Page 11 of Till Death Saves Me

A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected and genuine. "Yeah, I don't know if your brother ever would have told me."

As Anya steps further into the room, I find myself drawn to her energy. There's a fierceness to her, but it's tempered by a warmth I haven't felt since this whole ordeal began.

"So," she says, plopping down on the leather couch, "how are you holding up?" I stare at her a moment, not sure what she means, and she gives me a look. "I grew up in the Bratva family. Don't tell you you married my brother for love."

"I-" My eyebrows scrunch up as I look at her. I've never met anyone quite like her. But I'm not complaining. Quietly, I admit, "I didn't."

"Then tell me." She pats the spot next to her. "How are you holding up?"

The simple question, asked with such genuine concern, nearly undoes me. I've been so focused on keeping it together, on not showing weakness, that I haven't allowed myself to really feel anything.

"I'm..." I start, but the words catch in my throat. How am I? Lost. Angry. Scared. Overwhelmed. "I don't know," I finally admit, sinking down next to her.

Anya nods, understanding in her eyes. "It's a lot to take in, isn't it?"

"That's an understatement," I say with a weak laugh.

As we talk, I feel the tension in my shoulders start to ease. For the first time since this nightmare began, I don't feel completely alone.

"Do you want me to show you around?" she asks.

"How did you?—"

She gives me a knowing look. "I know my brother."

I chuckle. "Yeah. Not exactly opening a tour company any time soon." I get to my feet. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd love for you to show me around."

As Anya leads me through the home, I'm struck by how different it feels with her here. The oppressive silence that had weighed on me earlier dissipates, replaced by the warmth of her presence.

"So, this is the kitchen," Anya says, gesturing to a sleek, modern space. "Ivan's not much of a cook, but he keeps it stocked." She pulls open the fridge, pursuing. "He also hates people in his space—" Ouch. "So there's no servants. He hasa chef drop off prepared meals once a week, and there's a gardening service, but that's it."

I was already cataloging the information. I was actually a good cook — a better baker — since I had nothing else to do. Maybe I could cook for Ivan.

But cleaning…we'd need to talk about a maid.

I run my hand along the cool quartz countertop. "It's beautiful. But I can't imagine Ivan in here."

Anya laughs, a rich, genuine sound. "Oh, you'd be surprised. I once caught him trying to make borscht. It was a disaster."

The image of stern, intimidating Ivan covered in beet juice makes me snort. "Really?"

"Really. He may seem all tough and brooding, but there's more to him than that." She shakes her head. "He just doesn't like to talk much, so you have to learn his language."

I bite my lip, considering her words. Could there really be more to Ivan than the cold, calculating man I've seen?

As we move into the library, my eyes are drawn to a collection of framed photos on a bookshelf. I step closer, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Are these...?" I trail off, surprised by what I see.

Anya nods, coming to stand beside me. "Family photos. That's Ivan and me when we were kids."

I stare at the image of a young Ivan, his arm thrown casually around a grinning Anya. There's a lightness in his eyes that I've never seen before.

"He looks... happy," I murmur, more to myself than to Anya.

"He was. Still is, sometimes, when he lets his guard down."

I turn to her, confusion furrowing my brow. "Are you sure we're talking about the same guy?"

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