Page 5 of Bound By His Name
At the main staircase, Dmitri waits. He tips his chin toward her, asking a question without speaking.
“She’ll be escorted to the bridal suite,” I respond.
Anya’s head turns slightly. She doesn’t look at me, but I feel the question forming.
“You’ll have space,” I add. “For now.”
“I didn’t ask for it,” she says, almost feisty.
So she speaks. I stuff down a chuckle before it escapes.
“No. You didn’t ask for any of this.”
I keep walking, leaving her behind with Mariya, the housemaid.
Dmitri falls in step again. “You’re sure you want to keep her untouched?” he says, low.
I give him a smirk. “You know I will eventually. But not until I know what she is.”
Chapter 2
Anya
A chill runs down my spine from the eerie stillness as the gates open.
The car that delivered me to this place—my father’s last attempt at survival—doesn’t wait. It disappears down the long gravel drive, leaving only two armed men to escort me up the steps of Lev Antonov’s estate.
No one speaks or offers a hand. I’m not a guest, or truly even a wife.
I’m collateral.
Inside, everything is cold and curated. The walls are stone, the floors gleam, and the windows are too tall to let in anything warm. A third man leads me through a wide hall until we reach a door I don’t open. He does it for me, then gestures for me to enter. I step inside.
The bridal suite is exquisite. It’s also lifeless.
Someone has arranged it to look expensive, not comfortable. White orchids sit on a marble table, and a velvet chair faces the fireplace, where a low flame casts a mild glow. The bed is large, covered in pressed linen and a fur throw folded at the end like a luxury catalog display. There is nothing personal or human about it.
A maid appears within minutes, dressed in a pale gray, starched uniform. She doesn’t introduce herself but walks straight to the bathroom and turns on the taps. When she returns, she gestures for me to follow. I obey because there’s nothing else to do.
She helps me undress without saying a word. Her hands are practiced and efficient. She doesn't avoid my eyes, but she doesn’t meet them either. When I step into the hot water, she begins to scrub my skin with a soft cloth, careful not to linger.
When she dries me off, she unfolds a pale, ivory silk slip I’ve never seen before. It looks overly delicate with thin straps. She lifts it and waits.
“Did he choose this?” I ask.
She gives no answer.
Of course he did.
I slip it on and she leaves without another gesture or word.
Time moves strangely after that. Hours pass, or maybe only one. I sit on the edge of the bed. Then I stand, I walk to the mirror and back again. I touch the cold silver hairbrush on the dresser. I stare at the orchids. I try not to listen for footsteps, but every creak of the floor or distant murmur beyond the walls makes my heart trip.
Eventually, the door opens.
Lev Antonov steps inside.
He doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t speak or come near me. He closes the door behind him with quiet precision and stands still, just inside the room.
