SHE'S VIKTOR ROMANOV'S.

ANYA POV.

The darkness was thick, suffocating and inescapable.

My head lolled to the side, the world around me shifting, warping. My limbs were heavy, as if I were sinking into the ground, trapped in a body that refused to listen.

What's happening? Where am I?

A sharp, pungent scent filled my nose-expensive cologne mixed with the stale tang of cigar smoke.

Voices surrounded me, some near, some distant, speaking in Russian. The words blurred together and my mind struggling to grasp onto anything solid.

"How much did you give her?" a man asked, his voice sharp, impatient.

"Enough to keep her quiet, but she's waking up."

My stomach twisted. Drugs. They drugged me.

I tried to move, but my arms wouldn't obey. A harsh tug on my wrist sent cold metal biting into my skin. Handcuffs. My breath hitched. No. No, no, no.

The blindfold over my eyes was tight, pressing into my skin, sealing me in this nightmare. My heartbeat pounded against my ribs, as each beat was a deafening drum of panic.

Footsteps neared, slow and deliberate.

A hand gripped my chin, tilting my face up. The touch was rough, impersonal, like I was nothing more than an object being inspected.

"Krasivaya." Beautiful.

Disgust curled in my stomach.

A new voice, older, authoritative, cleared his throat. "Let's begin."

A hush fell over the room. And then-

"Five million."

I stiffened. What?

"Seven."

"Ten."

No. No, this isn't real.

My breathing turned shallow. The air was thick, suffocating. I tried to speak, to scream, but my throat was too dry, my tongue too heavy.

"Fifteen."

A pause. A shift.

And then-

"Hundred."

The room fell silent. The energy shifted. Even drugged, I felt it. A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. Someone had just walked in.

Low murmurs spread like wildfire.

"Viktor Romanov offers a hundred million," the auctioneer announced, voice tight.

A chill swept through the room. No one dared counter him.

The gavel slammed down. "Sold."

I was being moved. Dragged.

My legs barely worked, my body still sluggish from whatever they had given me. My bare feet scraped against the cold floor. The air outside was sharp, freezing against my exposed skin.

I tried to resist, twisting against the grip on my arm. A hand clamped down on the back of my neck.

"Ne vyebuy'sya," a man hissed. Don't fight it.

I fought harder.

A sharp yank sent me stumbling forward. My body smacked against something hard-metal. A car. Before I could react, rough hands shoved me inside.

I hit the seat with a thud. My shoulder slammed against the door, pain jolting through my already weak body. I gasped, sucking in a ragged breath.

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

My pulse roared in my ears. My breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling too fast. The air inside the car was heavy, thick with something colder than fear.

And then, I felt him.

A shift in the air. A presence that swallowed everything whole.

I didn't need to see to know.

He was here. My buyer.

A click.

The blindfold was ripped away.

Blinding light stabbed my eyes. I flinched, blinking rapidly. My vision blurred before sharpening into harsh reality.

The car's interior was dark, sleek leather, smelling of something rich-whiskey, danger, power. And across from me, sitting with terrifying ease, was him.

The Viktor Romanov.

He wasn't watching me. He was studying me. Like a predator sizing up its prey before the kill.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in all black, his suit crisp, tailored to perfection. His sharp cheekbones and strong jawline looked sculpted, as if carved by the hands of a master artist.

His lips-full, perfectly shaped-held the faintest ghost of a smirk, the kind that made women weak.

But it was his eyes that unsettled me the most-icy blue, so pale they looked almost colorless, void of warmth, of mercy.

How could someone this breathtaking be so cruel?

He belonged on the cover of a magazine, not in a world of blood and violence. But then again, devils were always the most beautiful.

I forced my spine straight, even though my body ached. Even though I could still feel the weight of the drugs slowing my limbs.

His lips curved, the faintest hint of amusement flashing across his face before disappearing.

"Ty boish'sya menya?" he murmured. Are you afraid of me?

