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 tome.Whatever we were before the accident, it’s done. We’re starting fresh.” I lean in, my voice low and unyielding. “Onmyterms. 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.
Chapter Nine
“Anissa”
I glanceat 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 myhusband? 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 ashe 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.
