Page 19 of Unleashed

"Just so we’re clear, I will not have my wife communicating with someone who would sell her off like that."

I turn this over in my mind. I don't know how to mourn the loss of someone I don't even remember, but it still hits my heart. People should have mothers and fathers. And some people maybe should have siblings too.

“I don't know why I would want to be in touch with someone I don't know, much less someone who thought so little of me, but okay then.”

We are approaching a doorway at the end of a hall, and my heart beats frantically faster. I don't know what's coming.

“You haven’t answered all the questions.” I’m buying time, terrified about what he’ll do when we’re alone in ourbedroom.

His brow furrows as if he's puzzled or he's confused. "I've answered everything you asked me."

"Not quite. I asked you what happened to the people who hit me with the car."

I watch as his jaw firms and his shoulders seem to expand. I’ve stoked his anger. "I’ll admit, I may have lost my temper."

Oh god. Somehow, I knew he’d respond like this, but I’m still unprepared for the way my heart races in fear. I don't know what it would look like if a man like him lost his temper. Even when he's on his best behavior, he's terrifying.

"Oh?" I ask. I wince when he steps over the threshold.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I'm trying not to jostle you."

"It's fine," I lie. It's not fine. It hurts so badly I'm crying. I turn my face away from his so he doesn't see it. I know intuitively that he wouldn't like that. And I want to hear him answer the questions I asked.

"They were reckless. You could've been killed." His voice is choked, his anger palpable. I look down to note the veins in his arms, strong muscles, tan skin, and black marks of ink that are vaguely familiar but not identifiable, like markings out of focus.

"I told you I took care of it. Someone was reckless enough to hurt my wife, and I handled it the way I had to. Trust me—no one will make that mistake again."

His voice is as dark as a whispered threat. “When someone hurts what’s mine, they live to regret it. If the streets of St. Petersburg could talk…” His gaze is distant for a moment, as if he’s remembering past deeds. What has he done?

I bite my lip, unsure if I want details and uncertain if I want to stay ignorant.

“Right,” I whisper.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice a low, dangerous whisper without a hint of comfort or love, nothing but stark obsession. It seems as if this assurance should bring me a measure of comfort, but the latent warning in his tone makes me tremble.

He continues in a low rumble. "I made an example of the person who hurt you," he says. "It wasn't pretty, and you don't need the details. Do you know who I am, Anissa?"

I shake my head. "My husband," I say, my voice wobbling. The medication he gave me has made me sleepy, and I want to go to bed, but I have to push through. “All I know is that you’re my husband.”

"Yes, but since you don't remember who you are, I'm going to assume you don't know what my job is." He blows out a breath. “We’ll get there.”

We're walking down a long hallway. The rubber soles of his boots are practically silent on the gleaming hardwood floors. It's simple, sophisticated. The home smells like old wood, reminiscent of a library. Large blossoms in a rust-colored glass vase sit on a side table. Everywhere I look, there's bright light. I have the strange thought that someone like him needs a lot of light to give him something to hope for. To shine light in the darkness. If he lived in a cavern or a place with closed blinds, the abyss would swallow him. It hurts to turn my head, so I only take in what's in my immediate surroundings.

If he's my husband… "Is it just the two of us? In a house like this? It looks enormous."

He shakes his head gently, careful not to disturb me, careful not to jostle my cast.

"No," he says quietly. "Definitely not just us." When he doesn't offer any more information, I push a little more.

"Zoya? Your sister?" And then a horrible thought strikes me. "Not your parents," I add, unable to imagine being married to a man like him in the presence of his parents.

"I suppose we're jumping right into the middle, aren't we?" he says with a thoughtful look. His face deepens into a frown, and he doesn't speak for long minutes, as if he's trying to condense a lifetime into just a few sentences

He continues to walk with purpose, taking large strides, but careful not to jostle me too much.

"My name is Rafail Kopolov," he says. "Does that mean anything to you?"

His name stirs something faint but nothing familiar, an echo bouncing in a vast, empty room. I remember a chill in the air, distant city lights blinking like stars. I remember the shout of a voice… anger. A chase.

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