Page 7 of Bound By His Name
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
He steps to the side and lifts my chin gently with two fingers, then guides me to the full-length mirror positioned near the fireplace.
“To see what’s already mine,” he says. “Not to take it. Not tonight.”
He doesn’t position me or instruct. He simply stands behind me, one hand resting lightly at my lower back. I meet my ownreflection. My skin is flushed, my breath shallow, but I’m not trembling.
He leans close to my ear—not touching, just near enough for the warmth of his breath to reach my cheek.
“This,” he murmurs, “is where it begins.”
With that, he walks away and the door closes behind him.
I am left frozen and naked in front of the mirror.
Chapter 3
Lev
She didn’t cry.
Not last night, not when I left her standing bare in front of the mirror. I watched the footage again this morning. I had it pulled before Dmitri saw it. He wouldn’t have said anything, but he would have looked at me and the last I need is my right-hand’s righteous judgment.
Anya stood still for twenty-seven seconds after the door closed. Then she picked the slip up from the floor and pulled it back on with slow, deliberate hands. She didn’t look away from her reflection once. There was no panic or shame.
I’ve seen men shatter under less.
I can’t help this.
The intrigue growing in me is like none I’ve ever felt before. I find myself wanting to uncover the deepest parts of this woman. I know I ought to be more patient, to let what I’ve planted take root, yet the urge to see her again gnaws at me.
She hasn’t eaten much today. The log shows that her breakfast was left untouched, and she declined her lunch. But she’s been walking. She’s been around most of the building. I watched her cross the hall three times in the last hour. She paused outside my study this afternoon. She didn’t knock, but she didn’t walk away quickly either.
I’m beyond impressed.
How can I not be?
When I see her return to her room to rest, I write a note, and slide it under her door myself.
Library. Ten. Come alone.
At exactly ten, I hear her steps before I see her. She pushes the door open and steps in without hesitation. Her robe is tied, her feet are bare and her hair, damp. She didn’t dress for me but she came anyway.
“Close the door,” I speak slowly.
When she does, I gesture to the velvet chair by the fire. She sits down slowly, like she isn’t sure if this is a meeting or a game. She studies the room—the shelves, the fire, the shadows between us. Yet, not once does she look at the exit.
Good.
I pick up the book from the side table.
“Do you read poetry?” I ask.
“No.”
“It’s Anna Akhmatova. She is a Russian poet. So don’t expect it to be gentle.”
I open to the first poem and begin.
