Page 40 of Bratva Bride
For three seconds, Anya Morozova—Anya Volkova—had wanted me.
And I'd sent her away.
Chapter 8
Anya
Threeseconds.That'showlong the kiss had lasted before Ivan pulled away like I'd pressed a blade to his throat instead of my mouth to his.
I hadn't moved since I'd collapsed here six hours ago. Hadn't slept. Hadn't even closed my eyes for more than a blink. Just sat curled in the cognac leather, replaying those three seconds on infinite loop while my mind dissected every possible interpretation of his rejection.
Wait. We should wait. Make sure this is real.
The words circled my brain like sharks. Each repetition took another bite out of whatever courage I'd gathered to kiss him in the first place. To choose something. To want something. To believe, for three impossible seconds, that I was allowed to have desires that weren't survival strategies.
My eyes burned from staying open too long. My neck ached from the angle I'd held it, watching the city but really watchingmy reflection in the dark glass—this ghost of a woman who'd forgotten she wasn't allowed to want things.
Every time I shifted position, the leather creaked, and the sound made me think of his hands on my shoulders. Gentle but firm. Creating distance.I need to know you actually want this.
I'd told him I did. Had kissed him to prove it. Had admitted attraction despite twenty-six years of training that said never show want, never reveal need, never give anyone ammunition. And he'd treated me like a child who couldn't be trusted with her own feelings.
Footsteps in the hallway. My spine straightened automatically—defensive posture I couldn't suppress even though I knew it was just Ivan emerging from his bedroom. The door opened with its familiar whisper, and then he was there in the living space, filling it with his presence the way he always did.
Gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Black t-shirt that shouldn't look as good as it did, clinging to his chest in ways that made my traitor body respond despite everything. His dark hair was messy from sleep—actual sleep, unlike me—sticking up at angles that made him look younger. More human. Less like the Ice King who'd pushed me away.
He froze when he saw me. Those gray eyes—alert despite the early hour—tracked over my curled form, the destroyed collar of his t-shirt between my teeth, my swollen eyes that announced I'd been crying even if I hadn't let myself actually cry.
"Anya."
My name in his mouth sounded like an apology. He crossed the space with deliberate steps, not rushing but not hesitating either. Then he did something that surprised me—he sat on the coffee table directly in front of the chair. Close enough that his knees almost touched mine. Close enough that I could smell him—soap and something uniquely Ivan that made my chest tight.
"I'm sorry about last night."
The words were quiet. Careful. His hands rested on his thighs, and I could see him actively keeping them still when they wanted to move. To reach for me, maybe. Or to create more distance. Hard to tell which.
"I know it must have hurt when I pulled away."
Hurt. Such a small word for what it had done. Like calling the Grand Canyon a ditch. Like calling drowning getting a little wet. I wanted to deny it, to arrange my face into that perfect mask of indifference I'd perfected. But my eyes were already burning, and my throat was closing, and twenty-six years of suppressed emotion chose this exact moment to crack the dam.
"You rejected me."
The words came out as barely a whisper, scraped raw from a night of silent screaming. My fingernails found my palms—four crescents of grounding pain.
"I finally—" My voice broke. I swallowed. Tried again. "I chose something. For myself. For once in my life, I chose, and you—"
I couldn't finish. The words lodged in my throat like glass shards.
"I didn't reject you." His voice was gentle but firm, and something in his expression shifted. Intensified. "I'm trying to protect you from making a choice you might regret. From confusing gratitude with attraction. From—"
"I know what I feel."
The words erupted with more force than I'd intended. Anger—clean and sharp—cut through the hurt like a scalpel. My hands clenched into fists.
"I'm not stupid, Ivan. I'm not confused. I'm not some traumatized child who can't differentiate between safety and desire." Each word gained strength, volume, conviction. "I have two PhDs. I speak seven languages. I've been analyzing human behavior since I was old enough to realize my survival depended on it. I know exactly what I feel."
He didn't flinch at my anger. Didn't pull back or shut down. Just held my gaze with those storm-gray eyes that saw too much.
"I wanted to kiss you," I continued, the admission scraping my throat raw. "Not because I had to. Not because the treaty demanded it. I wanted to."
