Page 1 of Bound By His Name
Prologue
Anya
The fucking dress they picked for me to be traded in smells like plastic wrap and perfume someone tried to drown it in.
It hangs off a silver hook above the radiator—white, heavy, sleeveless. The kind of white that’s supposed to mean something. It looks expensive, but not new. I wonder how many other captive wives have stepped into it.
I sit on the edge of the chaise, one slipper on, one off, and press my thumb into my palm hard enough to leave a mark. It stings, and I’m grateful for the pain.
A knock distracts me, sharp and short. My father doesn’t wait for me to answer. He pushes the door open and steps in, coat still on, snow melting on his boots and leaving a trail across the marble.
“Put the dress on.”
I stay seated.
His brow lifts, and that’s all. He doesn’t sigh, nor give a threat this time. I’m met with the dull, tired stare of someone too far gone to pretend anymore.
“This is a joke,” I say. “You’re not serious.”
“I don’t have time for one.” He steps closer, dragging the trail with him. “He’s on his way.”
“Then let him come,” I snap. “I’m not a gift box. I’m not putting that thing on.”
He stops in front of me and his shoulders slope as if gravity’s gotten worse for him alone. “You think I wanted this?”’
“Yes.”
“I didn’t,” he says flatly. “But this—” he points to the dress without even looking at it “—this is how you stay breathing.”
“You’re selling me.”
“I’m keeping us alive.”
“No. You’re keeping yourself alive.”
There’s not a wince or ounce of regret on his face—just calculation. “He could’ve asked for your life. He asked for your hand. I took the deal.”
A car pulls up outside and I hear the muffled slam of a door.
I stand so fast the slipper flies off. “You’re disgusting.”
“I am your father.” He adjusts his cuffs. “And I’m simply practical.”
He leaves before I can reply.
I let out a sigh and allow them to remove me from my room.
The tailor waits for me in the dressing room off the back hall. She’s a short woman in all black, her expression so neutral it might as well be painted on. She doesn’t greet me, only holds the dress out like I’m already late.
I step behind the screen, refusing help. The zipper scratches as I pull it up. It’s snug through the ribs, stiff at the shoulders.
When I step out, she gives me a once-over and nods. “Good enough,” she mutters.
There’s no veil or flowers. Just this one dress, and two men in dark coats waiting at the foot of the stairs when I return.
They don’t introduce themselves. They nod once, sharply, and hold the front door open like they’ve done this before.
I’m not told where we’re going. But I already know. I turn my head to the side, but before the door slams, I feel someone settle in next to me.
