Page 56 of Bratva Bride
Inside was a stuffed whale, powder blue and impossibly soft, with black button eyes that somehow managed to look kind. The size of a football, perfect for holding, with fins that begged to be touched.
"Her name's Marina," he said, watching my face like my reaction mattered more than million-dollar deals. "Because we're going to the ocean. I thought—maybe Peanut would like a friend."
The tears came again—I was crying a lot lately, apparently this was my life now—but they were the good kind. The kind that happened when someone noticed you needed something before you knew you needed it.
"She's perfect," I whispered, pressing Marina against my chest where she fit like she'd been designed for that exact spot. "Thank you."
"There's one more thing." He pulled out a prescription bottle, and my defensive walls started rising until he explained. "Ambien. My doctor prescribed it for you—well, for my 'anxious wife' since medical privacy laws exist. Half a dose will help you sleep on the flight. Full dose if you need it. Your choice."
My choice. Everything was my choice with him, even when he'd planned every detail.
I took half a pill with water Sergei brought—in crystal glasses, because apparently that was how the Volkovs flew—and curled into my seat with Marina and Peanut creating a stuffed animal fortress against my chest. Ivan worked on his laptop, doing mysterious things with spreadsheets that probably involved more money than small countries' GDP. But his free hand found mine, fingers interlaced, tethering me to consciousness even as the medication started pulling me under.
I woke once to his voice, low and gentle, reading: "The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind or another, his mother called him 'Wild Thing!'"
Where the Wild Things Are. He was reading me Where the Wild Things Are while I slept, like I was actually little, like I deserved bedtime stories even unconscious.
The second time I woke, I was being lifted. Ivan's arms under my knees and shoulders, carrying me like I weighed nothing, like I was precious cargo requiring careful handling.
"Shh, kotyonok," he murmured when I stirred. "Just moving you to the bed. More comfortable."
The bedroom was dark except for emergency lighting, and the bed was exactly as soft as promised. He tucked me in with the same precision he applied to financial planning—blanket smooth, pillow positioned perfectly, Marina and Peanut arranged where I could reach them.
"Sleep," he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "We've got four more hours."
Through the medication haze, I processed the wealth involved in this moment. Private jet that cost more than most people's houses. Staff dedicated to our comfort. Fuel and landing fees that could fund small charities. And Ivan was using all of it to take me somewhere safe, somewhere I could heal, somewhere the world couldn't touch us.
But what struck me most, as sleep pulled me back under, was how he used that wealth. Not for display or power or to make me feel small. He used it to give me choices. To provide comfort. To create safety I'd never known existed.
Chapter 11
Anya
Thedaybedintheregression room was softer than physics should have allowed—memory foam and down creating a gravity well that held my body like cupped palms. I'd chosen this bed over the massive one in the main suite last night, and Ivan had simply tucked me in without question, pressing Marina and Peanut into my arms before disappearing with a kiss to my forehead that still burned twelve hours later.
Morning light filtered through gauze curtains, painting everything lavender—the walls he'd specifically requested, the plush carpet that begged for bare feet, the toy chest positioned like an altar to stolen childhood. I sat up slowly, my body heavy with the kind of deep sleep that only came when every survival instinct finally agreed to stand down.
The toy chest drew me first.
Carved wood with brass hinges that opened silently, revealing treasures arranged with the same precision Ivan applied to spreadsheets. Classic wooden blocks in a muslin bag, their edgesworn smooth by invisible hands. Dolls in every skin tone, their faces kind rather than vacant, clothes made from actual fabric instead of cheap polyester. At the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper like precious artifacts, art supplies that made my fingers itch—Caran d'Ache crayons in a wooden box, Prismacolor markers organized by color gradient, paper thick enough to hold wet media without buckling.
My hands shook slightly as I lifted the crayon box. Seventy-two colors, each one pristine, waiting. The kind of supplies my father would have considered frivolous waste. The kind that said someone believed my creations were worth quality materials.
The bookshelf made my chest seize with recognition. Picture books I hadn't seen in twenty years but whose titles lived in my bones—Corduroy, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Where the Wild Things Are (of course, after Ivan reading it on the plane). But there, spine cracked from use, was the one that stopped my breathing: The Paper Bag Princess. I'd mentioned it once, maybe twice, in passing. How I'd loved a princess who saved herself, who chose adventure over pretty dresses.
Ivan had been listening. Filing away every crumb of information about the childhood that got stolen, then rebuilding it piece by piece in this lavender room overlooking the Indian Ocean.
On the small desk—child-height but sturdy enough for an adult—sat a journal that made my throat close entirely. Lavender leather, butter-soft, with "A.M.V." embossed in gold letters that caught the light. Anya Morozova Volkova. All three parts of me acknowledged, claimed, valued enough for gold embossing.
"Good morning, kotyonok."
Ivan's voice from the doorway made me turn, and the sight of him stole whatever words I might have managed. He held a breakfast tray, but it was his expression that made my stomachperform complicated gymnastics—soft and satisfied and proud, like watching me discover these gifts was a gift to him.
He'd changed into linen pants and a white t-shirt that clung in ways that made me suddenly, acutely aware of my body. Of his body. Of bodies in general and what they could do together.
"Breakfast in bed," he announced, crossing to set the tray on the desk. "Or technically, breakfast on floor, if you prefer."
Star-shaped pancakes. Of course. Cut with what must have been cookie cutters, edges crispy, centers fluffy, drowning in real maple syrup. Fresh mango, already cubed, arranged in a flower pattern. My coffee in a mug that said "Good Girl" in cursive that should have been patronizing but instead made heat pool low in my belly.
