4: Ice and Blood

Anya’s POV

Lev’s hand sits heavy on my back. He pushes me down a narrow hall. My shoes click too loud on the marble. 

Click. Click. Click. The sound bounces off the walls. Private boxes line both sides. Gold numbers. Velvet curtains thick and red. Some doors are open. 

I see shadows inside the open boxes. Men sit deep in chairs, glasses of dark drink in their hands. 

Smoke floats up. Women next to them have red lips and big smiles that look painted on, not real. 

Their eyes are empty. I dread every step. My legs feel heavy. The air is thick. I want to turn back.

What just happened? 

The powder on my face. The red on my lips. The woman on stage with bruises. 

Where is Papa? Why did he leave me? 

My mind screams the questions over and over. He dragged me here, then vanished. 

Did he run? Did he sell me and walk away? 

I picture him outside in the snow, coat collar up, not looking back. 

My chest hurts. He was supposed to protect me, not trade me like a bag of coins. I feel small, alone, cold without his hand, even if that hand only ever hurt.

We stop in front of one box. 

A small lamp on the wall gives dim yellow light. 

I look at the door. My breath catches in my throat. 

A crest is carved deep in the wood. Black wolf. Snow around its paws. Stars above its head. 

The Morozov crest. Even a child knows it. Even I know it. 

I never saw it this close. It looks alive. Hungry. 

The black wolf stares with red eyes made of tiny rubies. Snow swirls around its paws like real wind. 

The wood is dark and shiny. I feel its teeth on my skin. My heart jumps. I want to look away, but I can’t. 

It watches me. Waits for me to move. To run. To scream. The wolf smiles. Cold. Sharp. Ready to bite.

Lev turns to me. His scar pulls when he speaks. “Take off the coat.”

I open my mouth. “No, I…”

“If you do not want to,” he says, voice flat, “I can help. Easy way or hard way. Choose.”

I glare at him. Hate burns hot in my chest. 

It starts in my stomach, red and angry, then climbs up my ribs. My fists close tight. 

Nails dig into my palms. I want to hit him. Scream. Make him feel small. But I stand still. Hate is all I have left.

My fingers find the buttons. One. Two. Three. They shake. I am slow. Too slow. 

Lev steps forward. Grabs the fur collar. Yanks hard. The coat slides off my shoulders. Falls to the floor like dead skin. Cold air bites my arms. My neck. The white dress feels thinner now. Like paper.

“What was that for?” I snap, my voice cracks like thin ice. “I was already doing it, you did not have to yank it off me!”

Lev says nothing. His rough hand pushes the heavy door open wide. Then he shoves me hard inside.

I stumble. Yelp. The box is small. Dark red walls. Two soft chairs. 

A low table with a bottle and one glass. Half full. Blood red liquid. And a man.

His back is to me. Shirtless. Skin pale like snow. Tattoos cover every inch. Black ink. Wolves. Knives. Skulls. Snowflakes. 

In the middle, huge, the Morozov crest. The same wolf. 

It moves when he breathes. Slow. Strong. Muscles shift under the ink. Shoulders wide. Back narrow at the waist. Power in every line.

He turns.

I freeze. My arms fly up. Cover my chest. 

The dress is too tight. Too low. Too much skin. He is tall. Taller than Lev. Shoulders like walls. Chest hard. Stomach flat with lines. Arms thick. Veins under the skin. 

Black hair short and messy. Eyes, ice blue. Cold. Like a winter river under thin ice. Face sharp. High cheekbones. Jaw hard. Lips thin. 

A scar on his left cheek. Small. White. Old.

No doubt. This is him. Nikolai Morozov. The pakhan. The devil of Moscow.

In his right hand, a knife. Long. Silver. 

Blood drips from the tip. Drip. Drip. Red on the dark carpet. He steps to the side. 

Behind him, a man on the floor. Tied with rope. Mouth open. No sound. Eyes, gone. Just dark holes. Blood runs down his cheeks. Pools under his head. 

The man breathes. Weak. Chest moves slowly. Half dead.

My knees shake. I want to scream. Run. Hide. No sound comes. My throat is dry. My heart bangs so hard I feel it in my ears.

Lev walks in. Calm. Boots quiet. “This is her. Volkov’s daughter. Anya.”

Nikolai looks at me. Slow. His eyes move from my face to my neck. To my chest. Down my legs. Up again. 

Like he is counting every inch. Like he already owns it. He nods once. Small.

I find my voice. It is small. Weak. “Where is my father?” I ask Lev. My eyes stay on the knife.

Nikolai steps closer. One step. Two. Bloody glove on his left hand. Black leather. Wet. Cold. 

His fingers close around my wrist. Tight. I smell blood. Metal. Smoke. Him. His skin is warm under the cold glove.

His voice is low. Deep. Winter itself. “Your life now belongs to me.”

Lev speaks behind me. “Your father used you to pay his debts. In short, he sold you. The earlier you know, the better.”

My ears ring. The words spin. Sold? Me? “Sold to who?” I whisper. My lips shake. “To what?”

Nikolai’s eyes never leave mine. Cold. Hard. No feeling. 

“To me. Sold to me. You are mine to use however I want.” 

He steps closer. The knife still in his other hand. Blood drips on the carpet. Drip. Drip. 

“And we are going to start with your father’s debt.” 

His mouth curves. Not a smile. A smirk. Sharp. 

“Heard you are a virgin.”