, polished wood. The immaculate state of his bedroom. His clothes folded in the drawers, and the laundry basket flush against the wall. I note his siblings, who have been under his care since he was barely past childhood himself. He does take very good care of what belongs to him, and that includes me. I may not like it, I may fight it, but there’s no denying what’s happening here.

Without a word, he leans toward me. His fingers brush bare skin. My nipples pebble as more questions bloom.

He says we’ve been together before. Was he telling the truth?

In the fog of not having any memory, this feels like the first time he's ever touched me.

I close my eyes against the rush of feelings. My heart pounds in my chest as I feel his hands on my skin. He takes his time, lifting the tee off, his palms on my bare skin leaving heat in their wake. He gathers my silky hair, pale as corn silk, against his rough, dark skin. And when my top is completely off, he grazes my bare shoulder with the hint of a kiss. I shiver, and pressure builds between my legs. Every biological need in my body screams for more.

Just surrender.

Just accommodate his dominance and command and let him bathe me as I know he wants to.

It's tricky, taking off the shorts with the cast, but he does so slowly, deliberately, and when the palm of his hand brushes the curve of my ass, heat and pressure build between my legs. I want him to touch me. I want him to take control.

When I sit in front of him wearing nothing but a sports bra and clean black cotton panties, he whistles.

" Christ, you’re gorgeous."

Wait. Hasn’t he seen me naked before?

I look down at my body and swallow hard. “Um. Thanks?”

I can't help the way I shrink when he sits beside me and drags me onto his lap. "You fought me, but your body knows what it really wants, doesn’t it, little swan?"

My body thrums with a rush of heat fused with desire.

My god . My breath catches, and my heart stutters when he dips his head, warm breath pebbling my skin. He nuzzles the damp square of fabric between my legs, breathing in the scent at the top of my thighs. My body throbs with need, my senses electrified.

I tremble against the raw heat of his body, flush against mine. The way he inhales me, the way he stares at me as if I am the most beautiful woman in the world. He says we hated each other, but the way he touches me tells me otherwise.

His hands, still grazing my skin, brand me with the heat of his touch. My breath catches on instinct, betraying me. I can't resist him—I know I can't—this dominant stranger who calls himself my husband is the one in charge here, the one with power. I'm not even sure why I should resist him, as primal need surpasses logic.

And as my body hums with need, craving what I fear and what I want, any protestation I may have begins to dwindle. His eyes darken as he watches me, slowly anchoring his hands on my hips, his thumbs pressing into my hip bones, firm enough to brand them. His fingers feel like hot pokers as they trace across my skin. He holds me in place, his gaze on me ravenous. When he brushes the bare skin of my thighs, I flinch, my mind screaming at me to run, to pull away, even as my body arches into him.

My limbs feel heavy, my consent blurred.

"Stop fighting me," he says in a rasp, his lips close to my skin. He bends and kisses the top of my thigh, and my body reacts. "You say you don't know who you are… But I do."

I swallow hard and lick my lips, trembling. The difference in power between the two of us is harrowing, terrifying, but somehow… exhilarating. I know I’m at the edge of that precipice, ready to tumble to my certain death, and yet… I don’t care. His words linger in the air, somehow tightening the invisible shackle he has around my heart. My heart pounds, and I open my mouth to protest, but everything I was going to say dies on my lips. I don't remember who I am, and I have no choice but to accept this.

I could push him away.

Maybe?

But the way he looks at me, he's a wolf with ravenous eyes, and I'm nothing but his prey.

Who am I? Why does it feel like everything in me is tethered to a stranger?

He tilts my chin, his rough hand branding my skin as he forces my gaze to his. "You need to trust me. I know that's a hard thing to ask when you don't know me, but it's the only choice forward, Anissa." His grip tightens just a bit, enough to remind me of the power he holds over me.

Trust him? On the one hand, it feels almost logical to trust a man who has such power and control, but what if he's manipulating me? What if he's lying? Yet something stirs in the primal and wicked response to his command. It isn't trust or submission or anything logical but a raw, visceral attraction that needs no explanation, as if my body has already accepted what my mind refuses to.

"You want me to trust you, and I don't even know you," I say in protest.

Something that resembles a smile tugs at his lips. "You will, in time. We don’t get a lot of firsts. We’ll enjoy this one."

He pulls me to my feet, and it's the first time I'm standing in front of him. The last time, he picked me up and carried me, and we didn't stand together. This time, he braces me so I don't have to put weight on my cast, but there is no getting over the fact that he towers over me. The warmth of his touch burns through the thin fabric of my clothes, and his hands slide down my waist. I shiver when he grips my ass and cups it possessively.

"I'll give you a little time to adjust," he says as if he's granting me a favor, a boon, his voice deceptively soft, but the underlying edge of control remains. With two fingers on my chin, he lifts my face to his and presses his lips to mine. Every protest dies, and my body leans into him. My mind grows fuzzy, and my body heats with electric waves. He smells like clean mountain air and raw alpha male, and the way he touches me leaves no doubt about what he plans to do with me.

This is a man who has control, power, and knows his way around my body. Every nerve ending in my body is on fire, and I want to scream for more. I want him to lay me down and ravish me. I don't need to have even the slightest bit of memory to know what I want him to do because I crave primal, visceral need. There needs to be nothing between us. I’m starting to resent that I’m still wearing panties and practically grinding myself on him when he kisses me. He squeezes my ass, lifts me, and on instinct, I wrap my good leg around his torso. He's holding my weight so it doesn't hurt, bends, and kisses me as if he owns me.

Maybe he does. No, not maybe… He definitely owns me. My mouth opens. His tongue licks mine, and my pussy throbs. A rush of heat blooms between my legs. I’m aching for him. Is my response to him because I have some muscle memory of pleasure, or is it just that I know this is a man who knows what to do with me? I keen with pleasure as his lips continue, his tongue pressed to mine, and I moan when he pulls away.

"I'll give you time to adjust," he murmurs in my ear, his voice deceptively soft but the underlying edge of control undeniable. “My good, beautiful girl.”

I swallow hard as he eases me to the corner of the room, where a large, overstuffed ottoman sits beside the couch.

"Sit," he commands, his voice hard. I am vulnerable, exposed, and incapable of defying him.

So I sit. His eyes sweep hungrily over me one last time before turning toward the bathroom.

The sound of running water soon fills the air, but I stay frozen, my mind a haze of desire, confusion, and fear. A part of me wants to run, to escape the suffocating presence, to find out who I am without being colored by his touch and his need for me. To find a place that's safe. Because he is anything, fucking anything but safe.

A sudden wave of nausea hits me, and I clutch my stomach. I don't remember who I am, but I know this—when he touches me, I awaken. It's both scary and exciting.

I sit in silence, weighing my options. He's drawing a bath for me, that much is clear, but do I trust him enough to go to it? I glance at the doorway, then back at my reflection in the mirror across the room. I look down at my skin, pale, naked, save for the scrap of panties, bra, and my blonde hair that falls in waves down my face and shoulders. My icy-blue eyes are wide with uncertainty. And while my reflection is somewhat familiar, it's scary that I don't even recognize the person in the mirror.

Though I have no idea who I am, I do have the certainty of one definite detail—Rafail Kopolov is a man I cannot afford to disobey or cross.

“Your bath is ready. Come here.”