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. Yes.

But I didn't give him the satisfaction.

"No."

The smirk deepened, slow and cruel. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching me like I was something breakable. Like I was already his.

"Lzhivaya devochka," he murmured. Lying girl.

My hands curled into fists. "I want to leave." My voice was hoarse, raw, but steady.

His expression didn't change. If anything, the amusement faded.

"You belong to me now, Kukolka," he said, voice silk and steel. Little doll.

Something dark lurked beneath his words. A promise. A warning.

I inhaled sharply, my pulse hammering.

He tilted his head, watching me, tapping a gloved finger against the glass in his hand.

"Try to run, and I will break you," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Ponimayesh'?" Understand?

I didn't answer.

His fingers reached out, gripping my chin, forcing me to look at him. His touch was deceptively light, but there was no mistaking the power behind it.

"Understand?"

I clenched my teeth.

"Go to hell."

Silence.

Then-he laughed. Low. Dark.

The sound sent a chill straight down my spine.

Viktor leaned back, taking another sip of his drink. "You'll find, kukolka, that hell is much closer than you think."

The car jerked forward, speeding into the unknown.

And I knew-this was only the beginning.

The car moved smoothly, but my head still pounded from whatever drug they had used on me. My body felt sluggish, my limbs heavy, but my mind was beginning to clear.

Through the tinted window, I saw it-the massive estate looming ahead. The architecture was old, almost medieval, with towering stone walls that stretched endlessly in every direction. A fortress. No, a prison.

A slow shiver crawled down my spine.

"Take a good look," a voice drawled lazily beside me. I turned to find those ice-blue eyes watching me, amusement flickering behind them.

Viktor Romanov smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Potomu chto dazhe yesli ty poprobuyesh, tebe ne sbegnut" (Because even if you try, you won't escape.)

My fingers curled into fists.

The car rolled to a stop, and before I could think, the doors swung open. Hands grabbed me-rough, impatient. I twisted, struggled, but my body was still weak.

"Let go of me!" I hissed, thrashing as I was dragged out onto the gravel.

I heard laughter.

"Still got some fight in you, hm?" One of the men sneered in Russian, gripping my arm tighter.

I stumbled as they hauled me toward the entrance. The heavy wooden doors swung open, revealing a grand but eerily empty hall. Dim lighting cast long shadows across the polished floors.

Up the stairs. My feet barely kept up as they pulled me forward. The scent of aged wood and cold stone filled my lungs. My heart slammed against my ribs.

"Please-" The word slipped out before I could stop it.

No response. No mercy.

A door creaked open, and before I could react, I was shoved inside. My knees hit the cold floor, my body collapsing in a heap.

The last thing I heard before darkness swallowed me whole was the click of the lock.

ANYA POV.

Pain.

That was the first thing I felt when I woke up. A dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes, pounding like a drum.

My head was splitting, my body stiff and sore, my wrists raw from the cuffs that had bound them.

I sucked in a sharp breath and winced. Even that hurt.

The scent of expensive cologne and polished wood filled my lungs, but underneath it, I still smelled the faint traces of sweat and cheap perfume clinging to my skin.

Slowly, I pushed myself up, my muscles screaming in protest. My legs wobbled as I stood. Where the hell am I?

The room was nothing like what I expected. No damp dungeon, no chains hanging from the walls.

Instead, the decor was... feminine. A vanity mirror, a plush bed with silk sheets, velvet curtains that framed the large window. As if it had been waiting for me.

A shiver crawled up my spine. Someone prepared this.

I turned toward the mirror, and what I saw made my stomach twist.

A mess.

My reflection was barely recognizable-smudged makeup streaking down my pale cheeks, mascara clumped around my eyes, lipstick smeared at the corners of my mouth.

My red costume, once tight and fitted, was wrinkled and stained.

Then it hit me.

Last night.

A violent rush of memories slammed into me.

