Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
“I don’t,” he snaps, his tone softening only slightly. “But it’s my responsibility. I take care of what’s mine.”
My chest tightens at his words—what’s mine.
I don’t want to be his. I don’t want Stefan to be his responsibility. But some traitorous part of me, the part that’s so damn tired of fighting, clings to the word responsibility like a lifeline.
“Fine,” I say, crossing my arms. “But if you think treating us like this will make us trust you, you’re in for a rude awakening.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he doesn’t respond.
We drive in silence. I glance back at Stefan, whose eyes are closed. He’s snoring softly.
When we arrive at the house, Semyon parks and turns off the engine. I kneel on the seat to gently shake Stefan awake. “Honey… we’re home.”
He doesn’t stir.
“Watch your foot,” Semyon barks at me. “You’re going to scuff the—”
Something inside me snaps. I plant my muddy shoe on his pristine console and smear it across the surface.
In one swift motion, his palm slams against my ass. My breath catches in shock.
“What did I tell you about acting like a child?” he snaps, his voice low and lethal.
“Hey!” I gasp, my cheeks flaming. Something dark and unfamiliar flares in my chest.
Between my thighs.
My body betrays me, heat pooling in places I want to ignore. His gaze pins me in place, his tone leaving no room for argument, a promise there’s more where that came from.
Oh god.
“Anya, turn around and sit properly before I spank you again,” he growls. “And clean up the mess you made.”
I huff indignantly but grab the tissue he hands me to wipe the console. It was childish. Still, I hate the smug look on his face as I obey.
“I need to wake him up,” I mutter.
“No,” Semyon says, his tone clipped. “He’s a child and exhausted. I’ll carry him upstairs.”
And then he’s out of the car, pulling Stefan into his arms like he weighs nothing. I want to hate him—I do hate him—but the way he holds my brother, careful and steady, breaks something inside me.
Stefan looks so small in his arms, so fragile. He’s always been too thin, no matter how much I’ve tried to feed him. He grows like a weed, but there’s never enough.
Semyon carries him toward the house with his back straight, his movements precise. I feel an ache in my chest born of grief and relief, opposing feelings but holding the same space somehow.
“I’ll put him in the second room on the right,” Semyon says, his voice cold. He glances back at me, his eyes sharp and half-lidded. His voice drops an octave as if trying not to wake my brother.
“When you come upstairs,” he murmurs, “I want you waiting in your bedroom.” I stare at him.
“I want your clothes off, Anya.”
I stare at his retreating back before I somehow make it up to my room.
Semyon is so cold, so detached—like a machine, ruthless and efficient—but today, he brought my little brother home. He carried Stefan into this house like he was something precious. That’s not something I can forget.
Earlier, when I first walked into this room, I hadn’t even looked around. Now, as I stand here trembling, I force myself to take in every detail.
He’s coming back for me.
I can barely begin to process everything that’s happened in the last few hours. It’s all too much, too fast, and every time I try to piece together my fears of what happens next, my thoughts dissolve into chaos.
The room itself is larger than anything I could have imagined. It’s more lavish than I expected too. A massive king-sized bed dominates the center, draped with a heavy ivory duvet, soft and inviting. Ample pillows are propped neatly against the headboard, and the room is accented in polished silver and glints of warm gold. Somehow, it feels simultaneously impersonal and beautiful.
I expected a prisoner’s confines. But this? This is anything but.
In the corner stands a large white desk, solid and heavy, paired with a sleek standing lamp. On its surface, brand-new accessories are arranged in perfect order—pens, pencils, even a tape dispenser and scissors. My bag sits empty beside a closet door, an incongruous reminder of home.
Tentatively, I walk over and push the door to the closet open. My breath catches.
The closet is enormous, a walk-in space larger than Stefan’s entire room back home. Shelves line the walls, displaying rows of shoes so pristine they look like works of art. Heels, boots, flats, all arranged by style and color—black, nude, and red blending into softer pastels and bolder choices. Dresses and skirts hang neatly beside sweaters and coats, all perfectly organized. Everything is new, modern, expensive… and my size.
They all sit beside my mother’s clothes, in such stark contrast it makes my nose tingle.
The two pairs of worn shoes and the few faded garments I’d packed sit awkwardly on a shelf. My cheeks burn at the sight of them. They don’t belong here. They’re relics of a simpler, poorer life, a life that feels a million miles away now.