Page 92 of Bratva Bride
But I wasn’t safe. And no one was coming for me.
Theknockcameanhour after Viktor left—soft, almost hesitant, nothing like the guards' usual authoritative pounding that demanded rather than requested entry. I almost didn't respond. What was the point? But then Elena's voice filtered through the wood, barely above a whisper.
"Miss Anya? I'm coming in."
The lock disengaged with electronic efficiency. Elena had override codes—of course she did, after fifteen years of trusted service, changing my sheets and bringing my meals and pretending not to notice when Viktor's cruelty left me unable to eat them.
She slipped inside and closed the door behind her with careful silence. Her face was different from this morning—not the practiced blindness of a servant who'd learned not to see, but sharp determination mixed with obvious fear. Her hands twistedin her apron, and she kept glancing at the camera whose red light had gone dark.
"Your husband is here," she said in rapid Russian, the words tumbling over each other like water breaking through a dam. "He's coming for you. We have maybe fifteen minutes."
The words didn't make sense. They bounced off my brain without penetrating, like rain on glass. Your husband is here. But Viktor said Ivan hadn't even called. Five days of nothing. Why would he—how could he—
"Miss Anya." Elena crossed to the bed, grabbing my shoulders with more force than she'd ever dared use before. "Ivan Volkov is in this house right now. His team got through the gates. I disabled the cameras in this wing, but the guards will notice soon. You need to get up."
Ivan was here. In my father's house. The place even other bratva families approached with caution.
"That's not—he wouldn't—Viktor said—"
"Viktor lied," Elena said simply, already pulling a cardigan from my closet, wrapping it around my shoulders with practiced efficiency. "Your husband has called every day. Sent letters. Tried to visit. Your father blocked everything, told the staff to say you were refusing contact."
Every day. He'd tried every day, and I'd been sitting here believing I was worthless, abandoned, forgotten. The revelation hit like cold water, shocking my systems back online.
Then I heard it—footsteps in the hallway. Not the heavy boot falls of guards or the measured pace of household staff. Quick but controlled, the movement of someone who knew exactly where they were going and how much time they had to get there.
"Which room?" Ivan's voice, pitched low but unmistakable, and my entire body went rigid with recognition.
He was real. He was here. He'd come for me.
Elena opened the door, and there he was in the frame like something out of a fever dream. Five days had wrecked him—stubble darkening his jaw, shadows under his eyes so deep they looked like bruises, his usual perfect control replaced by something wild and desperate. He wore all black, tactical clothes I'd never seen him in, and his eyes when they found me were pure relief mixed with rage so hot it could have melted steel.
"Anya," he breathed, and my name in his mouth broke something inside me.
He crossed the room in three strides that ate up the distance between us, and then I was in his arms, surrounded by his scent—gunpowder and sweat and that underlying smell that was just Ivan, just home. His hands framed my face first, checking for damage, cataloging what they'd done to me in five days. Then he pulled me against his chest so hard I couldn't breathe, but breathing seemed optional compared to being held by him again.
"I've got you, kotyonok," he whispered against my hair, the Russian endearment breaking through my last walls. "I've got you. You're safe now. You're safe."
Safe. The word seemed impossible in this house where I'd never been safe, but Ivan's arms made it true. He was shaking—actually shaking—and I realized with shock that he was as wrecked as I was. Five days had been hell for both of us.
"You came," I managed against his chest, the words muffled by tactical fabric. "Viktor said you didn't care, that you'd moved on, that I was worthless—"
"Never." The word came out violent, absolute. "You're everything. Do you understand? Everything. I would burn the entire city to get you back."
Dmitry appeared in the doorway, and even he looked rougher than usual—armed and obviously ready for violence, his usualleather jacket replaced with tactical gear that made him look like special forces rather than bratva muscle.
"Two minutes, brother." His voice carried urgency without panic, professional assessment of diminishing windows. "We need to move."
"Now," he said, and it wasn't a suggestion. "Elena, you need to be somewhere visible when the cameras come back online. Give yourself an alibi."
She nodded, squeezing my hand once more before disappearing into the hallway with the same quiet efficiency she'd always moved through this house. A ghost of kindness in a mausoleum of cruelty.
Ivan's hand found mine, fingers interlacing with desperate strength. "Can you walk? Run if needed?"
I nodded, though my legs felt like water after five days of barely eating, barely sleeping, barely existing. It didn't matter. I'd crawl if necessary. Anything to get out of this house that had been my prison for twenty-six years.
"Then let's go," he said, and pulled me toward the door. "Let's get you home."
Wemovedthroughthehouse like ghosts with heartbeats, Ivan's hand never leaving mine while Dmitry swept ahead and the third operative—someone I didn't recognize—covered our backs. They'd mapped this route perfectly, using the servants' stairs I'd crept down countless times as a child, trying to steal moments of freedom while Viktor attended business.