Celine adjusting my strap. The air shifting. That chemical scent. A moment of confusion, then my vision blurring.

Bodies collapsing. My own legs giving out before I even understood what was happening. The masked men.

Oh, God.

My breathing turned shallow. My pulse roared in my ears. I had been kidnapped.

No. Bought.

I clutched the edge of the vanity, my nails digging into the wood. My body felt like lead, my stomach churning. How the fuck did this happen?

I spun toward the door, heart hammering. I need to get out of here.

But before I could move, the door creaked open.

A man stood there. Broad shoulders. Dark suit. A scar running down his cheek. He looked at me the way someone looked at a stray dog-unimpressed and indifferent.

"Get downstairs," he said, voice rough. "The Boss is waiting."

Boss.

I didn't move. My hands clenched into fists. No. Hell no.

The man sighed, stepping forward. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

I lifted my chin. "Fuck. You. Fuck your boss."

His jaw ticked. He muttered something in Russian before turning back toward the hallway.

Then his posture changed. A shadow loomed behind him.

The air in the room shifted. Thickened and smelled of danger.

Before I could process it, the man stepped aside, and another figure entered.

Him.

I didn't need an introduction. I knew instantly this was the man who bought me.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the ink that coiled around his skin. His dark eyes were sharp, cold-so cold it sent ice through my veins.

But it wasn't just his presence that made my stomach drop. It was the way he carried himself. Like a man who was used to being obeyed. A man who had never heard the word 'no' in his life.

Viktor.

He took one look at me, then at the man beside him. "Problem?"

"She won't come."

Silence.

Then a slow, measured step forward.

My breath hitched as Viktor closed the distance between us, his movements effortless, like a predator approaching its prey.

His eyes dragged over me, from my tangled hair to the bruises forming on my wrists. His gaze was unreadable, but something flickered beneath the surface.

Then he grabbed me.

By my hair.

A sharp cry ripped from my throat as my scalp burned. He yanked me forward without hesitation.

"Let go of me!" I screamed, clawing at his wrist. I kicked, fought, struggled. But he barely reacted. His grip only tightened.

I stumbled, dragged through the doorway, through the halls, my feet barely keeping up as he pulled me like a ragdoll.

My screams echoed, bouncing off the cold marble. No one came to help. No one even flinched.

The flight of stairs appeared before us, and panic seized my chest.

"Stop! STOP!" I thrashed harder. "You psycho-"

Viktor didn't stop.

He dragged me down step by step, my body jolting as I barely kept from falling.

Tears burned my eyes, but I swallowed them down. I wouldn't break.

Finally, he shoved me forward onto the cold, polished floor.

Pain shot through my knees, my palms scraping against the marble.

A harsh chuckle rang through the grand hall.

I lifted my head and met some unkind eyes.

An older woman, dressed in deep navy, a silver cane resting in her grip. Her eyes were as sharp as Viktor's. Just as dangerous.

Her lips curled. "Loud little thing, isn't she?"

Viktor exhaled, rubbing his temple. "She'll learn."

The woman tapped her cane against the floor and stepped forward. Slow. Calculated.

I tensed as she raised it-and pressed the cold silver against my back, pushing me down.

My body froze.

A smirk touched her lips. "Ah, much better."

I trembled, rage bubbling in my chest.

Her eyes gleamed with amusement. "You're nothing but a pet now, dear. You should behave like one."

I wanted to fight. Wanted to tear that smug look off her face. But my body was still shaking from the pain.

"Kholodnaya suka," (Cold bitch) I spat, panting through the pain.

Irina's smile didn't falter. "Oh, this one has fire." She turned to Viktor. "Did you break her yet?"

"Not yet," he murmured, his voice almost... amused.

Viktor crouched beside me, his voice quiet but laced with threat.

"Try that again, and I'll make sure you regret it."

I wanted to spit in his face.

Irina's eyes flicked back to me. "Then let's start."

