Page 2 of Bound By His Name
Sasha, my best and only friend, slips into the car before it pulls off. She wasn’t invited. Her coat’s too big for her, sleeves swallowed past her hands. She looks like she dressed in a panic.
One couldn’t blame her. We aren’t going to see each other for a while after all.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I tell her.
She grabs my hand anyway. “I’m not letting you walk into this alone.”
I press my lips together and stare out the window. The snow outside is endless—layered like old skin, gray and hard.
We don’t speak until the gate appears. It’s made of metal, thick and topped with barbed wire. Two men with rifles wave us through without checking IDs.
“Jesus,” Sasha whispers.
The estate behind it is brutal stone. It is all corners with no warmth. There are lights in a few high windows, like eyes that never close.
The car stops and I feel Sasha lean in, her breath quick. “Anya, listen to me. Lev Antonov doesn’t take wives.”
I turn toward her slowly, watching the worry grow on her face. “He takes possessions.”
I step out of the car without a word because there’s no point in pretending I have a choice.
The air bites, dry and sharp and snow crunches under my heels. Two men flank me, neither saying a word as they guide me up the stone steps and through double doors that creak open as if the house itself disapproves of my arrival.
The inside is worse.
The floors are marble with walls like grave slabs. A chandelier overhead ticks as it settles—old wiring, maybe. Everything is clean, but not lived in. Nothing feels warm or like a home. It’s a tomb with good lighting.
A third man gestures down a hallway. “This way.”
We stop at a massive room at the end, and the door opens. There’s no one inside except a priest in full vestments, a few suited men standing like statues at the back, andhim.
Lev Antonov doesn’t move when I enter.
He stands in front of the windows, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly like he’s more curious than affected. He’s tall and sharply built, dressed in black with not a wrinkle in sight. Not a strand of hair out of place on his face that looks as though it could be sculpted—if the sculptor hated sentiment.
I expect him to make a move and say something. But he just stays there, like this whole thing is beneath language.
“Miss Mikhailova,” the priest says. “We may begin.”
My feet stay glued. I look at Lev again to find he still hasn’t turned.
The priest clears his throat. “Miss Mikhailova—”
“I heard you.”
My voice is thin, but it doesn’t shake.
Sasha isn’t here, nor is my father. I’m left with just the man who bought me, and the men who make sure I don’t leave.
Lev finally turns, slowly.
His eyes land on mine, and I feel something shift inside my chest. His face is handsome enough to almost distract me from how he studies me like I’m not a person, just a piece he’s added to his collection, a pawn or a negotiation closed.
But then, his eyes drop and travel over me once. When they come back up, something flickers for a moment.
It’s not hunger or approval.
It’s recognition, as though he’s already imagined this exact moment. And now that it’s here, it isn’t surprising. It’s confirmed.
