5: The Price of Snow  

Anya’s POV

My knees want to fold. They feel weak.

I try to pull away, jerking my wrist hard, twisting it like I have done a hundred times before when someone held me too tight. 

But Nikolai’s fingers stay locked around me like iron. Cold, strong, unbreakable. Blood from his glove smears on my skin.

I stare at the red line running down my arm like a warning. Then I look at the man on the floor. 

His chest moves slow, so slow it might stop any second. His eyes are open, but they are empty. Just holes where a person used to be. 

My throat closes. I whisper, “You are lying.” 

My voice cracks. It sounds small. Childish.

Nikolai says nothing. Not a word. His ice-blue eyes watch me. No blink. No pity. Nothing.

He lets go of my wrist. 

The sudden freedom makes me stumble back half a step. 

He turns to Lev. “Clean the trash.”

Lev does not hesitate. He grabs the man’s ankles. Drags him across the thick carpet. A wet line follows; red, long, glistening under the soft light. 

The door opens. The cold night air rushes in for just a second. Then the door shuts. Click. The sound is final. The room is quiet now. Just me and Nikolai. And the smell of blood.

I back up. My back hits the wall. The wood is cold against my shoulders, sharp through my thin shirt. I press harder, like if I push enough, I might melt into it. 

Disappear. Vanish. Anything to get away from this room, this man, this nightmare.

Nikolai moves. Slow. Like a wolf circling prey that is already trapped. 

He walks to the small table by the window and places the knife down. 

Clink. 

The sound is small but loud in the silence. Then he takes off the bloody glove.

He drops it on the floor. Walks to a silver bowl on a stand near the fireplace. There is clean water inside. 

He dips his hands in. Washes them slowly. The water turns pink. Light pink at first. Then darker. Stained. 

He lifts a white towel from the side and dries his hands just as slowly. Every move is calm. Controlled. Like he has all night.

He finally speaks. Voice low. Flat. No emotion.

  “Debt is forty-two million rubles.”  

He folds the towel neatly, edges lined up like it matters.  

“Your father signed your name.”  

He puts the towel down on the stand. Smooths it once.  

“Virginity clause. Highest bidder.”

My ears ring. Loud. Like a bell stuck inside my head. I shake my head fast, hard. 

“I did not sign anything.” My voice sounds shaky, desperate. “I would not. I never would.”

He turns. Looks at me. No smile. No anger. Just cold. Empty. He picks up a paper from the table; thick, expensive paper. 

Cream color. Gold letters at the top. He holds it out toward me. 

I do not take it. I can’t. 

My hands will not move. He lets it fall. It lands soft on the floor. Opens like a book. 

There it is. My name. Big. Black ink. Anastasia Volkov. And a number after it. Huge. Impossible.

I slap the paper. Hard. My hand stings from the hit. It flies across the room, flutters like a dying bird, and hits the floor again. 

“I am not property!” I shout. My voice breaks on the last word.

His hand moves fast. He catches my wrist in the air, yanks me forward. 

My body jerks like a puppet. Now we are nose to nose. Close enough to feel his breath. 

It smells like mint and smoke. His eyes fill my whole world; ice blue, sharp, empty. No feeling. No mercy.

He waits. Says nothing. Let’s the silence grow thick and heavy. Let’s it press down on me until it hurts.

Then, soft. Deadly soft.  

“Choice one. Walk out that door. You die tonight.” 

He waits. Let’s the words sink in.  

“Choice two. Stay. Belong to me. You live.”

My heart bangs in my chest. Bang. Bang. 

Like it is trying to escape. I hate him. Hate his voice. Hate his eyes. Hate this room. 

Hate the smell of blood that will not go away.

His thumb finds my pulse on my neck. Presses just enough to feel it jump. 

Race. Like a trapped bird. He leans in closer. His lips almost touch my ear. His breath is warm against my skin. 

“Decide, little swan.”

My body shakes. Not just from fear. From hate. 

From something else; something hot and dark that coils low in my stomach. 

I hate that feeling most of all. I hate everything.

I spit. Right in his face.

His hand moves. Fast. Open palm. Slap. Sharp. 

My cheek burns like fire. My head snaps to the side. Hair falls in my mouth. I taste blood; mine.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand. Slow. Calm. 

Looks at the wet spot like it is an inconvenience. His voice is ice. 

“Do it again, and I'll break the other side.”

The door opens. Lev steps in. “Car is ready, boss.”

Nikolai steps back.

Looks at me from head to toe. Like he is seeing through my skin, into my bones. 

“Take her to the dacha. Chain her if she fights.”

He turns. Walks to the door. Stops. Does not look back. Voice flat, final. 

“One rule. You run, you die. You fight, you bleed. You obey… maybe you breathe.”

Door closes. Click.

I stand alone. Cheek on fire. 

Blood taste in my mouth. 

The contract lies on the floor like a dead thing. My name on it.

The blood smell sticks to my nose, will not let go. 

My hands shake so bad that I press them hard against the wall. Cold wood. Real. Solid. 

The only real thing left.

Dacha. Chain. Obey.

I scream inside my head. Loud. Raw. 

But no sound comes out. 

Just silence. And the echo of his words. 

And the weight of my name on paper.