She tapped the cane against the floor once. "Crawl."

I froze.

"Chto?" (What?)

"Crawl, pet." Her voice was smooth, laced with condescension.

I clenched my jaw. "I'd rather die."

Viktor sighed, like I was exhausting him. Then his hand was in my hair again, yanking me forward.

I bit back a scream as he pulled me, forcing me onto my hands and knees.

The humiliation burned more than the pain.

Irina watched, pleased. "Good. Now she understands."

She turned to one of the men. "Put her to work. She needs to be useful."

And just like that, I was thrown into hell.

I scrubbed floors until my fingers bled. The scent of cleaning chemicals stung my nose, my arms trembled from exhaustion, and all the while, I could feel their eyes on me.

Viktor's men. Some looked bored. Some irritated. But one woman looked disgusted and stood between the evil old woman.

I rolled my eyes, forcing my aching body to keep scrubbing.

By the time I was thrown back into my room, every inch of me screamed in pain.

But I couldn't rest. I couldn't stay here. I had to get out. Not just for me-but for Celine. For the others.

Pain pulsed through my body as I lay on the cold floor of my room. Every muscle ached, my wrists raw from scrubbing, my knees burning. But I didn't care about the pain. Not anymore.

Because I had a plan.

For the past hours, I had observed. Every door. Every hallway. Every guard. I knew when they changed shifts, when they got lazy, when they disappeared into the kitchen for a drink.

I was going to use it.

Tonight.

My heart pounded as I pushed myself up. The small clock on the wall ticked-11:58 PM.

In two minutes, the two guards near the main exit would switch. There would be a forty-five-second window where the hallway would be empty.

That was my chance.

Taking slow, steady breaths, I crept to the door and pressed my ear against it. Silence.

Good.

The lock had already been tampered with. The loose hinge-something I had worked at earlier when no one was looking. With careful precision, I nudged it open.

No one.

Swallowing the panic rising in my chest, I moved.

Silent. Quick.

I padded down the hallway, keeping close to the walls, my bare feet making no sound against the marble floor. My breath came in slow, measured inhales.

The staircase was empty. The corridor to the side entrance? Empty.

Step after step, I passed through the shadows, undetected. I was winning.

Then-the kitchen.

I ducked inside. The heavy scent of cigars and liquor lingered in the air. A guard sat in the corner, half-asleep, a bottle of vodka in his hand. His head drooped.

I slipped past him.

The back door was right there.

My pulse raced as I reached for the handle, twisting it with trembling fingers. The night air hit my face.

I was out. I exhaled.

I clung to the wall, surveying the grounds. The garden stretched out before me, a maze of hedges and stone paths. The tall iron gate loomed in the distance.

The final step.

I darted forward, each step controlled. One mistake, and it was over.

I pressed against a statue, watching the last guard on patrol. He yawned, rubbing his face, turning his back to me.

Now.

I bolted.

The gate was getting closer. My fingers clenched in anticipation. I could almost taste freedom. I had won.

Then-

A shadow. A presence.

No.

I slowed, confusion creeping in.

Something was wrong.

I swallowed hard, the hairs on my arms standing.

And then I felt him before I saw him.

I turned. And there he was. Viktor.

Leaning casually against the stone pillar, one hand in his pocket.

Watching me.

Calm. Unbothered. As if this had been inevitable.

My stomach dropped.

How? How did he-

He tilted his head slightly. "That was impressive, kukolka."

He took a slow, measured step forward.

Panic seized my chest. Run.

I turned-

A hand fisted my hair and yanked me back.

A choked gasp escaped my lips as I crashed against him, my back hitting his chest. His grip tightened, fingers tangling in my hair.

"You almost made it," he murmured, his voice was like ice against my skin. "Almost."

Terror flooded my veins

He wasn't angry. He wasn't yelling. He was calm. And that was so much worse.

His lips brushed against my ear, his voice dangerously soft.

"But I don't let my possessions run."

