He flinches at the word, but keeps looking forward.
The car turns off the main road and passes through a set of black iron gates. Two guards stand on either side, both armed, both expressionless. They look at the car, then at us, and wave us through without hesitation.
My stomach tightens.
This is not Dmitri’s house. The estate beyond the gates is darker than the Volkov one. Older. Less polished. It sits back from the drive like it has no interest in being admired. Gray stone, tall windows, ivy crawling up one side, the whole place surrounded by trees that block out most of the morning light.
It’s beautiful, but not welcoming. It feels lived in by ghosts and men with secrets.
The car stops at the front steps.
I don’t move.
Sergei opens his door first. “Come.”
“Where are we?” I ask.
He still doesn’t answer.
I step out of the car because staying inside will not save me.
The front doors open before we reach them, and a man in a black suit lets us in without a word.
Inside, the house is quiet and cold. The floors are dark wood, the walls lined with old paintings, most of them men who look like they learned tenderness too late or never at all. There are no flowers. No family photographs. No soft touches anywhere.
Sergei moves ahead of me, distracted and pale. He keeps adjusting his cuffs, then stopping himself, then doing it again. I watch him and understand something with a sick twist in my stomach.
He is afraid to be here.
My father, who shoved his way into my hotel room and dragged me into a car, is afraid of the man waiting for us.
We’re led into a study. The room is large, with bookshelves along two walls, a wide desk near the windows, and a fire burning low despite the morning.
At first, I don’t see anyone.
Then Sergei steps forward and lowers his head. “Sir,” he says, voice rough with relief and fear. “Thank you for helping us.”
My heart stops.
No.
I turn, and there he is.
Yaromir Volkov stands near the fireplace, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a glass he does not drink from. He’s dressed in black, as if color is something other men need to seem alive. Silver threads through his dark hair at the temples. The scar down his face catches the firelight, pale and brutal. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
Last night comes back to me in pieces.
Was it him?
No. I don’t know that. I don’t know anything.
His eyes move over me once. Slowly. Not like Dmitri used to look at me, with easy ownership and shallow appreciation. Yaromir looks at me as if he sees right through me.
Something hardens in his expression.
Then it’s gone.
“Anya,” he says.