Then-

Darkness.

ANYA POV.

I woke up to silence.

My body ached. My throat was dry. For a brief, stupid moment, I thought maybe it had been a nightmare.

Then I saw him.

Viktor.

Sitting in the chair across the room. Waiting.

He wasn't on his phone. He wasn't looking at the time. He wasn't doing anything except watching me. Like he had all the time in the world.

The room was dark, but the city lights outside cast long shadows over his face. He didn't look angry. He looked... patient.

I swallowed. My pulse pounded in my ears. Say something. Anything.

The words stuck in my throat.

He let me sit there in silence, letting the tension coil tight. He wanted me to break it first. To squirm under his gaze.

I clenched the sheets instead.

Finally, he spoke.

"How far did you think you'd get?"

His voice was low, smooth, almost amused.

I didn't answer.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Hmm?"

I stayed quiet. My body was still sluggish, my thoughts sluggish, but my mind was racing. What was he going to do? Why wasn't he-

He already knows.

That's why he wasn't asking where I was going. He wasn't asking how I got out.

He just wanted to hear me say it.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to play his game.

Viktor exhaled through his nose, then tilted his head slightly. "Was it worth it?"

A spark of anger flared up. I latched onto it, and let it ground me. "Go to hell."

His lips twitched. "Oh, Anya." He tsked, shaking his head like I had disappointed him. Like this was all so predictable.

I dug my nails into my palms.

Then-he leaned in. Close. Too close. The scent of his cologne curled around me. His breath brushed my ear as he whispered:

"You think I didn't see you coming?"

A chill ran down my spine.

"That I didn't know exactly what you'd do?"

I held my breath.

Then, softly-too softly-he said:

"I let you get that far, Anya."My blood turned to ice. "I let you taste freedom... just so I could take it away."**

My stomach dropped.

He pulled back, meeting my eyes. The calmness in them, the quiet amusement-it was worse than any rage.

Because he had won. And he wanted me to know it.

Then-he stood and walked to the door.

I stiffened. What? That's it? He wasn't going to hurt me? Punish me? No. This was worse.

My breath came fast, shallow. I wanted to scream, to throw something, to fight-but that was exactly what he wanted.

So I didn't.

I sat there. Silent and burning with rage.

He reached the door. Paused. Then, without looking back, said,

"Sleep well, kulkolka."

And he left. Leaving me alone with the fear.

I didn't know when I fell asleep.

One moment, I was staring at the ceiling, my mind racing, my body aching. The next, I was drowning in the weight of exhaustion, my throat raw from silent tears.

I had lost.

I had been so sure-so sure-that I could do it. That I could escape, find help, bring these monsters to justice. But now?

Now I knew better. I wasn't just trapped. I was outmatched.

I didn't know who these people were, how powerful they were. How dangerous. But one thing was clear-Viktor had let me run. He had let me hope, just so he could rip it away.

And now, I had no idea what came next.

Were the other girls bought also? Were they facing the same thing I was? Were they locked away in at least a beautiful room like mine or thrown in the dungeon?

I curled into myself, shaking.

Mama. She would be worried sick.

***

The morning light was harsh when I finally dragged myself out of bed. My body ached, covered in bruises, my muscles sore from the struggle. I couldn't afford to wallow.

I forced myself up, went to the bathroom, and stood under the shower for what felt like forever, letting the hot water wash away the remnants of last night.

But nothing could wash away him.

His voice still echoed in my head.

You think I didn't see you coming?

I let you taste freedom... just so I could take it away.

I gritted my teeth, forcing the memory down as I stepped out of the shower. He wanted me to feel helpless. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

I dried off quickly and slipped into the fresh clothes left for me-simple, soft, but they felt like shackles all the same.

Then, just as I was fastening the last button, a knock sounded at the door.

I froze.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Viktor?

No, no, no. It was too early, my pains had rarely subsided. For a moment, I thought about ignoring it. But another knock came, more patient this time.

Slowly and cautiously, I stepped forward. My bruises throbbed with every movement.

I reached for the handle, and hesitated. Then, swallowing my fear, I opened the door.

And blinked.

It wasn't Viktor. A young man stood there instead. Tall and handsome.

His golden-brown hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd just run his fingers through it. His jaw was sharp, dusted with the faintest hint of stubble.

But it was his eyes-warm, honey-colored, full of something I couldn't quite place-that caught me off guard.

He smiled, slow and easy. The kind of smile that didn't belong in a place like this.

Beside him stood two maids, one holding a tray with ointment and bandages and the other carrying a platter of food.

"Dobroye utro" Good morning. His voice was smooth, and calm. Almost... gentle. "May I come in?"

I stared at him, confused. Who was he? Why was he here?

The fear from last night still clung to me, but something about him felt different.

Hesitantly, I stepped back. And let him in.

The man-no, boy-stepped inside with an easy grin, like we were old friends. Like I wasn't a prisoner.

"Privet, krasavitsa." Hey, beautiful.

I stiffened immediately.

He chuckled, hands up in mock surrender. "Relax, I'm just being friendly."

His voice was light, filled with something almost playful. It was so out of place in this cold, suffocating house that I didn't know what to make of it.

"I'm Nikolai," he continued, stepping further in. "Viktor's nephew,I've been out of town for some business, got back last night and heard Uncle got a new..."

Nephew?

My body tensed all over again. If he was related to Viktor, then he was just as dangerous. Right?

But... he didn't look dangerous.

There was something effortless about him-the way he smiled, the way he spoke. His golden-brown hair was slightly messy, as if he didn't care to fix it. His honey-colored eyes held warmth, not ice.

He was the complete opposite of Viktor.

"You must be hungry," he said, motioning to the maid behind him. "I figured you might not want to join the others for breakfast."

I frowned. "Others?"

"The household," he said simply, nodding toward the hall. "Big dining table, serious faces, no fun at all. I figured you'd prefer some peace."

At that moment, the maid set a silver platter on the table. The second the scent hit me, my stomach betrayed me with a loud growl.

I clenched my fists.

No.

I hadn't eaten since yesterday. Even when I was given food after-after everything-I refused. I wouldn't eat in an enemy's house.

The warmth of the room, the soft sheets, the food-none of it screamed captivity.

And Nikolai... he was smiling like he had no idea what kind of place this really was.

"Go on," he urged. "Eat."

I stayed still.

Nikolai sighed, amused. "Stubborn, huh? Well, while you decide, the maid's gonna tend to your wounds."

The second the woman moved toward me, I flinched back.

"What is this?" I snapped, my heart hammering. "Some kind of trick? What do you people have planned for me?"

Nikolai's smile faltered.

Then, his voice softened. "Hey. I came here on my own, okay? No one sent me. And as long as I'm here, no one's gonna hurt you."

I stared at him, trying to find the lie. There had to be a lie.

But there was nothing. Just quiet sincerity. Slowly and hesitantly, I let the maid approach.

The sting of the ointment made me wince, but compared to everything else, it was nothing.

Nikolai watched, arms crossed, that same easy grin on his face.

Then he tilted his head. "You know, you don't have to stay stuck in your room, right?"

I frowned.

"You're part of the family now," he continued easily, as if that was something normal to say. "You can explore the house, go wherever you want. No one's gonna stop you. But if you'd rather stay here, that's fine too. My company is always available, open hands and all."

He spread his arms in a grand gesture, flashing a wink. "Just ask anyone to call me, and I'll come keep you entertained. Trust me, I'm a very lovable, very fun person."

I didn't trust him. But I didn't feel threatened, either.

With a final signal, he dismissed the maids, then turned back to me with one last easy smile.

"Enjoy the food, krasavitsa."

And with that, he left. I sat there for a long moment.

Then, finally, I reached for the food and savored every bite.